Hawthorne walked back around the outside of Emerson Hall to Adams. It was a clear night and cold, with a half-moon revealing the outline of the mountains. He wore no hat and the tips of his ears seemed to prickle with frost. From across the lawns he could hear muted rock music from one of the dormitory cottages. There had been no phone calls that day, no little packages of food. And as he looked up at the darkened windows, he was relieved to see that each was empty. Yet he felt tense, as if ready to fend off an attack that might come from any direction. To counter this, he meant to sit in his new chair, have a beer, and relax. Kick back, as Scott McKinnon said. He would listen to NPR and read nothing more taxing than the Boston Globe.

But once Hawthorne was settled in his chair, he left the Globe folded in his lap. The large living room was dim, the only light coming from a shaded floor lamp behind his right shoulder and the glow of the moon through the French windows. Hawthorne had almost decided to schedule a faculty meeting to which he would invite Burke and other members of the board. He had to stop these rumors. The issues would be discussed frankly, and if the faculty wanted him to act differently, then that would be discussed as well. It seemed absurd that they couldn’t manage to join forces. If that wasn’t possible, then Hawthorne’s job was hopeless.

Hawthorne hated the prospect of defeat. The thought was almost intolerable. But what had he been beaten by? Could it be no more than stubbornness and a spirited defense of the status quo? Even if Chip Campbell had sent the note to Kate’s ex-husband, could he be blamed for everything? Perhaps he had put the news clippings in the faculty mailboxes, but the painting, the phone calls, and the bags of rotten food—he couldn’t have done all that. Surely others were involved.

Hawthorne had again begun to think of Wyndham and his wife and daughter, when he slowly grew aware of a squeaking noise over by the French windows. Glancing up, he saw a light shape, then he realized it was a woman’s body. With a shock, Hawthorne saw she was half naked. He stood up and took a few steps toward the window. A woman was rubbing her naked breasts against the glass, rubbing them in a circle. Hawthorne clearly saw her dark red nipples, then the pale skin and behind that an indistinct head with blond hair, saw the small breasts pressed nearly flat and the nipples like coins, saw even her ribs as the woman rubbed herself across the strips of wood separating the panes, bending her knees, then pushing herself up again so her breasts were dragged across the glass.

Hawthorne walked quickly across the living room, almost expecting the woman to vanish before he reached the door. He pushed opened the French window. The woman stumbled back. It was a girl: Jessica Weaver. She stretched out her arms and began to turn in a circle, drifting like some weightless thing picked up by the wind. Her feet were bare. Around one ankle was a gold chain with a heart, which glittered in the moonlight.

Jessica lurched back against the balustrade and stopped. “Would you like me to dance for you?” she asked. Her voice was slurred.

Hawthorne could see the goose bumps on her white flesh. He took her arm and pulled her across the terrace and into the living room. Then, before shutting the door, he glanced around. Was someone watching? But he couldn’t tell; it was too dark.

Jessica continued to turn in circles and bumped up against the arm of Hawthorne’s new leather chair. “I’m a good dancer,” she said. “Shall I take off my jeans?” She began undoing her silver belt buckle. Her toenails were painted bright green.

Hawthorne realized she was drunk. “Stop turning like that or you’ll throw up.”

Jessica pushed herself away from the chair and, as she turned, she tilted back her head and stared at the ceiling. “The trick is not to get dizzy. If I focus on one special spot, it’s okay.” Her peroxided hair hung down across her shoulders.

Hawthorne tried not to look at her breasts but he found it impossible not to. His overcoat was draped over the arm of the couch. He took it and put it around her shoulders, trying to be careful not to touch her skin. “Keep this on.”

She was still turning but more slowly. “Would you like to fuck me?”

“No, thanks.” Hawthorne walked to the telephone.

“Don’t you think I’m pretty?”

“It has nothing to do with prettiness.” Hawthorne dialed the nurse. It rang five times and the answering machine picked up. “This is Alice Beech. I’m away from my desk right now . . .”

Hawthorne waited for the message to finish. “Alice, this is Jim Hawthorne. It’s about eleven o’clock. Could you get over here as soon as possible. I’ve got an emergency.” He hung up.

The overcoat had fallen to the floor and, as Jessica continued to twirl, her feet got tangled in it, causing her to stumble. “I think my feelings should be hurt. Lots of men would like to fuck me.”

Hawthorne picked up the coat and put it back over her. She turned and his knuckles slid across her bare back. “Keep this on,” he said, dropping the coat onto her shoulders.

He returned to the telephone and called Kate. She picked up after the third ring.

“Hi, this is Jim. Could you come over here right away. I need your help.”

She paused, as if considering the concern in his voice. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes. I just have to make sure that Todd is settled.”

“Make it as soon as you can.” Hawthorne hung up. Seeing that Jessica had again dumped his coat on the floor, he picked it up and held it out to her. “I told you to keep this on,” he said, more roughly than he intended. He saw that she had unbuckled her belt; the two ends hung loose.

“You’re not very nice,” said Jessica, still turning in front of him.

Hawthorne again put the coat over her shoulders, then took her arm and led her over to the couch.

“Who’ve you been drinking with?”

“A friend.” Jessica took little baby steps as Hawthorne urged her forward.

“What friend?”

“It’s none of your business.” She looked up at him. “Do you like margaritas?”

“I don’t think I’ve had one for about a dozen years.” Hawthorne settled her in a corner of the couch. He began to sit down at the other end, then he got up and went to his new leather chair instead. “So to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I thought you’d like to see me dance.” Jessica began to get to her feet.

“Stay where you are and keep that coat over your shoulders. Aren’t you cold?”

Jessica put her little finger in her mouth and sucked on it, staring at Hawthorne with her head tilted. “Tequila’s very warming. Would you like to see me do a somersault?” The coat had slipped down, exposing her right breast.

“I want you to stay right where you are.”

Jessica took her finger out of her mouth and looked at it. The finger was wet and shiny. “You’re not very fun.”

“It’s not my job to be fun. Who gave you the tequila?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“And why did you come over here?”

“Your light was on. I thought you’d like to see me dance.”

“Are you sure someone didn’t tell you to come over here?”

“What a silly idea.” She abruptly stood up and the overcoat fell back onto the couch. “Watch this!” She took two running steps and did a cartwheel, then another.

Hawthorne stood up as well. “If you don’t go back to the couch and put that coat over your shoulders, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” He knew it wasn’t much of a threat, but perhaps in her present condition it would work. He glanced at his watch. Hardly five minutes had passed since he had called Kate.

Jessica was now standing by the kitchen door. Her jeans were unfastened and partly unzipped. She seemed to be wearing nothing underneath. Looking at Hawthorne, she put her finger back in her mouth. “Call me Misty.”