It would be revealed that Arnold Sandman, fifty-one, longtime resident of Port Oriskany, faculty member since 1975 of Port Oriskany Middle School, had been accused of “unacceptable” behavior at previous schools, including a Catholic school in Watertown; but he’d been allowed to resign from the positions, and school administrators at two schools had agreed to provide him with “strong” recommendations, to get him out of their districts without a scandal. For there was the uncertainty of several girls’ accounts—there was the uncertainty that the girls’ parents would even allow them to make statements to the police, which would be revealed to the public. And Mr. Sandman denied all—everything. And Mr. Sandman did speak persuasively. And Mr. Sandman was, all conceded, a capable, if eccentric teacher whose students tended to do well on state examinations; in fact, better on the average than students taught by other math teachers. Jocosely it was said that Mr. Sandman “terrorized” students into learning math, where other, more gentle methods failed.

This time, however, Arnold Sandman would plead “no contest” to charges of protracted child endangerment, sexual molestation of a minor child, drug statute violations, abduction and false imprisonment.

The cobblestone house on Craigmont Avenue would be searched top to bottom. The incriminating archive would be discovered. Of thirty-one girls photographed by Mr. Sandman over a period of eighteen years all but six were identified; of these all but two were living in upstate New York and vicinity; the two no longer living had died “suspiciously” (suicide?) but in no ways (evidently) connected with Arnold Sandman.

Contacted by investigators, none of the identified women could remember being photographed by their ninth-grade math teacher in his home, or anywhere. None could remember having been driven in Mr. Sandman’s car—anywhere. None could remember having been sexually abused, coerced, threatened by Mr. Sandman but most could remember after-school tutorials and Mr. Sandman being “very kind” and “patient” with them; a few would recall that their math grades were unexpectedly high—“Which was really wonderful ’cause I wasn’t so great in math, with other teachers.”

“VIOLET. PLEASE TRY TO REMEMBER. TELL US . . .”

No. Can’t remember. Don’t make me.

I could not. My throat was shut up tight, there were no words to loosen it.

Too weak to sit up in bed. Fluids dripped into my veins, too weak to eat or drink except clear sweet liquids through a straw.

“Violet? It will help if you look up, dear. Try to keep your eyes open, and in focus . . .”

No. No. Can’t.

Amnesia was a balm. Amnesia is the great balm of life. Wept with gratitude for all that I did not remember which was confused (in observers’ eyes) with what I might be remembering.

The shock of it is, what was intimate and secret becomes public. What occurred without words becomes a matter of (others’) words.

Sexual abuse of a minor. Abduction. False imprisonment.