committee of the Board, six Weighty Friends as they’re called, easily fit into my living room.
I reached Abel West, Clerk of the Board, at his office at the Clear Spring Bank, the bank his great-great grandparents founded. The family estate where he lives was a station on the Underground Railway.
“Oh, Hazel,” he sighed when I’d told him. “The Committee has to meet right away.”
“My house, tonight. 7:30. Sally will call them.”
“You believe him?” he asked, one more time.
“He made a foolish mistake, not telling me. But I know my teachers, Abel. And I know my kids. I’m sorry for her, but she’s always in the middle of something and it’s never her fault.”
“I trust your judgment. We’ve been through a lot together. We’ll get through this.”
Abel’s the best Clerk of the Board I could ever hope for, and the best friend. When his wife died three years ago after her battle with cancer, I shared with him that I had been widowed, too. I told him that long ago, my young husband, my high school sweetheart, had gone off to World War II and never returned. And I told Abel’s boys that my father had died, when I was about their age. But I didn’t say I understood how Abel or his sons felt. In my experience, no one can. Even though loss and grief are universal, each experience is particular and unique. You got to walk that lonesome valley, you got to go there by yourself, as the spiritual my kids sing in chorus goes.
While Sally was calling the Trustees, I walked over to the infirmary to talk to Sidney. We’re fortunate, having a nurse and counselor in one—good for the budget and the kids. Sidney coaches the girls lacrosse team. She’s young, stocky, and strong. The kids like her though some believe she can x-ray their minds. Sidney cleans wounds and listens with the same fierce attention she displays on the field. She’s tender, though, with the needy ones. Louisa had been a frequent caller at the infirmary.
“Whew,” Sidney said after I finished, running her hands through her short, curly hair as though trying to clear her thoughts. “Starved for affection, Hazel. She doesn’t read cues. Can’t, really. In here, heartbroken, every other week.”
“My gut says—Jacques is telling the truth.”
Sidney nodded. “No way to know for sure, but I think you’re right. I can see her having a crush on him. And he and Angelique—they stand out. It can make someone lonely a little jealous.” She had an uncharacteristically wistful look.
“I know. Birds of paradise among us doves. Do we—do we have to report it?” I asked.
“I’ll run it by CPS as a hypothetical,” she said. “She’s eighteen, thank goodness.”
“How did she do in the Life Skills class?” Sidney teaches Health. Holes and Poles, the kids call it.
“Never took it,” said Sidney. “She wasn’t here sophomore year. But it wouldn’t make a difference, with this, Hazel. It’s not like swimming lessons, drown-proofing.” All my kids have to pass a swim test before they graduate.
“I shouldn’t say this, Sidney. I’m sorry for her but—I wish to god we’d never laid eyes on her. I wish her father had withdrawn her last semester, when I suspended her for the plagiarism.”
“What do you know about why she transferred here?”
“Social problems. And he needed the five-day boarding what with travel and—well, the mother. The grades were so-so. She was a gamble, but Clear Spring is all about the second chance. We had that space to fill on dorm, after Emily left.” And Dick Wilson paid full freight, I didn’t need to say.
“What kind of social problems?”
“Vague.”
Back in the office, I called my colleague Anne, the headmistress at Louisa’s prior school in Virginia horse country. My friend Ted, headmaster of another Quaker school, says all heads of schools live by a code of thieves honor. We borrow from each other, we steal from each other, and we pay our debts to each other. I had taken Louisa off Anne’s hands. She owed me.
“So,” I said to her. “Off the record. If I told you that a certain student I took as a transfer from you last year accused a teacher of assaulting her, would you be surprised?”
“Well, Hazel, you know we can never predict that sort of thing. Not what happens, certainly not what someone says.”
“Right. But sometimes it’s a total surprise, and sometimes not.”
“Let’s just say, off the record, this is one where I wouldn’t be totally surprised.”
I hung up the phone. Maybe I should have read harder between the lines of Anne’s lukewarm reference for Louisa eighteen months back.
Ted says there are things only another Head can understand. It would have been good to hear him say not to kick myself. But there was no way to reach him, already en route from his school in the Hudson River Valley to tomorrow’s annual conference for the Heads of Quaker schools in Washington. If the Trustees’ meeting tonight didn’t go too late, I could still make it downtown and spend the night with him. Without traffic, Clear Spring is less than an hour away from D.C.
Ted says running a high school is like running a crisis center. You have to be able to focus and compartmentalize. I powered through two days work in one, preparing to be out of the office at the conference. Sally brought lunch to my desk. I didn’t feel like being in the cafeteria with the kids. And at the end of the day, she shooed me out.
“Go home,” she said. “Rest before they come. Have something to eat. Not just these cookies at the meeting.” She gave me the tray of snicker doodles, brownies, and chocolate chip cookies from the school cook. “Call me when it’s over, let me know how it goes. And if there’s anything you need me to do tomorrow, while you’re at the conference.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t go,” I said.
“You should go,” she said. “It will help to get away.”
“What did I do with the agenda for tomorrow?” I started to sift through the piles of paper on my desk. She put a cool, firm hand on mine.
“It’s in your briefcase.”
I walked home across campus. The fields had just been mowed. The fragrance of fresh cut grass filled the air. The sun was low, striking the apple blossoms in the orchard at the edge of the school property. Our land is our treasure. A local Quaker gave her family farm to the Founder of the school thirty years ago, when he had his vision and announced to the Meeting that Clear Spring needed a school. Developers have wooed us. We’ve managed to hold out.
I called Ted at the Shoreham.
“Where are you? I have a gorgeous room—looks right into Rock Creek Park.” His school, Maplewood Friends, can provide a good expense account.
“Emergency meeting with Abel and the committee. I’ll come, it may be late.”
“What’s up?”
“Tell you later. Abel will be here soon.”
My mother’s clock on the mantelpiece struck
