Boy in the Water

—

It was Hawthorne’s sense of his increasing isolation that led him to call Kate Sandler that evening.

“I wonder if I could come over,” he asked Kate around eight-thirty. He had spent a good half hour building up his nerve to call and he worried that his voice might show his nervousness. “I don’t have anything in particular to talk about. I’d just like the company.”

Kate hesitated and Hawthorne could imagine her thinking about her ex-husband and how her name had been linked with Hawthorne’s. He was sure she would say it was a bad idea.

“Come over anytime,” said Kate. “I’ll make some coffee.”

Kate lived in a small Cape Cod on a dirt road about three miles from the school. Hawthorne got there about nine. Her son, Todd, was just on his way to bed. He was a tall seven-year-old who shook hands with Hawthorne but looked at him a little distrustfully. Hawthorne remembered how the boy had been grilled by his father as to whether Kate had been seeing other men. And what would the boy say about Hawthorne?

The living room had a stone fireplace and gray plank paneling on one wall. A pile of books was heaped on the coffee table. Kate took Hawthorne into the kitchen. He sat at a round oak table and drank black coffee from a blue mug. At first he didn’t know what to say, then without making any conscious decision, he began telling her about the pictures of Ambrose Stark and the calls from the woman who purported to be Meg. He almost laughed at himself, so needy was he to tell another person about what had been happening. And he was afraid of Kate’s disbelief, that she would think he was crazy.

“But that’s terrible,” Kate kept saying. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this to yourself.”

He told her of the mutilated Stark painting that had stared down at him the night she had helped with Jessica. As he told her about the gifts of spoiled food, his coffee grew cold by his elbow. He found himself thinking of Kevin Krueger and what Krueger had said about the school’s malice and rancor.

“But who do you think’s doing it?” Kate sat across from him at the table, her dark hair framing her brow. She stared at his face as if she meant to draw it.

“For a while, I thought it was Chip Campbell. Then I thought it might be Roger Be

“They want to force you to resign.”

“Yes.”

However, it was more than that. Hawthorne had wanted Bishop’s Hill to be his punishment—his great Sisyphean task—but he had wanted it to be a punishment under his control. He had meant to be prisoner and jailer both. Now he thought how ridiculous that had been. Not only was he being punished, he was worried that he would fail at keeping the school from going under. But of these thoughts he said nothing.

“You must tell the police,” Kate said. “Tell Chief Moulton. Surely, whoever is doing it is the same person who wrecked Clifford’s office.”

Kate urged him to tell some of the other faculty, those who seemed sympathetic—Alice Beech and Bill Dolittle, even Betty Sherman and Gene Strauss in admissions. And there were several more who were friendly, Kate was sure of it. Hawthorne listened but wasn’t convinced. Every time he heard a car pass he thought of his car in Kate’s driveway and how people would notice it.

It was past eleven when Hawthorne stood up to leave. Kate walked him to the door, then stood by as he put on his coat.

“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “That you trusted me that much.”

Glancing into her face, Hawthorne thought how pretty she looked. Her eyes seemed to shine as she watched him. Without thinking, he reached out and touched her cheek. She took his wrist, then turned his hand, kissing his palm. They stood like this for a moment. Gently, he pulled himself free.

“Let me,” she said, taking his hand again.

Once more Hawthorne gently pulled himself free. “When I touch your cheek, I feel my wife’s cheek,” he said. “When you kiss me, it’s Meg’s kiss that I feel.”

All at once Hawthorne turned and walked into the living room, standing with his back to Kate. She watched him without moving from the door.

“There’s something else I need to tell you about San Diego,” he began. “That psychologist, my former student, I knew her better than I said. Her name was Claire Sunderlin. I’d seen her a few times in Boston. Nothing had ever happened between us but it could have. We liked each other. We’d flirt. In San Diego, we’d had a good time during di

Eight

The chapel was full and the three golden chandeliers were blazing with light. Most of the faculty and staff were sitting in the two front rows, but Roger Be

The service had begun shortly after eight with the Reverend Be