“Of course he said that. He’s terrified of making you even more angry.”

Hawthorne leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “Look, Bobby, where are you getting this idea that I’m angry? I’ve no idea who wrecked his office but we’re doing what we can. If you feel we need additional security, then I’ll make the call right now. Ease up on me, will you.”

“That’s very simple for you to say,” said Bobby, “but what about Mrs. Hayes and Chip Campbell? And Chip was even beaten up. Why shouldn’t Clifford be frightened?”

Hawthorne considered showing Bobby the letter from Mrs. Hayes that he’d shown to the Reverend Bennett. Had he no credibility at all? He looked down at his desk and rubbed the wrist of his right hand. There was the picture of Meg and Lily smiling at him. He thought that if the phone rang at that moment and a woman’s voice said how much she loved him, that it was Meg and she wanted him to join her, then he would surely begin to scream.

“Mrs. Hayes wasn’t fired. If you want proof, there’s plenty of proof, but right now I’m sick to death of the whole subject. As for Chip, he was fired for a specific reason and don’t tell me you know nothing about it. I count on you to do your work as a mental health counselor. The students like you and I’ve been impressed by how you handle yourself in the group sessions. But you’re continuing to spread gossip and it’s going to wreck us if we’re not careful. Who told you that Clifford was going to be fired?”

“It appears to be a general topic of conversation.”

“But who’s saying it in particular?”

“I’d prefer not to name names.”

“I insist.”

Bobby stood up and walked back across the office. At first Hawthorne thought that he meant to leave, but then he turned around again. “Roger Bennett, Ruth Standish, Tom Hastings, Ted Wrigley, Herb Frankfurter, and others as well. One says one thing, one says another. Herb keeps talking about Clifford’s involvement with some senior years ago that created such a scandal that the boy’s parents removed him from school. Then that Standish woman tells everyone that Clifford secretly smokes in his office, which sets a bad example for the students. And Roger was saying down in the Dugout just this morning that his wife was going to make sure that Clifford was gone by Thanksgiving.”

“Do they say who wrecked Clifford’s office?”

“They assume it was students.”

“I’ll talk to Clifford again. I don’t know what else I can do.”

Abruptly Bobby seemed on the edge of tears. “I feel frightened as well. I talk to this person and that. I’ve no idea who to believe. I’m sure you’ve got the students’ best interests at heart. Compared to last year, their morale is almost exciting. But everything else is on the very edge of collapse. It’s like watching a building fall down.”

After Bobby left, Hawthorne considered ordering Roger Bennett into his office and demanding that he explain his part in the gossip. Or he could call a faculty meeting and threaten the lot of them. The temptation was always to use force—he was busy, he had a hundred things to do, and force seemed the easy shortcut. But although threatening Bennett might shut him up, it wouldn’t solve the problem.

Hawthorne wasn’t able to see Evings until five-thirty. By then it was dark and the empty hall was illuminated by the globe lights suspended from the ceiling.

The psychologist was sitting on the floor of his office with glue and tape, trying to patch his books back together. Hawthorne had knocked and a cheery voice had told him to enter. Evings looked up at the headmaster with a heartiness that Hawthorne found unnerving. His cardigan had been buttoned incorrectly and formed a zigzag down his narrow chest. Hawthorne sat down on the arm of the wing chair. The other chair was missing; presumably it had been taken off to be repaired. Next to Evings towered a stack of books still to be patched.

“And what sort of psychosis do you call this, if you please?” asked Evings, holding up the glue. “Was I scared by a pot of glue as a small child? Or perhaps my mother wouldn’t let me play with paper dolls. I hope you haven’t come to lock me up.” When Evings grinned, his bald head became skull-like. The room was warm and the radiator hissed quietly.

“I wanted to say again how sorry I am and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Try shooting me,” said Evings cheerily. “If not that, you can send me to Cape Cod. I like Provincetown in the winter. Traffic is never a problem and there’s no wait at the better restaurants. Oops, too many gay men. I’d better keep my mouth shut—you homophobes hate that kind of talk.” Evings patted one of the books he had finished mending and returned it to the shelf.

“Have I ever done anything to suggest that I’m homophobic?” Hawthorne wanted to lay out his credentials and take credit for establishing the gay and lesbian discussion group, then he grew exasperated by this new impulse to defend himself.

“Not directly, but the Reverend Bennett certainly hasn’t concealed her feelings. Others too. Herb Frankfurter’s always muttering under his breath.”

“Bobby came to see me a little while ago,” said Hawthorne. “He told me that you think that I intend to fire you. I just want—”

“What a sneak he is. Going behind my back. He should have his fanny paddled.”

Hawthorne kept his face expressionless. “Stop it, Clifford. I want to talk seriously.”

“I have no wish to be serious. It gets you in trouble. All my life I’ve been serious and look where I am today.” He gestured around his office. “You know, I really would have preferred to be beaten up like poor Chip than to have my books destroyed. They aren’t even very good books.” He raised one over his head without looking at Hawthorne. “Did you ever read Goodbye, Mr. Chips? An old favorite of mine.” He held up two more. “Tom Brown’s School Days. Stalky and Co. Perhaps you see a disturbing motif. Where in the world is my Study Guide to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders-IV? Oh, oh. Shall I tell you a secret? I threw it out. I’ve always hated it. It was the one book that wasn’t even damaged and I threw it in the trash. How’s that for being sick?”

“And why do you think you’re sick?” asked Hawthorne.

“I must be. Look what’s happened to my office. Isn’t that a sign of sickness? Someone thinks it’s time for me to go. And now you’re here to fire me. Why would you fire me if I weren’t sick?”

“Clifford, I am not here to fire you.”

“Aha, you say that now, but I know the drill. Hit the road, you’ll say. And there I’ll be with Chip and poor Mrs. Hayes, just like checker pieces shoved to the side of the board. Then Bobby and Roger Bennett and Ted Hastings will get the ax. Roger thinks you’ll fire him because he knocked you down in basketball. Poor boy. Tell me this, Dr. Hawthorne, what will you do when you’re all alone? When you’ve nobody left except your dear Kate and that cook? Really, if I had any standing with the Department of Education, I’d have to report you.”

—

That night Hawthorne worked in his office till ten o’clock, then he shut down his computer, returned some papers to the file cabinet, and made his way out of the building. Early in the evening he had spoken again to Bobby, then phoned Hamilton Burke in Laconia to describe Evings’s continued anxiety after the vandalism of his office. He suggested to the lawyer that Evings be given a paid leave of absence—let him go someplace warm so he could knit himself back together. Hawthorne and Bobby had felt it would be best if the offer came from Burke, as a member of the board, and carried the board’s assurance that Evings’s job was safe. Hawthorne was worried; Evings was clearly unwell. But Burke had taken much persuading, saying that he was afraid of intervening in what appeared to be an internal matter. At last, however, he agreed to call Evings and visit the school, if need be. He even grew mildly enthusiastic and offered the opinion that a short vacation might be just the ticket to set Evings to rights again.