Three Memories of Mr. Halliday
by Patrick Malka
We met Mr. Halliday on the second day of grade 10.
Tall and broad with a surprisingly high voice, he greeted each of us at the door with a handshake and a good morning. He seemed confident, just shy of intimidating but when he spoke to the group, he shrank six inches, retreating into himself, into his own head.
After finishing his introduction to the course, Mr. Halliday projected a few review problems onto the screen and asked us to complete them in our notebooks. As we worked, he pulled a muffin out of his briefcase and broke half the top off, quickly crushing it into his mouth, stealing a moment to make up for a missed breakfast. As we worked, he suddenly coughed and inhaled quickly. I looked up, he was facing away from the class, his shoulders silently heaving. I looked around. Only I had noticed something was wrong. Then he took three long strides to the door and left the room. Then everyone was paying attention.
We stared at each other wondering what was going on, what we should do, if anything. It was perfectly quiet in the hallway other than a rhythmic thumping. A full minute passed. I stood and took a few tentative steps to the door when a loud cough and gasp broke the nervous silence of the classroom. I backed away and returned to my seat. A minute later, Mr. Halliday returned to the class. His brow sweaty, his face deeply flushed. His left eye now held a dense knot of broken blood vessels.
He walked over to his desk, put the muffin away and asked in a deeper, raspier voice, who would like to explain the first problem.
Tall and broad with a surprisingly high voice, he greeted each of us at the door with a handshake and a good morning. He seemed confident, just shy of intimidating but when he spoke to the group, he shrank six inches, retreating into himself, into his own head.
After finishing his introduction to the course, Mr. Halliday projected a few review problems onto the screen and asked us to complete them in our notebooks. As we worked, he pulled a muffin out of his briefcase and broke half the top off, quickly crushing it into his mouth, stealing a moment to make up for a missed breakfast. As we worked, he suddenly coughed and inhaled quickly. I looked up, he was facing away from the class, his shoulders silently heaving. I looked around. Only I had noticed something was wrong. Then he took three long strides to the door and left the room. Then everyone was paying attention.
We stared at each other wondering what was going on, what we should do, if anything. It was perfectly quiet in the hallway other than a rhythmic thumping. A full minute passed. I stood and took a few tentative steps to the door when a loud cough and gasp broke the nervous silence of the classroom. I backed away and returned to my seat. A minute later, Mr. Halliday returned to the class. His brow sweaty, his face deeply flushed. His left eye now held a dense knot of broken blood vessels.
He walked over to his desk, put the muffin away and asked in a deeper, raspier voice, who would like to explain the first problem.
Mr. Halliday walked in one morning in October with a bandage across his left temple, extending halfway across his forehead. His light-blue V-neck sweater-stained brown with dry blood. The usual white noise of chatter that preceded the start of class immediately died away at the sight of him. My friend Ronnie, who had a pathological inability to not say what was on his mind, shot his hand in the air, ready to ask the obvious question. Mr. Halliday ignored him and turned his back to the class and, while writing out the day's agenda on the board, said "some of you may know that I walk to work every day. Today, someone thought it was a good idea to throw a glass bottle at my head from a moving car." He turned back around to face us, walked over to his backpack, removed the broken iced tea bottle from its side pocket and placed it on his desk.
"Sir, aren't you worried you might have a concussion?" Ronnie said, this time without waiting to be called on.
"Yes, but that can wait. We'll be reviewing how to graph the quadratic equation today so please take out your notes." When no one made a move for their books, he said "is there something wrong?"
I asked "Mr. Halliday, do you know who did it? I mean, this is assault, right?"
"Yes," he said.
"Yes, you know who did it, or yes, it's assault?"
"Yes," he said.
As far as any of us could remember, he never spoke to anyone about it ever again. But the broken bottle remained on his desk until the holiday break.
"Sir, aren't you worried you might have a concussion?" Ronnie said, this time without waiting to be called on.
"Yes, but that can wait. We'll be reviewing how to graph the quadratic equation today so please take out your notes." When no one made a move for their books, he said "is there something wrong?"
I asked "Mr. Halliday, do you know who did it? I mean, this is assault, right?"
"Yes," he said.
"Yes, you know who did it, or yes, it's assault?"
"Yes," he said.
As far as any of us could remember, he never spoke to anyone about it ever again. But the broken bottle remained on his desk until the holiday break.
Ronnie, Mary, David, and I were talking.
"Halliday wouldn't believe in ghosts,” I said.
"What makes you so sure?" said the voice over my shoulder.
I didn't realize he had been listening to our conversation.
"I'm sorry Mr. Halliday, I didn't mean to speculate. We were just talking. It doesn't seem like something you'd be into."
"So, you've decided that not only do I not believe in ghosts but apparently, I'm also not into them?"
I looked around at the group I was talking to, every one of them now engrossed in some other tasks. Jerks.
"Can you come to my desk for a moment?"
The laughs were barely contained around me.
Mr. Halliday sat in his creaky chair and waited for me to reach the desk. When I did, he sat up and leaned forward.
"I want you to try to keep a straight face, okay? This story is for you. Your friends let you hang out to dry there so I don't think they should get to hear it. Nod if you agree."
I nodded.
"Officially, you're right, I'm not into ghosts and I don't believe in them."
He paused. Stared at me.
"My daughter is a couple years younger than you. Her mother, my wife, died when she was just three so it's just Jordi and me."
He saw my eyes widen, wordlessly asking if he should be saying these things out loud. Saying these things to me. Hard enough to imagine teachers have lives outside of school, it’s even harder to image those lives have held any amount of relatable pain. Mr. Halliday, in particular, never spoke like this.
"How she died is not important. That part is not for you. Jordi is fourteen and already as tall as her mother. Spitting image. One night, a few years ago, Jordi came to see me in the middle of the night, backlit at my bedroom door. She said she had a weird dream. I asked if she needed company to get back to sleep and she said no. So, I put my head back down and heard her walk back to her room. But I felt like someone was there. I looked back and there was Jordi, backlit at my door. I asked again, are you sure you don't want some company? All I heard was a whispered 'no, not yet' and I'll tell you, I know a short, whispered sentence is not much to go on, but that wasn't Jordi. It was familiar but not Jordi. I sat straight up and found myself alone in my room. I slept on my daughter's floor that night. I have yet to tell her why I needed to."
I said nothing. He leaned back in his chair.
"When you go back to your friends, it's up to you but I would tell them I gave you a boring speech about respect and left it at a warning."
"Halliday wouldn't believe in ghosts,” I said.
"What makes you so sure?" said the voice over my shoulder.
I didn't realize he had been listening to our conversation.
"I'm sorry Mr. Halliday, I didn't mean to speculate. We were just talking. It doesn't seem like something you'd be into."
"So, you've decided that not only do I not believe in ghosts but apparently, I'm also not into them?"
I looked around at the group I was talking to, every one of them now engrossed in some other tasks. Jerks.
"Can you come to my desk for a moment?"
The laughs were barely contained around me.
Mr. Halliday sat in his creaky chair and waited for me to reach the desk. When I did, he sat up and leaned forward.
"I want you to try to keep a straight face, okay? This story is for you. Your friends let you hang out to dry there so I don't think they should get to hear it. Nod if you agree."
I nodded.
"Officially, you're right, I'm not into ghosts and I don't believe in them."
He paused. Stared at me.
"My daughter is a couple years younger than you. Her mother, my wife, died when she was just three so it's just Jordi and me."
He saw my eyes widen, wordlessly asking if he should be saying these things out loud. Saying these things to me. Hard enough to imagine teachers have lives outside of school, it’s even harder to image those lives have held any amount of relatable pain. Mr. Halliday, in particular, never spoke like this.
"How she died is not important. That part is not for you. Jordi is fourteen and already as tall as her mother. Spitting image. One night, a few years ago, Jordi came to see me in the middle of the night, backlit at my bedroom door. She said she had a weird dream. I asked if she needed company to get back to sleep and she said no. So, I put my head back down and heard her walk back to her room. But I felt like someone was there. I looked back and there was Jordi, backlit at my door. I asked again, are you sure you don't want some company? All I heard was a whispered 'no, not yet' and I'll tell you, I know a short, whispered sentence is not much to go on, but that wasn't Jordi. It was familiar but not Jordi. I sat straight up and found myself alone in my room. I slept on my daughter's floor that night. I have yet to tell her why I needed to."
I said nothing. He leaned back in his chair.
"When you go back to your friends, it's up to you but I would tell them I gave you a boring speech about respect and left it at a warning."
It's been thirty-two years since I sat in Mr. Halliday's math class.
Reading his obituary, none of it sounds right, though I know he was a fine teacher and father.
All the time spent in his class, perfect attendance, and I only have these three memories of him, none of which involve math.
It doesn’t feel like I should remember him.
But I do.
Reading his obituary, none of it sounds right, though I know he was a fine teacher and father.
All the time spent in his class, perfect attendance, and I only have these three memories of him, none of which involve math.
It doesn’t feel like I should remember him.
But I do.
Patrick Malka (he/him) is a high school science teacher from Montreal, Quebec. His recent flash fiction can be found in Coffin Bell and Sky Island Journal, as well as on the Crystal Lake publishing Patreon page. He can be found online on Twitter @PatrickMalka.