other topics. What happened at Mt. Gilead School?”
“It closed down.”
“When you were the head?”
“Yes.”
“It’s another thing people are chalking up against you.”
“Well, I was assistant head for six years there, and I fell in love with the place,” he told her, very aware that Karen was writing now. “The head was a wonderful educator and I loved him, but he didn’t pay attention to certain things.”
“Like Mrs. Boyd?”
“Three things: marketing, finance, and asking people who were mediocre to go away.”
“Teachers?”
“Yes, teachers.”
“Oh, my God!”
“So, when things looked desperate, the board asked him to go and asked me to take over and see if I could turn things around.”
“What happened?”
“I got started too late. That’s my answer, anyway. I suppose some could say I screwed up, as you would put it.”
“That’s what a lot of people around here are saying.”
“There a little bit of truth in that. I’ve learned some things. But mostly, and the board of Mt. Gilead believes this too, I got started too late. Things had already deteriorated so much that there was just too much hill to climb.”
“Hill to climb,” Karen repeated, writing fast. “I hope it sells. Now, one other question. Do you believe in censoring?”
“Censoring?”
“Mrs. Boyd didn’t. She refused.”
“You talking the New York Times or the Clarion?”
“I’m not dumb enough to talk about either of them separately. If I did, I would lose my argument.”
“Which is? As if I didn’t know.”
Karen moved her head, up and down, slowly, several times. “Of course you know. Last year we had a full edition—all four pages—about drugs on campus, and before that we did a poll of the students to find out how many of their parents were alcoholics. Mrs. Boyd let us print them.”
“I know. I read them all. They were very good articles.”
“So you don’t believe in censoring?”
“It all depends.”
“So? What if I wanted to do a poll on our students’ sex lives and write it up?”
“Well, your job is to make the Clarion as interesting as you can,” Fred said. “And I’m sure that would be interesting.”
“Yeah. So I’m still waiting for the punch line.”
“And mine is to make sure that the public trusts this school enough to send their daughters to us.”
“And to give us money,” she added. “So who wins, as if I didn’t know?”
“When, in my judgment, the two interests collide, I do, but in most cases I’m sure we could work it out.”
“Work it out? Working it out’s not the point, and you know it. The point’s the principle.”
“That’s right,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. It’s the principle.”
“Well, this isn’t going to help you at all,” she said. “Not with the students anyway. This is another issue everybody’s talking about. We all know it’s one of the reasons Mrs. Boyd got blown away. The Clarion’s going to go right on trying to put the truth out, whatever it is.”
“Good for you. I think you should.”
“Yeah, good for me. But it’s going to make your life all the harder. And that’s too bad.”
While he thought about how to respond to that remark, she surprised him by suddenly standing up. “Anyway, I’ve got to run,” she announced. “Those teachers out there are going to go ballistic.” Her eyes focused on his face even more intently. “I’ve enjoyed this. I’m surprised. I was prepared to think you were a jerk.”
“Really? Then why is it that I liked you the minute you walked in the door?”
“And it took me until—?” Her thin shoulders went up and down. “Until whatever.”
“That’s right. Until whatever.”
“Because you’re a professional. You’re a teacher. And I go to school here. My father says the same thing. He’s a rabbi. He says he automatically starts to love anybody who joins his temple—the minute they join. He says if he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t be a rabbi.”
“I’d like to meet your dad someday.”
“You will,” she promised. “You guys would like each other. But not till graduation, okay? This is my turf, not his.” Then she was out the door.
“WE’VE BEEN WAITING for hours!” Melissa Andersen, the French teacher, complained, plopping her tall, thin body down in the chair Karen Benjamin had just been sitting in. Melissa’s face was pale, drawn, and there were strands of gray in her blond hair. Fredericka Walters, her hair as red as Fred’s, stood behind Melissa’s chair, a tall, bulky woman wearing dark glasses, which obscured a lot of her face. Neither Melissa nor Fredericka made any gesture to shake Fred’s hand.
“Take it easy, hon,” Sam Andersen murmured. He was a burly man in his early thirties, with huge arms and bald already. He wore a red T-shirt and khaki pants. Turning to Fred, he put his hand out. “Welcome to our little world,” he said. “How’s it goin’?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
Sam and Fredericka sat down on either side of Melissa, while Fred pulled his desk chair out from behind his desk so he could sit with them.
“We’ve come to find out what your agenda is,” Melissa said.
“Hey hon, slow down,” Sam said.
“Well?” Melissa asked.
“My agenda?” said Fred. “Maybe you could clarify—”
“Melissa believes in conspiracies,” Sam said. “The Gulf War was started by Chevron. Seventeen reincarnated members of the Gestapo killed Kennedy.” He was leaning back in his chair, grinning.
Melissa turned on her husband. “If you can’t take this seriously, why don’t you go home?”
Sam looked directly at Fred, arching his eyebrows so that the skin of his bald pate moved up and down. “We take things very seriously around
