only minority teachers, too. We can’t sacrifice him to slander and extortion.”
“This isn’t about race, Hazel. This could be a game ender. To fund a suit like this might be, we’d have to sell the land. Bankrupt the school, ruin the reputation we’ve worked so hard to build,” said Sam.
“Jacques is exactly the kind of teacher who is building that reputation! Remember my report to the Board about the new Honors seminar in Camus and Sartre? That’s Jacques. With teachers like him, we’re beginning to be able to offer something unique, to attract some really good students.”
“Well and good. But not bankable. We’re not so many years out from our reputation as a hippie haven of free love and drugs, Hazel. Perhaps that’s slipped your mind,” said Sam.
“Sam, Hazel. I want to be sure we have an opportunity to hear from everyone. Friends?”
Abel’s gentle reproach smarted. Once in my early days as Head, I was “eldered” as we Quakers say, called to meet with the then Clerk of the Board and the Founder. Be mindful of letting others speak, the Clerk had said. Measure twice and cut once, the Founder said.
Quaker process is slow. The goal is to come to the shared “sense of the Meeting.” We don’t vote. We discern the Way. We seek consensus.
The clock struck ten, and then half past. The coffee was gone, only crumbs left on the cookie platter.
“I don’t think the child intends harm,” said Maggie. “But I don’t think she’s able to report accurately. Remember when the drama club did The Crucible? As the mother of four girls, let me just say teenage girls can be suggestible. I think we should slow this down, find a middle path. Like a leave of absence for Jacques, just till she’s gone.”
“My friend Maggie speaks my mind,” said Dave.
Nods around the room signaled consensus. Or exhaustion.
Abel looked at me. “Hazel?”
“Friends, ordinarily I would stand aside.” That’s always an option, for the minority voice, rather than obstructing consensus. “But—asking Jacques to take a leave of absence is something I cannot do. It is an expression of no confidence. None of you work with him. None of you really know him the way I do. And—hiring and firing faculty are the Head’s decision.”
“Right,” said Sam in his resonant voice, “and renewing the Head’s contract is the Board’s decision. In June.”
Maggie looked at me, pleading or apologizing. “Could we—could we at least lay this over? Defer a decision until next week?”
“Not if he serves us with papers,” said Dave.
“Not if he’s bringing the media,” said Sam.
“Oh, I don’t think he’d do that,” said Maggie. “What father would expose his daughter to media about something like this?”
Dick Wilson would, I thought.
The clock struck eleven.
“Friends,” said Abel. “The hour is late. I for one am too tired to discern clearly. I suggest, if we agree, that we accept Maggie’s suggestion to lay this over. Just for the weekend. I propose Hazel and I will meet with Jacques on Monday.”
“Tomorrow,” said Sam. “What’s wrong with tomorrow?”
“I’m at the conference for Heads of Quaker schools tomorrow. And it’s too late to get a substitute for Jacques. The girl’s not on campus.”
“First thing Monday,” said Abel. “What do you say, Hazel?”
The illusion of choice.
“Very well,” I said.
“This has been a thorough threshing session,” said Abel. “Thank you, Friends. A moment of silence, please.”
I like our Quaker expressions. ‘Threshing session’ conjures images of neat bales of hay, of harvest brought home. But as I sat in the closing silence, I saw a storm-ravaged meadow.
We adjourned, without the usual chuckles and yawns. There were no cookies left for Sam to wrap up to take home to his wife, or to eat in the car.
Abel stayed behind. He loaded the mugs into the dishwasher. I dumped out the coffee; I put the urn away until our next meeting.
“Please, Hazel, discern with care,” he said.
“Fire him, you mean. Or be fired.”
“No. But I do want thee to weigh the options. Thee must consider accepting his resignation.” Abel had never used plain Quaker speech with me.
We embraced before he left. After Linda died, people wondered about us. But I learned my lesson at my first school about falling in love with a colleague. That’s why I came to Clear Spring, my own second chance. As I used to teach my students in American History, George Washington said to steer clear of entangling alliances.
After Abel was gone, I called Jacques. The lights in his house across the pond were still blazing.
“We’re behind you,” I said. “Abel—Abel and I want to meet with you first thing Monday morning.”
“So they don’t believe me. Even if they did—it’s no good. I want to resign, Hazel.”
“No. Please, Jacques. I want you to stay. The school needs you. We’ll meet with him on Monday. At eight, in my office.”
I called Sally. “Basically, they want me to accept his resignation. Course of least resistance.”
“Maybe you should. There might be a lot of suffering for him and Angelique.”
“Maybe Rosa Parks should have moved to the back of the bus. Maybe William Penn should have taken off his hat to the king.”
“Don’t lecture me,” she said. “I’m just saying I’m worried—about the girl, Jacques, Angelique. You.”
“Thank you. Sorry.”
“Do you need me to call Jacques?”
“I already did.”
“And?”
“I told him I want him to stay. He wants to resign. We’re meeting with Abel Monday morning at eight.”
“Do you want me there?”
“No, thanks. Maybe I should skip the conference tomorrow.”
“Go. Let this settle. Clear your mind.”
I threw my things together—nightgown, toothbrush, outfit for tomorrow. Spritzed Aliage, perfume Ted had given me, which I never wore at school. I drove too fast down the driveway between our playing fields and hit a speed bump. My car is low slung; I’m still getting used to the extravagant red Toyota Celica. The first new car I’ve ever owned. Ted calls it my late mid-life crisis car. It’s a bit embarrassing to park it among
