This is a letter I’m writing to an old teacher of mine. The story is all true. This is a rough draft.

It’s one in the afternoon, and there’s a little bit of light at the window. There are a number of clouds in the sky, yet a dull light seems to hang on them, hang on the ends of the shades. Eyeliner on the blinds. There’s a cat in the leather chair under the window. The stripes of light make his fur look colored, but he doesn’t even know it. I feel bad for the cat with charcoal fur. The cat with the charcoal fur with window stripes of light.

            You are standing near your daughter, with your left hand on her right shoulder. She’s petting the cat, as it sleeps. I remember you telling me you weren’t allowed cats here, last time I babysat, so I ask how you got the cat. The cat’s name is Moby. You tell me you got him an hour before you were arrested in November. I swing my legs to the left slowly. I wasn’t sure if we were going to talk about it. I haven’t seen you since before it happened. You didn’t have a beard then. Your name wasn’t in newspapers then. You would wake up and get your kids ready for school. You would walk to school with your headphones in, on sunny days or when your wife had the car. You coached basketball and marked papers. You wore sneakers and were a notoriously tough teacher, but the best. You were head of the English department.

When I was in grade eight I had a soccer practise late on the school grounds, so my mom picked me up and took me to my parent teacher interview with her. You were the last teacher we saw, and I was excited. I was a good writer and loved to read, so I was sure I would do well. You were very nonchalant and straightforward. You told my mom I was almost failing. I hated you so much at that moment. I ended up doing well, but I dreaded having your hard marking as a teacher again. Sometimes you’d catch me daydreaming into the face of the clock, and you’d ask me why I was always staring at it. You made us all laugh, because even the cool kids weren’t cool to you. When you sneezed you’d exaggerate it, shouting into the tall ceilings of your room. You were everyone’s favorite.

I ask you about the day of the arrest. I’m an adult now and I wring my hands like I feel I’m supposed to. You sit down, or maybe I sit down, and you begin to tell me about it. You don’t look at me very much, but you’ve never been one for eye contact. Your daughter sits on you, blue eyes like puddles in your lap. You tell me you got arrested on a Sunday. You answered the door in bare feet holding your youngest daughter, and they read you your rights. You put down your daughter and went inside to get socks. A policeman followed you into your bedroom, stood in the door as you picked a pair of socks, and followed you as you walked back down the stairs to your shoes. He stood beside you as you put your shoes on, and as you walked into his car. You didn’t know what was going on. Your wife didn’t either. At the station they interrogated you, and asked you where you were when it happened. If you did it. They told you what the girls said. The girls said you touched one of them. Then, as you pumped basketballs in the equipment room, they walked by, and you stared at them, taking pictures on your cellphone. They took your cellphone. They never gave it back to you. You’re told what you did and what you’ll have to do. You’re told what will happen to your job and with lawyers and with the court. You’re held in a cell. You don’t sleep, or maybe you do. You don’t tell me. I remember the Camus novel you taught me in grade twelve, about the man put in jail who didn’t care about life. You aren’t a nihilist, but I can imagine you thinking as he did. The next day you met your wife at seven-eleven. You bought cigarettes for the first time in the few years since youd quit.

You aren’t allowed to go home, as your daughters are under the age of sixteen and you’re considered a threat. There is an announcement at the school one day that you have been arrested. My brother calls me immediately and tells me what happens. I tell him it isn’t true. I laugh. I make him go to the secretary and double check. I email you, but I only have your school email. You have to go to the island and stay with your parents, who are caught off guard. You are confused. You are upset. You don’t understand why it is happening to you, and start taking anti-depressants. You miss your children. Your parents ask you about your savings and the costs of a lawyer.

A police statement is released, and it has your name in it. I read it. I go to a party that night and tell everyone, and spend the night crying into bottles of beer and shoulders of men. I re-read the statement the next day and realize that it states your age. I’d always wondered how old you were. But seeing it on paper makes you seem like a statistic and so I try to forget it. When I was a Senior I spent all my spare time in your classroom talking about philosophy and alternative music. I showed you my poetry, and you’d offer advice but remain objective. People wrote a statement about you, accusing you. I go to shows in the city and meet stranger who I end up telling about you. They confess to having had you as a teacher, and tell me the version of the rumour they’ve heard. All stories end with a statement of faith in your judgement. I always agree.

Another girl comes forward, claiming an incident had happened with you months earlier. Everyone begins to believe it’s true. Times passes and no one speaks of it for a while, except for in hair salons and aisles of grocery stores. Sometimes people on the bus tell me what they’ve heard. You touched her cheek, thigh, face, butt, you yelled, you grabbed, you stared, you said. I try to imagine, but never can. You are a mentor and friend and father. You can’t touch or yell or grab. Not in my mind.

We’re sitting at your kitchen table now, as your daughter draws. She’s soft and sculptured and silent. She always has one hand around your calf. You were allowed home. You still haven’t gone to court. You spend all your time at home your youngest daughter playing puzzles. You have a beard; you never had a beard before.

I offer to watch your kids whenever you need to go out, and you thank me. I remember how scary you seemed when I was thirteen. You were tall and gray haired, and a tattoo sat under your sleeves and on the back of your neck. You yelled in a Scottish accent sometimes, and had quotes all over your room. No one really skipped your class. Once we got to watch “The Simpsons” when you were teaching us about “irony”. All the girls had a crush on you, but you never noticed anyone. Some girls said you looked like a pirate. Your chin is sort of pointy, I suppose.

You drive me home but first pick up your daughter from school, and I say goodbye to your family. You play a CD in the car, which consists of bands you’ve shown me and that your daughter’s like. We have to wait around the corner from your daughter’s elementary school, because you’re not allowed near schools anymore. A friend walks her to your car, and she gets in smiling, unaware of the implications of her extra walk. In a week someone will claim that you were on school property, and they will enforce another ban on you.

When I was fifteen I wanted to marry you for a few weeks, because no boys my age were as well-read as you, or listened to the same indie music that I did. However, I was dissuaded when I saw the pictures of your daughter on your classroom walls. Your face changed in my mind. First frightening, then handsome. Then, friend.

You tell me stories of your college life, of becoming a teacher. You taught existentialism to Seniors, made them read Nabokov’s “Pale Fire” and watch “American Beauty”. You taught me and all my friends how to write a paragraph and a thesis statement. You taught some how to dribble a basketball. In my creative writing class you would give us prompts that were Morrissey lyrics.

You send out your resume to different stores everyday. A friend told me that you tried to get hired painting houses in his father’s company. Your wife had to get a job at a grocery store, and you have to spend time in court as well. Your beard is long. There are stripes of light on the cat’s back that make him look a different color, but he didn’t notice, nor will he. You have been stripped of your dignity and re-appropriated by the creations of the minds of children. Your life has been lied about and warped into something in police statements. Your story hasn’t been told. This is your story, it is no fairytale, yet it is a truth. A truth holding more fact than fiction. This is your story:

Once upon a time there was a child. The child became a boy, and the boy became a man. The man became a teacher, a husband and a father. This is a story about a beautiful family. The man’s wife had two beautiful daughters, both with big blue eyes like puddles. The man’s wife made them beautiful pictures and spun them tutu’s with her love and special hands. The man told his daughter’s that his wife’s hands held magic. The man loves his family. He goes to work, coaches a team, and comes home. One day there is a tournament at his school. Gathering his bag, the man walks to his car. He gets to his car, then realizes he forgot his keys. He turns around. This is a story about a man who loved his family and forgot his keys. This is a horror story. The man walks back to the school, and passes through the doors and through a group of girls, standing in a huddle. His bag swings as he walks forward, and presses against one of the girls backs. He walks through to the office where he forgot his keys, and collects them. This is a story about a man who forgot his keys. This is a horror story. This is your story.