The Bowl with Gold Seams. Ellen Prentiss Campbell

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 dad.”

      I was almost trembling. Stay calm, stay calm, I reminded myself. “There’s something at stake here even beyond the cost of a lawsuit, or losing a gift. Jacques is a fine teacher. And I have to say it—he’s one of our 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