housing. Jacques and Angelique would be there having dinner. The couple rarely ate in the cafeteria. Some faculty live off-campus to avoid the fishbowl, but on-campus housing is a valuable perk in this area. I lived in an apartment on dorm, when I first came here to teach history at the brand new school twenty-five years ago. The head’s house is larger than the rest, set apart—an embarrassment of space for a single woman. It has heart of pine floors, built-in cabinets and book shelves. Our Founder was a cabinet maker.
The front door opened. We don’t lock here. “Hazel?”
“I’m back here!” Abel came in, loosening his tie.
“Offer you a drink?” School events are dry, but private is private.
He shook his head.
“Sidney checked. We don’t have to report it to Child Protective Services,” I said.
“That’s good, I guess. I’d rather handle this in-house.”
We went into the kitchen. I plugged in the coffee urn, uncovered the cookies. Abel carried the tray into the living room, nibbling a snicker doodle.
“I have bread and some good cheese, Abel.” He’s a tall man, and gaunt since his wife’s death.
“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.”
“I called her former headmistress today. Something similar may have happened there. I’m kicking myself.”
“We were down a kid. What’s done is done. Now we just have to work through what’s best to do for the school,” he said.
“We have to back Jacques,” I said.
“Hazel? Am I too early?” It was Maggie Stadler, the newest member of the committee. Her eldest daughter was a senior this year, bound for Swarthmore. Maggie’s the oncologist who took care of Abel’s wife. She came into the room, put down her knitting basket, unwrapped her shawl, and gave us both a quick hug. If I ever have cancer, I’m calling her.
By 7:30 the committee had gathered: each in our accustomed seats, like a family gathering around a table. I always take the captain’s chair, one of those the Founder made. It’s un-cushioned, and I’m thin so it’s a little uncomfortable, but that keeps me awake.
Abel was in the wing chair by the fireplace. “Good evening, friends. A moment of silence, please.”
We follow Quaker procedure for business meetings—Faith and Practice, not Roberts Rules. We open and close with silence. Listen to each other and for the voice within.
“Thank you for gathering on such short notice. Hazel will explain. We have a most concerning situation,” Abel said.
It was so quiet in the room. The spring peepers in the pond outside were calling. I took a deep breath. I kept my eyes on Maggie, her quick hands, her flashing knitting needles. “One of my students has accused my teacher Jacques Thibeault of assaulting her.”
Maggie put the knitting down in her lap, and looked at me.
“I’ve spoken to the girl, and to her father, and to Jacques. My counselor, Sidney, has been quite involved with the student. She transferred in last year. There have been a lot of issues.”
Sam Jiles interrupted. “Have you reported it to Child Protective Services?”
“Sidney has spoken with them. At this time, it’s not reportable because she’s eighteen. I’ve also spoken with her former school. It’s possible there was a similar situation.”
“Then why did we take her?” said Sam. He’s built like an opera singer, and is a fine baritone. He sings in the community chorus with students, faculty, members of the Meeting. He runs a non-profit, clerks my Finance Committee, and is one of my most generous donors.
“Let’s hold our questions, friends, and hear Hazel out,” said Abel.
“What exactly does she say happened? And what does your teacher say?” asked Dave Furbush. He’s an attorney, estate planning mostly, and has handled some matters for us pro bono. His son graduated two years back, with Abel’s youngest.
“The girl says he asked her to stay after class. That he kissed her, fondled her. That she ran away. Jacques says she left with the others, then came back and asked to re-take a quiz. He told her she couldn’t—it’s his policy—but not to worry, there would be time. He says he did touch her shoulder, out of sympathy. She kissed his hand, he pushed her away.”
“He should have come to you right away,” said Dave, a tense look on his face. He must be almost sixty, like me, but looks much younger.
“He should have. But I believe him.”
Sam shook his head. Maggie was biting her lip.
“Her father demands I fire Jacques. He’s threatening to involve an attorney, the media. Jacques has offered to resign. I have refused.”
“And so, friends,” said Abel, “that’s where we stand. Tonight, we must thresh through this, consider our options, and discern carefully the best course for the school.”
“It’s just she said, he said?” asked Dave. “No witnesses?”
“It was after school on Friday. The kids are at sports.”
“No other teachers at all in the building?” Dave persisted. It felt like I was being deposed, though I’ve known these half dozen good people and their children for years.
“The other two teachers on his hallway coach cross country. So no, no one.”
“And he doesn’t coach anything?” Sam asked.
“He could, if we had the money for tennis courts.” My heart was beating faster.
“Friends,” said Abel. “Let’s not get caught in the weeds here.”
“Okay,” said Dave. “We must consider the best interest of the child: protecting her and all the children, if there’s any chance what she’s saying is true.”
“I agree,” I said. “And I’m worried about her. We’re all about protecting the best interest of the child here. But letting her fabrication and her father’s threats take down a fine teacher isn’t good for her. Isn’t protecting her best interest, in the long run.”
“My daughter’s a senior, too,” said Maggie. “Only one student transferred into the class last year. So, without naming names, I know who this is. Sarah was assigned to be her First Friend.” We have a buddy system for new students. “I don’t, in any way, mean to blame a possible victim—but she struck me as—well, troubled. I would be very, very hesitant to rely on what she says.”
“Just because she’s troubled doesn’t mean she’s lying,” said Dave.
“And you can’t take her being troubled and him being a good teacher to the bank,” said Sam. “Sorry, but I for one think we should accept the teacher’s wise offer to resign, tie this kid in bubble wrap, get her graduated, and move on. I know who we’re talking about too, and I know exactly what the Annual Fund was counting on asking for from her
