Was he making the same error each week?
Cynthia had just returned from play rehearsal to report another incident involving Daniel Farnham. Warden had lost track of how many that made over the year, but it was too many. What made this one extraordinarily bad was that Farnham had apparently struck one of the boys or had threatened him so strongly that he might as well have struck him.
What was it with the air over in that gymnasium anyway? Were they being poisoned by some toxic wastes buried under the building a century ago? Angus Farrier first going mad and killing two boys, McPhee’s wife moving out, Farnham flying into rages at the slightest provocation. Warden shook his head at himself; his thoughts were outrageous. Still, it was an odd coincidence that so many bad events could be associated with one building. It was as though the place were cursed.
Cynthia entered the study in a blue dress.
“Hurry,” she said. “We have dinner in fifteen minutes.”
He looked at his watch; it was 6:15. Where had the afternoon gone? He could remember saying goodbye to Cynthia when she went off to her play practice, and then he could remember hearing her report when she got home. What happened in the interim?
He stood up and reached into the pockets of his trousers to empty them and found that he still had Kevin Delaney’s key to the gym.
“Is it normal for people to forget as much as I do?” he asked her.
“No,” she said. “But you don’t forget. You just don’t notice.”
“All right,” he said. “Is that normal?”
“No,” she said. “Nor is it normal to write such beautiful poetry.”
“These days my poetry is as bad as my administrating.”
Cynthia said that was true, but that it made no difference to her.
Warden embraced her. He loved the feel of her delicate body next to his big, clumsy rough bulk, loved the way she squeezed him so hard in return.
“You make it tough to forget how much I love you,” he said.
“Don’t ever forget it,” she said.
“Dan Farnham loves you too.”
He felt her go limp in his arms, but he held on tight for another moment before releasing her.
“Dan is a boy,” said Cynthia.
“I’m going to have to fire him,” said Warden, “if he’s going to continue to lose his temper.”
“He’s a good director and a good teacher.”
“You know we can’t have the faculty manhandling the students,” said Warden.
“Come to a rehearsal and watch him work,” said Cynthia. Either he would see something good and worth salvaging, or he would catch Farnham in the middle of an explosion and have a valid reason for terminating his contract.
“He won’t lose his temper with me there,” said Warden.
“Sit in the back of the auditorium. He won’t notice you.”
“With this beacon lamp of a face?”
“Stop it,” she said. “You could hide in the prop room under the stage like Richard Blackburn. Apparently the acoustics are marvelous.”
“No,” said Warden. “I can’t spy on my colleagues. This confrontation will be tomorrow. Face-to-face.”
He had put it off for months, but now that he had committed himself, he looked forward to it.
SCENE 5
On Sunday evening Thomas Boatwright had to appear before the honor council. It was easy. They heard his story, lectured him about his tardiness in speaking the truth, praised him for coming forward, and sent him back without punishment to study in his dorm room.
By 9:00 he was concentrating intensely on the art of shooting a free throw.
“I don’t see why I’m not improving,” he said. He lay on his bed and watched Greg finish the geometry homework.
“Show me how you’ve been doing it,” Greg said.
“In here?” Sports on the dormitories were strictly prohibited.
“Just go through the motions,” Greg said. “Here’s the line.” He stood and marked with his toe an imaginary free throw line between the ends of their beds. “The basket’s up there above the window. Do everything but dribble and shoot.”
Thomas fetched his basketball from the closet. He stood at the line, pretended to dribble twice, and then mimed a shot.
“You’re holding the ball wrong,” Greg said immediately. “You got to have the lines of the ball perpendicular to your fingers.” He took the ball from Thomas and showed him how to hold it. “I’m surprised McPhee never told you that.”
Thomas stepped up to the line again.
“Where’s the line?” Greg said.
“Right here.” Thomas pointed to the imaginary line on the floor.
“That’s right,” Greg said, “so why are you standing two inches farther back than you were the first time? You got to stand in exactly the same place. Put your toes exactly one inch behind the line. Every time.”
Thomas stepped up to the line again, mimed dribbling twice, and then adjusted the ball so that its lines were balanced horizontally. Then he pretended to shoot.
“That’s the way,” Greg said. “Just remember when you do shoot to follow through.”
Thomas said he’d try it tomorrow after practice.
“This is the first productive thing I’ve done all day,” he said. “I just can’t concentrate.” Everything was cleared up with the councilmen. Now he wanted to do the same with Hesta.
They spent the rest of study hours talking about everything but schoolwork: Angus Farrier, girls, the taste of beer, the winter play.
“Here’s a question for you,” said Greg. “Why doesn’t Othello go after Cassio? If he thinks Cassio is the one fooling with his wife, why doesn’t Othello confront him? Why doesn’t he kill Cassio instead of Desdemona?”
Thomas had to think about that one.
SCENE 6
Warden invited Farnham to his classroom on Monday before lunch to discuss the outburst at yesterday’s play rehearsal. At first Farnham was defensive and resentful that Warden did not take his side. He sat in a student’s desk and spoke like a wronged adolescent.
“I pushed him once against a wall,” Farnham said. “The boy is incorrigible.”
Warden hated resistance but did not retreat. “The boy’s behavior is irrelevant,” he said. “We have a disciplinarian to handle such cases. You ought to know the rules by now.”
Farnham sat silently
