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 seven. I keep things simple—no pets, no plants; two hundred and fifty kids are enough to take care of, but I wind her clock once a week. It keeps me company. Sitting on the window seat, with a tumbler of bourbon, I looked out across the pond to the cluster of small one-story ramblers, faculty 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