My mother is British. Growing up, my brother and I learned about Boxing Day—the day after Christmas when the fun stuff happened in Britain. And we learned about November 5th, the day after my father’s birthday, the day that intrigued me the most: Guy Fawkes Day. Guy Fawkes was a man, my mother explained, who had tried long ago to blow up the British Houses of Parliament. He had placed kegs of gunpowder in the basement of Parliament but had been caught before he could detonate them. Whether the story is historically accurate or even true is irrelevant; I took it as the fascinating truth.

I picture Guy Fawkes in my mind: a man in a 19th Century suit, a big, handle-bar mustache that stretched down his chin, and hair slicked with grease and parted down the middle. I saw him sneaking the kegs to a huge Victorian house (my 6 year-old mind took literally the phrase "Houses of Parliament") and leaving the cartoon-like barrels in the basement. The long fuse to the keg zigged itself out of the basement storm shutter doors. Just as Guy Fawkes lit the fuse, I saw the bobbies run in from the sides, stomping out the fuse and arresting Guy Fawkes. November 5th. A whole day to remember Guy Fawkes.

Around the same time I heard the wonderful Guy Fawkes story, I got a new teddy bear, an infant-sized tan stuffed bear with sad eyes and a little red velvet tongue perpetually stuck out. He was a sweet bear. I slept with him every night but couldn’t think of a name.

One day, I went shopping with my mother. On the way out of the drug store, there was a little purple remnant. I picked it up. It was a heart—a small purplish-blue velvet cut in the shape of a miniature heart. It was smaller than the palm of my six year-old hand. And it was the perfect size for my bear.

"Mommy?," I asked.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Could you sew this onto my bear?"

"Why—I guess so. Why do you want it on him?"

"Because it’s perfect. He doesn’t have a heart and he needs one. Could you sew it on there? Please?"

"Okay, sweetie. When we get home."

When we got home, I insisted that she sew the heart on the right side of the bear, the side opposite a human heart. Looking at him, his heart was a mirror image of where my heart lay. My mom did an excellent job sewing the heart on. The heart is still on the bear today.

"Thank you, Mommy! Thank you so much."

My mom smiled at me, a look of wonder in her eyes. She had no idea why her son would want a heart on his teddy bear. But even then, she encouraged me to do things she didn’t always understand.

"Can I name him Peterbear?," I asked.

"Peterbear?"

"Can I name him after me? Or do I have to find another name?"

She looked more deeply puzzled now. Name a teddy bear after yourself?

She shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing says you can’t name him Peterbear." She reached for the bear and I gave it to her willingly. She held him under his bear armpits, looked him in his button eyes, inspected him from head to paw.

"Peterbear it is. And such a lovely heart he has, too."

"Thanks, Mommy. Thank you for sewing on his heart. Peterbear. Can I have him back now?"

She handed me the bear and I took him outside to play.

* * *

Later that summer, the Trial of Peterbear began. It was a hot summer, cooler outdoors than inside our house. And one day, as I created adventures for Peterbear, I decided he must go on trial. They had nabbed the wrong man, you see; Peterbear—not Guy Fawkes—was to blame for the gunpowdering of Parliament.

I began one day by bringing out the props for the trial: my father’s old manual Underwood typewriter, sheets of browned paper from his newspaper office, a coil of rope, and the defendant himself—Peterbear. The criminal was tried on the patio bench and table in front of our house underneath a huge pitusporum tree. In these summer months, the tree smelled sweetly enough to draw thousands of honey bees. As I tried Peterbear, the tree itself seemed to hum with the life of the bees which never once stung us.

"Hear, Yea! Hear, Yea! This trial will now come to order." I banged a rock against the wooden table as my gavel. I played all the parts in the trial except for the accused. Peterbear played his role stoically.

"We are here today for the trial of Peterbear, accused of trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament. He says he didn’t do it. But we know better." The audience gasped at the bluntness of the prosecutor’s accusation.

"Now, Mr. Peterbear: Do you swear to tell the truth and only the truth, no matter what?" Peterbear put his paw on the phone book/bible. My voice dropped an octave. "I do," Peterbear swore seriously.

"So, Mr. Bear: What were you doing on November 5th, the day the bobbies found the gunpowder in the basement of the Houses of Parliament?"

"I was sitting on Peter’s bed, waiting for him to get home." His voice was slow, steady, drawling.

"Ha! A likely story! Do you have any witnesses?"

"Boomsalot was there," Peterbear said. Boomsalot was my brother’s favorite bear.

"Boomsalot is a teddy bear. He can’t talk. Do you really expect us to believe that?"

"Well . . . I . . ."

"Just answer the question, please, Peterbear," the judge said.

"And if you were—as you said—on Peter’s bed all day, how is it that you came to have gunpowder on your hands?"

"I don’t know," Peterbear said woefully.

"You don’t know. YOU DON’T KNOW. I think it was because you helped pack those barrels of gunpowder."

The crowd again gasped at the gunpowder revelation—a fact that had previously not been known by the general public.

"Court’s adjourned until tomorrow," the judge commanded. There was no way he was getting order in the court today.

This ended the first day’s court battle. It was then my job to write the story for the day’s paper. I walked over to the Underwood and typed. My hunt-and-peck lasted twice as long as the day’s trial itself.

NEWSFlaSH

The trail trial of Peterbear started today. They say that Peterbear is acused of trying to blow up the houses of parlament but he didnt do it because they cot caugt him 1st. He says he didnt do it but hes lieing.

Today Peterbear says he was sitting on Peters bed all day waiting for him to come home but the juge said that he had gunpouder on his paws. Peterbear said no he didnt have gunpouder on his paws.

THE END

Day Two was the prosecution’s day to shine.

PeteRBEARS TRIAL DAY 2

Today a bunch of peop witneses said that they saw Peterbear putting gunpouder in the barels. Boomsalot came to the stand but hes a teddybear and cant talk! so p ) Peterbear had noone to say that he was were he said he was cause hes lieging lieing. Bearfoot and Padington both saw Peterbear. The jury left to go think about it.

THE END

On the third day—the final day of the trial—Peterbear met his fate.

"Do you people on the jury think Peterbear is guilty of innocent?," the judge asked.

"Guilty," said the forewoman, an elderly, kindly woman who really like Peterbear but could tell that the little bear was lying. "Guilty," said the gruff man with the gruff voice who worked on the firetruck. "Guilty," said the young woman, a school teacher by trade, who had been the last to vote. Guilty, down the line. All 12 said, "Guilty." It was an open-and-shut case. Anyone—even Boomsalot—could have seen that.

"Peterbear," I said. I looked into his emotionless eyes—so cool, so calculating. "You are sentenced to death." No emotion, still. "You are to be hung immediately!" Roars of fear and excitement from the crowd. Peterbear sat there still, tongue hanging, heart exposed. Guilty.

I took the rope and solemnly walked to Peterbear. I loved my bear and was very sad that he had been found guilty. I didn’t want him to die. But Justice must be served.

I tied a knot around his neck. I couldn’t make a noose but this would work just fine. I took the other end of the rope and threw it around the lowest branch of the tree. I got it around on the fourth try. I slowly pulled the loose end of the rope. The slack tightened. Peterbear began to rise from his chair, his legs kicking the bench. He rose, levitated. He stoically strangled, not making any noises except an occasional choke. He rose and rose closer to the branch. When his head hung, lifeless, a foot from the tree, I tied the rope off. Peterbear sat hanging in the pitusporum, convicted of conspiring to blow up the Houses of Parliament. His purple heart shone as the bees droned and the sweet smell of the tree blossoms filled the air.