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Others had spoken. Skander told how he and Evings had both come to Bishop’s Hill exactly twenty years earlier. He had little to say beyond that numerical fact except that Evings had become a “fixture” and “one of those quiet people upon whom I had come to depend.” Tom Hastings, stuttering only a little, had spoken of a weekly chess game that he and Clifford played for years. Bill Dolittle had spoken of Evings’s love of books. But in none of these descriptions did Hawthorne see the frightened and desperate man he had come to know in the past two months. There was no mention of someone’s trashing his office only a week earlier or of Evings’s having taken his own life. And Hawthorne asked himself what the students thought of such a veneer of praise or if these pieties were just something they had come to expect.
Tank cleared his throat. “I can’t say that I knew Mr. Evings very well,” he began. He stuck a finger under the collar of his white shirt and pulled. “But he was certainly Shepherd’s main man. Like, he was in charge and he was a pretty good guy and if any of us wanted something, Mr. Evings was usually there to help or he could tell us who to see. And he never got angry. If someone broke something or if there was too much noise, he would come downstairs in his slippers and say, ‘Gentlemen, if you please.’ Then he would go back upstairs. And once when I was wrestling around with Charlie Penrose, he came downstairs and asked us to cool it. Then he sat with us until we’d settled down and asked if we wanted a cup of tea. I don’t know, it’s pretty lousy that he’s dead.”
Although Tank never described Evings as ineffectual, that was the idea that came across: Evings was a nice man who did as little as possible and let the students run Shepherd as they wished so long as they weren’t troublesome and there was no fuss. It seemed clear to Hawthorne and perhaps others that whatever discipline existed in Shepherd came from Tank Donoso and his dope slaps. Hawthorne noticed that several of the faculty were dozing, while a number of students were using the occasion to finish their homework. Scott McKi
For another five minutes Tank ground on, trying to pick his words and avoid his dated rap-singer slang. He described how Evings had once helped him with an English paper, how he had introduced Evings to his parents. Hawthorne was touched by Tank’s efforts to achieve some level of decorum. A cloud briefly obscured the sun and the light shining through the windows faded, darkening the faces of the faculty and students. Then the light returned as Tank reached the end of his talk and hurried down the stairs out of the pulpit, obviously glad that his ordeal was over. Bobby Newland was waiting at the bottom. His round face expressed an eagerness that caught Hawthorne’s attention.
Bobby wore a dark suit and bright red tie. As soon as Tank was out of the way, he quickly climbed the steps. Then he stood with his hands gripping the lectern as he looked out at the audience with his head slightly tilted back so his goatee seemed aimed at the men and women in front of him. He didn’t speak. Hawthorne began to count the seconds. Slowly, he saw faculty and students alike stop what they were doing and look up. Frank LeBrun was sitting on the top step by the door with his elbows on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands.
After another minute Bobby began to speak, raising his voice and precisely articulating each word. “Clifford was my lover. We met nearly three years ago in Edgartown, where I was working in a restaurant. He brought me to Bishop’s Hill and had me hired as a psychological counselor. He was the kindest man I’ve ever known and you killed him.”
There was an immediate stirring. A few faculty members called out some words of protest. Hawthorne saw LeBrun get to his feet. The Reverend Be
“Whoever wrecked Clifford’s office as good as murdered him,” Bobby continued above the noise, “but that wasn’t the begi
By now Bobby was weeping and Hawthorne was standing below the pulpit. In the back, Be
“G-get him out of there,” shouted Hastings from the front row.
The Reverend Be
Hawthorne looked at Skander, who was bent over with one hand across his eyes.
“Bobby,” said Hawthorne, “come down from there.”
Bobby looked down at Hawthorne with surprise. He glanced quickly out into the chapel. “Damn you,” he shouted, “damn each one of you!” Then he hurried down the steps, half stumbling so Hawthorne had to catch his arm. They stood facing each other with Hawthorne still supporting the other man. Bobby’s face was wet with tears. A small door was positioned to the side of the altar under the painting of Ambrose Stark. Bobby pulled away from Hawthorne and left the chapel.
Hawthorne climbed the steps of the pulpit. Looking out, he noticed a range of emotions, from anger to grief, surprise to remorse. Somebody whistled and students banged the pews. Prayer books and hymnals fell to the floor. Several of the faculty were trying to speak; most of them were standing.
Hawthorne held up his hand for silence. He saw LeBrun talking angrily to Be
Hawthorne waited a moment, then began to speak. “I don’t know why Clifford Evings committed suicide,” he said. “He left no note. He was about to begin a two-month paid leave of absence. Instead, he chose to kill himself. It’s true he was frightened and his fear had become a sickness. And it’s also true that, intentionally or not, certain people had scared him, and the vandalizing of his office absolutely terrified him. I don’t know who did that, but the police are investigating and whoever is responsible will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
Hawthorne paused again. He could feel the attention of the students and faculty fixed upon him. “I didn’t know Clifford very well. He wasn’t particularly effective at his job and he felt guilt about taking the school’s money and giving little in return. Eventually, I would have urged him to retire, but I wouldn’t have fired him. Whatever his failings, the school had a certain responsibility. I don’t know why people told him he was about to be fired, except that it was one more example of the malice and gossip that I have seen since I arrived at Bishop’s Hill. Most assuredly, Clifford was its victim.