Have you ever been accused of doing something you didn’t do? And your accuser is a total stranger.

So how do you respond? You’ll find out in . . .

Remembering April Showers

     I sat at my desk in my office on the second floor of the Liberal Arts building on the Templeton University campus. The rain beat against the window. The date on the calendar at the bottom of my iMac screen read, “April 25.” I guess the downpour shouldn’t surprise me, I thought.

     My eyes scanned the document posted in the center of the screen—page one of my lecture for my two o’clock English class. I love teaching creative writing, but, for some reason I couldn’t comprehend, today my lecture seemed neither creative nor inspiring. Guess I’ll just have to pull some interesting facts out of the air to stimulate my class of forty-five, who will be expecting more than I might be able to deliver.

      I started to gather up my things in preparation for the class. The pages of my notes pitter-pattered through my printer, many jumping over the tray meant to hold them onto the floor. “Oh well,” I sighed. “I guess nothing will go ‘write’ today.” Just a little pun I thought about using in class to spice it up.

     I knelt down to retrieve the papers, when I heard a rap on my office door. “Yes, please come in.”

     The door squeaked, as it opened. Colleen, the English Department secretary, stuck her head in and inquired, “What are you doing on the floor. Don’t you have a class in a couple of minutes?”

     I grabbed the papers and stood up straight. “Yeah, I do. Nothing seems to be going my way today. Must be the rainy weather. What can I do for you?”

     “When I returned from lunch, I found an envelop on my desk addressed to you. It says, ‘PERSONAL.’”

     “Let me see it.” Colleen handed it to me. My name, Professor Ira Ansel, appeared in bold letters, written with a felt-tipped, black marking pen. I shook it to make sure it contained only a letter—no poison powders of any kind lurking within. Sensing nothing but paper, I got the letter opener out of my desk drawer and slid it under the envelope flap and flipped it up. Then I hesitated.

     Colleen stared at me. “Well, aren’t you going to take the letter out? If you’re not curious, I am,” she gasped.

     I removed the paper, just a plain white folded sheet. I unfolded it and read aloud, “My Dear Professor Ansel, it was a pleasure to listen to your excellent speech last Thursday night on how to write a creative essay. The points you made will help me in my future writing, since I may want to write a movie script someday. After your presentation, I felt it had been worthwhile coming out on such a stormy April evening. The short chat we had afterward inspired me. And I even found myself somewhat attracted to you, my dear professor. I know that might not be appropriate, but I do hope our paths cross again in the near future.”

     “Well, it sounds like you have an admirer, ‘my dear professor,’” Colleen said with just a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

     “I talked to a lot of students and some members of the community that evening after my presentation. I didn’t know most of them and nobody stands out. Just a blur of faces.”

     “But someone sure thinks you’re special. Is the letter signed?”

     “No. Just the words, ‘Remember April Showers,’ scrawled at the bottom of the note.”

     “Guess you must’ve had a weather girl in the audience who wanted to make certain you knew it rained in April. Oh, well, I’ve gotta be going. But you better keep me updated on your love life."

     “What love life?”

     “Oh, just a silly comment. You need to get to class. You’re already five minutes late.”

     She closed the door behind her and left me standing, wondering what the note meant. Since nothing came to mind, I grabbed my papers and hustled off to class.

     When I entered the classroom on the third floor of the building, one floor above my office, I noticed three men in dark blue pinstripe suits and light gray ties standing in the rear of the room. I placed my papers on my desk in front of the room and ambled toward the back to find out what these men were doing in my classroom. They must be in the wrong room, I thought.

     As I approached, the men just stared at me.

     “Hello, I’m Professor Ansel. Can I help you?”

     “My name is Hunter Adams,” the tallest of the men stated in a very rigid manner.

     I thought it weird he didn’t introduce the other two men. “Well, Mr. Adams, how can I be of service to you?”

     “I’m here about my daughter.”

     “Okay. Is she one of my students?”

     “No, she is not.”

     “Well, then, if she is not one of my students, how can I be of assistance to you?” He didn’t respond. “And, by the way, who are the other men with you?”

     “My attorneys.”

     “Your what? Why are you here?” I blurted.

     “It seems you may have behaved inappropriately with my daughter last Thursday night at the lecture you gave in town. She came home raving about how she had met the smartest, most marvelous man. She told me, he—you—made her feel very special. Professor, her comments worry me, as she just turned sixteen. She’s a minor, sir!”

     “Slow down Mr. Adams. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Your daughter may have been in the audience, but she never introduced herself to me. I just remember a sea of faces yelling at me and asking questions after my presentation. I did talk to some people individually, as time permitted. However, these conversations took place in the middle of the crowd. There were no improprieties on my part with anyone. I think you’re jumping to conclusions that are unwarranted.”

     “I don’t think so. She seemed enamored by you. Told me she sent you a note expressing her feelings.”

     “A note.”

     “Yes, a note saying she felt attracted to you.”

     “Well, I did receive a letter. And the writer did say she was attracted to me. But it wasn’t signed. It just ended with a comment about this month’s rainy weather. It didn’t make any sense to me.”

     “My daughter, April, signs her name to everything she writes.”

     “So your daughter’s name is April Adams?”

     “Well, it should be.”

     “Now what does that mean?”

     “April is an aspiring actress. As she has secured a few minor roles, I supported her request to change her name, because there already was a screen actress named April Adams.”

     “Oh, so what did she change it to?”

     “A name she believed nobody would have any trouble remembering—April Showers.” 

     I gulped, as this whole crazy ordeal began to make sense.

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.