Scandalous Lessons

      “Oh my god,” she whispered. “I knew something was wrong.” She covered her mouth with her hand, as if she was afraid to let any more words spill out.

      “What do you mean?” I asked angrily. What did she know? How did she know? How did she see signs that I didn’t see?

      She took a deep breath before she looked at me again, her eyes watery with pain. It wasn’t the same as mine though. It was a different kind of pain.

      “I went to see your wife last week. We had a conference. I told her that I’d been concerned about how Trevor was doing. He’s been different lately—distracted, doing poorly in class. I told her that I thought it was a little strange that she had taken such an interest in him, that perhaps they were a little too close.”

      She paused, looking through me as if reliving the day as she spoke. A tear slid down her face, and her eyes glazed over.

      “She told me that she was only trying to help!”

      In that instant, her tone changed from pained to accusatory. Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, looking at me as if somehow I was an accomplice to this, as if I had orchestrated the whole thing. I wanted to tell her that I was just as much in the dark, just as much a victim, but at that moment, words escaped me. It was then that I was struck with the realization that she now viewed me in the same light that the rest of the world would in the coming hours when this all came to the surface. As far as she and everyone else were concerned, I wasn’t a victim of this unfortunate and bizarre circumstance—I was guilty by association. I was the husband of a child molester.