by Landon Beach
Stansie waited, and he started up again.
“They were going to settle down in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Roland was a huge Packers fan—always had a Packers hat on while he drove the truck.”
“When we get settled, we should go see them,” Stansie said.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Sounds like good people.”
“They are. With the exception of scotch and Miller High Life, I was clean for my entire time in Iowa.”
“And now you don’t need those anymore, do you?”
Conrad exhaled and rubbed his hands together. “I still miss alcohol, all day every day. Remember, you’re talking to a guy who, when it got really bad, used to celebrate sunrise and sunset with booze. Then, I moved on to days of the week. ‘Wahoo! It’s fuckin’ Tuesday!’ and stupid shit like that.” He paused. “I just know now that I can’t have it. Not even a sip.”
“Maybe we should live in Green Bay.”
“You wanna freeze your ass off?”
“C’mon, I’m from Michigan, and so are you.”
“Well, there’s Michigan freezin’ your ass off, and then there’s Green Bay freezin’ your ass off. And I’ll take the former anytime.”
“Okay, what about Florida then?”
“Too hot. We’d spend half of our money on these,” he said, lifting up his Evian water bottle.”
“Okay, where then?”
“I haven’t finished my Iowa story yet.”
“I didn’t think there was any more. You left after two months and headed back to Michigan, right?”
He looked across the marsh. “No, I stayed in Iowa…” his voice trailed off, “for almost three years.”
“What?” she asked. “Where? I mean, how?”
He thought her tone had now escalated past ‘Tell me more’ to ‘I have to know what happened. Right. Now.’ Tears started to well up in his eyes, and the marsh’s horizon started to resemble a corn field…and then a city…and then a building.
I don’t know if I can do this.
She touched his face with her delicate hand. “Please, tell me the rest.”
What will she think of me? He turned toward her, and she gave him a look that inspired him to risk because it was safe to do so with her; it had been since they had met. He wiped his eyes. “Okay, I’ll tell you.”
22
Iowa City, Iowa
September 2017 . . .
Conrad Cranston, better known as Mr. C. to the children with cancer at The University of Iowa’s Stead Family Children’s Hospital, walked into the level eleven classroom and saw his reason for living. At one of the kidney-shaped tables was a five-year-old patient named Marcy Hart. As he put his portfolio on the tabletop and sat down, he thought that she looked smaller today, less upright. They hugged. My God, there’s nothing to her. She’s lost weight again. Her black Iowa Hawkeyes knit cap almost slid down over her eyes. Underneath the cap, he knew there was no hair at all, but he admired the girl’s loyalty and devotion to her beloved Hawkeyes. “You don’t get it, Mr. C. In Iowa, we all love our Hawkeyes.” Her mother sat in a powder-blue-colored lounge chair nearby but out of hearing range to give Conrad and Marcy the privacy that the sweet but assertive little kindergartener demanded. Conrad grinned at the mother, and she gave a weak smile back. He thought he saw tears, but she looked down at her phone before he could confirm it. He had been Marcy’s art teacher for two months now and knew that this time of the day was her favorite because she only got to have art every Friday when she and her parents traveled to the hospital for a round of treatment. He’d last seen her two weeks ago.
Back at Iowa 80, Priscilla had hooked him up with her laptop, and he had applied for a teaching license in K-12 art. Because of his distinguished undergraduate, graduate, and doctoral work in history, education, and a minor in art, he had miraculously qualified for a temporary certificate. Then, he had seen that the University of Iowa was located in Iowa City, only around forty more miles down Interstate 80. Not ready to return to Michigan, he had decided to give the academic game one last try. He’d rent a place, use some of his money to get a cheap laptop, and then make an appointment to meet with the History Department Chair. Roland had given him a lift, and he had rented an apartment in the plentiful sector of cheap student housing. Before Priscilla had driven off, she had helped him search for a job. There was a posting for an art teacher at the Stead Family Children’s Hospital, and when he applied, he had found that his charm, easygoing manner with children, and temporary certificate were enough to get him to the final interview, where he taught a lesson with a group of young children who had cancer, while the staff watched. The kids loved him, and he won everyone over. The provisional teaching certificate was never checked to see if it had become a professional educator’s license. He could draw, teach, and, most importantly, when the children saw Mr. C., their days got a little brighter. The parents also helped solidify his employment with their glowing reviews and positive word of mouth passed along to the hospital administrator in charge of the education program. He eventually moved into a nicer apartment away from campus, hosted Roland and Priscilla a few times, and was now dating a nurse named Tiffany who worked on his floor. He was sober, earning a good paycheck, dating someone who was going places in life, and helping kids endure something unimaginable. He was focused. Sometimes going to work, he laughed to himself about how it had all worked out so well for him. But he figured that life was a game of balance. With a lengthy record of self-sabotages behind him, he decided that it was time to hit back, whatever that meant. Now and again, he would think about the pain he had caused his family—especially Brad and Heidi because of the hike—but he was not ready to contact them. No, he needed a few more years to solidify his position, and then he would come home, apologize, and show them that he had turned things around. Then, he’d offer to hike the Appalachian Trail with Brad again and pay for the entire thing. As of right now, because of living a frugal and spartan existence since leaving Iowa 80, he had twenty-two thousand dollars saved up. After the hike, he would come back and live the rest of his days in Iowa City, perhaps marrying Tiffany, and then retire, going to Hawkeye sporting events and reading every book in the campus library—or maybe just re-reading Proust’s In Search of Lost Time as many times as he could. For these and other reasons, Conrad Cranston never visited the University of Iowa’s History Department Chair.
“And how are we today, young lady?” he said, untying the strings of his portfolio.
“Just fine, Mr. C.”
He opened the portfolio and removed a sleeve of markers and white drawing paper. “Got a special assignment for us to work on.”
After placing a piece of paper and a light blue marker in front of her, he said, “Any guesses?”
She twitched her nose and studied the marker. “Something fun?”
He smiled. “Have I ever told you what a good guesser you are?”
“No, Coach.”
She had always alternated between calling him Mr. C. and Coach. His method was to give kids two options, which allowed for choice but also kept it simple. Every kid picked one and stayed with it, but not Marcy Hart. Sweet little Miss Independent used them interchangeably.
“Well...” he said, pausing to try and make eye contact with Marcy’s mom. She was still zoned into her phone. “Someone told me that you got to see a pretty good movie this past weekend.”
Her head lifted, and her eyes sparkled as if there was no hospital, no cancer, no problems in the world. “I did! I saw Frozen with mommy and daddy!”
“Guess who else saw it?” he said mischievously.
“Um...Mr. C!” she yelled, pointing at his chest.
Marcy’s mother looked up from her phone, saw that there was nothing wrong, and returned her eyes to the screen.
“Yes, ma’am, I did,” said Conrad. “So, you know what we’re going to draw today? Anna and Elsa!”
“Oooh, oooh, can we make Elsa’s snow castle too?”
Conrad pu
lled out a purple marker. “You bet we can. How about that tiny funny snowman too?”
“You mean Olaf, Coach?”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s the one.”
An hour later, Conrad had completed his drawings, and Marcy had her versions proudly displayed across the desk.
“Look at those,” her mother said, standing behind her.
“It’s just like the movie, mommy.”
Marcy’s mother started to cry. Something was different. Had they received bad news? Conrad reacted quickly. “Here, kiddo,” he said, passing her one of his drawings. “Could you help color in the spots I missed for a minute?”
“Sure,” she said and grabbed a handful of markers.
“I’ll be right back. Gonna talk to your mom for a minute.”
She had already started coloring and said, “Okay, Coach.”
Mrs. Hart stood by one of the large windows that overlooked The University of Iowa’s campus. She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue as Conrad arrived.
“Hi, Ashley,” he said.
She turned toward him, eyes now puffy, and some of the makeup that had been hiding her wrinkles was gone. It was weird to notice, but he could tell that she had aged beyond what was apparent in her facial expressions. The way she moved was slower, and her immaculate way of dressing in expensive clothes two months ago had become jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. “Conrad, they’re giving her a month, maybe less.”
His heart sank, and the inside of his mouth became like cotton. Then, his eyes started to get glossy, and, for a moment, he pondered taking the tears that were about to start dropping and putting them on his lips to make swallowing easier. “I thought—” His words trailed off because he had not thought about Marcy’s condition. He had decided to not keep abreast of his patients’ up-to-the-minute conditions, reasoning that if he knew, it would be too much for him to handle and make him a less effective art teacher. It had served him well for the past few years, but now, in this instance, he felt shallow—a fraud.
“After last month, we had hope,” she said, “but she hasn’t turned the corner. We got the news earlier this morning.”
A tear bubbled on his right eye and then released. “I’m sorry. She’s an incredible kid.” He wiped his eye, but it was no use—they were coming too fast.
“My husband and I thought about taking her home after the news, but her class with you is one of the highlights of every visit. We couldn’t take that away from her.”
Conrad nodded, sniffling. “So, this will be it, huh?”
She rubbed his arm. “No, we’ve been invited to stay for the football game tomorrow night. As you know, one floor above us is the rooftop, and at the west end is the press box where families can view the home Hawkeye football games. We usually never stay for the game, but since Marcy has never seen a live game and this will be our last visit to the hospital, we’ve been invited to sit up there and watch the game.” She wiped more tears from her face then handed Conrad a tissue. “We’d like you to be our guest in the press box with us tomorrow night.”
His eyes had wandered back to the table. Marcy was bent over a drawing, concentrating, her little arm moving back and forth. “Where is Chad?”
She barely got out, “Downstairs, arranging hospice care for Marcy. We’re going to try and make her as comfortable as we can at home.”
He had a date with Tiffany planned, but there was no indecision in him. “I’ll be there. What time?”
“Game starts at 7:30.”
He motioned to Marcy. “Does she know?”
“About the game? Yes. About the news this morning? No.”
“Does she know that you’ve invited me to the game?”
“I thought I would let you tell her.”
“Okay.”
They hugged.
“I’ll wrap up the session,” he said.
She nodded and then started tapping her fingers on the screen of her phone.
He would need to be strong, comforting, but not give anything away. Stay with routine. Routine is your ally. Routine gets you through. He gathered himself and walked over to Marcy.
“Got your picture colored, Mr. C.,” she said with a wide smile that exposed her small mouth crowded with tiny white teeth.
“That you did,” he said, sitting down next to her.
She slid the picture over to him. Elsa now had on a half-pink, half-red dress. “This is some of your best work, kiddo.”
“Want me to do another one?” she asked.
“Well, I think our time is about up,” he said.
She looked down at the table, the Hawkeyes cap starting to slide over her eyebrows. He nudged the cap back up her forehead.
“You know what, though? Your mom and I were talking about the big game tomorrow night, and guess what?” he said as joyfully as possible.
She titled her head up toward his. “What?”
“I have been invited to watch the game with you and your family.”
Her eyes sparkled again. “Really?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. We’ll get to cheer your Hawkeyes on together.”
“Yippee!” she yelled. Then, she looked at him, serious now. “But aren’t they your Hawkeyes too?”
“Well, I’m from Michi...of course they are, ma’am. I’ll be wearing my Hawkeye shirt tomorrow night.”
She hugged him, and his eyes started to water again.
Hold it together, Conrad. Just a few more minutes.
Marcy’s mother arrived at the table. “Time to go, sweetie. From your shout, I am guessing that you know that Mr. C. is going to watch the game with us tomorrow night?”
“Yes. I’m so excited.”
Marcy rose from the table. Conrad pretended to be busy packing up. The truth was, he was just shuffling papers and markers around in no coherent way.
“See you tomorrow night, Coach,” she said.
“Go Hawkeyes.”
They left, and seeing that no one else was around, he broke down and sobbed at the desk.
A few hours later, he exited the hospital and began to walk home. His thoughts were on Marcy and her family and the impending loss they would soon experience. He had never lost a student yet, at least none that he had known of. When they stopped coming, he just assumed that they had been cured. Now, he realized how stupid that sounded. Marcy’s mother was the first to ever tell him that he would be losing a student—forever.
He began crossing a street...and almost got hit by a car. The sidewalk appeared fuzzy, and the lights above each store on the strip were like a blur of the entire light spectrum. He leaned against the window of a store for a moment, trying to slow his breathing. He couldn’t. The pressure was building. Now, he felt the weight of his other students who had not made it. Which ones were they? The situation was too much to handle.
The door to the store swung open, and he heard the sound of glass bottles clinking as a customer exited and walked down the street. Then, his vision came back, and another customer opened the door, holding a black, unmarked bag. He looked up at the sign above his head. Norman’s Party Store.
His heart began to pick up pace, like a track athlete gaining speed during the final one hundred meters of a race. Tiffany would not be home tonight. He straightened his wobbly legs, and they began to move down the sidewalk, but his mind pulled them into the store.
The next evening, Marcy Hart and her family would witness, perhaps, the greatest tradition in all of sports. At the end of the first quarter, the packed crowd and both teams inside historic Kinnick Stadium turned in unison and waved up at the children and their families in the press box section of The University of Iowa’s Stead Family Children’s Hospital. From that point forward, it would be known as the ‘Iowa Wave.’
Conrad Cranston never saw it. His previous night had consisted of watching almost a fifth of Jack Daniels disappear from the bottle and travel down his throat followed by the smoking of a joint with his neighbor, Irwin, a sociology professor whose favorite phrase
was, ‘America is a lie.’ The first time they met, Irwin had told Conrad his view of what a true utopian society was and how the United States didn’t have a chance in hell of ever becoming one. “I’ve already been dragged across the empirical floor of evidence, kicking and screaming, and forced to admit that kids who grow up with two parents are statistically better off than those who grow up with only one parent. I’m not caving on anything else!” Then, he had said that he sold weed and pills to his devotees, affectionately dubbed “Irwinians,” for medicinal purposes. A bit wary of someone who overshared during a first encounter, Conrad had remained polite when they saw each other but had kept his distance. “About time you took me up on my offer,” Irwin had said when Conrad showed up at his door. “I’ve told you a million times: We’re both adults, and smoking a joint in the privacy of my backyard isn’t going to hurt anyone. Ruh-laax. See you brought over a little Mr. Daniels for the occasion. Mind if I have a pull?”
Tiffany had found Conrad on the bathroom floor, vomit everywhere. He stayed there until Sunday morning and did not see Marcy again. Nor did he see the new mandatory drug tests coming that the hospital instituted two weeks later. He failed, lost his job, lost Tiffany, and, two months later, was back in Michigan and well on his way to spending all of the money he had saved up.
✽✽✽
Sterling State Park, Michigan
2 Days Ago . . .
Conrad wiped the corners of his eyes for about the tenth time and looked away from the marsh and back to Stansie. He said, “And that’s what happened in Iowa, which eventually led me to you.”
He had told the truth, which surprised him. There were a few places where he could have padded his position or drawn the attention away from his failure to try and start his listener’s empathy IV, which was his usual procedure when manipulating a situation. But today, with Stansie by his side, he broke free from the ingrained routine. The words, “Still want to be with me?” slipped out of his mouth, and he realized that he actually meant them. Normally, his follow-up question was posed to put the spotlight back on himself and elicit an emotional response, usually pity, from his listener. Right now, it wasn’t, and that made him feel good but also uneasy. For a man who had at many times over the course of his life wondered if he could get a doctoral degree in emotional hijacking instead of history, he felt the sorrow and relief that accompanied coming clean.