The Lost Queen of Crocker County: A Novel

by Elizabeth Leiknes

  By now, the imagined Gene Kelly was no longer singing or dancing. He had gone fetal, left to die in my desert of shame. Mrs. Peterson gave me a sad, sorry look as she put away her sheet music, and an off-put Mr. Simon attempted host humor. “Well, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. That was ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ with, ironically, uh, no singin’.” He then added a sad and quiet “Just the robot.”

  And no rain, I thought.

  That’s when I knew what I had to do. I’d come here to give True City hope, but instead, I’d reminded them just how awful things were. I stood up, straightened my dress, and grabbed the microphone, but Mr. Simon did not entirely let it go.

  “Tough crowd,” I mumbled. “I get it.” I paused to muster up the strength it was going to take to do what came next. “Everyone is hot and tired and scared they won’t be able to take care of their families.” The only sound coming from the audience was Mr. Dearborn’s ever-present farmer’s lung cough, along with the collective din of disappointment.

  “Janie. For the final question of the day,” Mr. Simon said, saving me, “what…do you wish for?”

  World peace? A lifetime pass to the movies? Joey Darnell to notice me?

  Then, without any warning, without any sense at all, a smile crept onto my stupid, young, hopeful face. In the crowd, I saw Mrs. Lindsay, my fifth-grade teacher who’d given me a B on my Iowa history project—an Iowa-shaped plaque covered in hot-glued corn kernels—because I’d put Des Moines in the wrong spot. I saw Dr. James, who refused to remove my ear-of-corn birthmark when I brought him my whole piggy bank to do so. I saw Mr. Stephens—I’d detasseled his corn, walked his beans, cleaned his corncrib for way too much pay. And then there was Mom and Dad, along with everyone else, who measured distance with acres, hope with bushels.

  “I wish it would rain!”

  The words hung in the air for a moment, then swirled sadly through the crowd. Nobody moved. The damage had been done, too late to revise. My parents smiled in solidarity. Mrs. Davis blew me a Good try, darlin’ kiss. Mrs. Peterson readjusted herself on the piano bench to interrupt the awkward silence.

  When I looked at Charlotte, she knew what to do. She began passing out all of the umbrellas I’d been collecting for weeks. Everyone had parted with them easily, eager to get rid of things that reminded them of rain. Some umbrellas were borrowed; others were new, donated from Twila at Strickner’s Mercantile. Charlotte’s Catholics helped me get the rest. Originally, they were going to be distributed to the crowd for the finale, simple as a gesture of hope, but now I needed it to be so much more.

  “Go ahead,” I urged all of True City. “Open them up!”

  Seconds went by as I looked, row after row, at angry, umbrella-holding doubters refusing to budge.

  I unfurled mine, trembling, and raised it toward the sky. Then with a wink, Dad opened his first, followed by Mom, and there we were, the three of us, a trifecta of hope.

  Charlotte followed suit, along with a few others, but most refused to be duped by the con man, con woman, who stood before them.

  Mr. Simon cleared his throat into the microphone. “Well, yes…a little rain would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Believe so,” I said into the microphone. I leaned into the moment and winked at my dad.

  The audience began to leave, heads down; others squirmed in their seats, losing patience.

  “Believe so!”

  I thought about what was at stake: livelihoods, lives, hope itself, and wondered if I’d committed the sin any rational midwesterner would never commit—promising the impossible.

  For the moment, the audience allowed themselves to enjoy a cloud that had temporarily obscured the oppressive sun, and I prepared for failure.

  “Believe so,” I said under my breath one last time.

  I waited.

  When too much time had gone by, I gave the audience an apologetic smile, closed my umbrella, and turned to sit down.

  Halfway to my chair, I felt it. First on my right cheek. Then on my shoulder. Then two more dropped on my dress, turning the maize yellow to mustard brown as it soaked into the fabric, bled through to my skin.

  One by one, the citizens of True City stood up, arms outstretched, palms reaching toward the sky like little pairs of offerings, catching drops of rain. One by one, they unfurled their umbrellas. The lone cloud from earlier had company now. The sky turned dark gray, a thunderclap rumbled, then let out a sweet boom, prompting grown men and women to beam in disbelief.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Simon began, laughing, “I believe it’s raining.” Today, though, nobody ran for cover. Instead, we let it ruin our hair, our stoic midwestern attitudes.

  When I looked out at the crowd, I spotted Joey Darnell, all button-down, jeans, and boy muscles. People were in full, rain-induced commotion, bustling about with their multicolored umbrellas, but he was coming toward me. With a purpose. Why was he coming toward me? I looked behind me, waited for him to call out for Cheryl, Lori, Lisa—anyone but me—but then he spoke.

  “Hey, Janie.” His smile melted all the ligaments in my knees.

  I stared, but no words came out.

  “That was great.” He took a breath. “What you did.”

  My “thanks” came out more like a question than a statement.

  His smile morphed into a smirk. “You’re a horrible dancer, but you’re gutsy as hell. And the whole rain thing was pretty amazing… Maybe you could create some miracles with my allowance—”

  “Let’s do this quickly, before we’re all soaked,” Mr. Simon interrupted, calling Joey over to center stage. “Mr. Darnell here is going to reveal this year’s new Corn Queen.” All of us girls had sat down again, mascara starting to run, dresses damp with rainwater. Joey opened a sealed envelope and pulled out a card. Maybe the rain obscured my vision, but it seemed like he didn’t even look at the name on the card. He spoke into the microphone with confidence.

  “And True City’s Corn Queen for 1993 is…Janie Willow!”

  The crowd cheered, and all of the other girls except for Charlotte sported pursed, congratulatory smiles. I slowly stood as Joey placed a diagonal sash over my gown and a crown of metal corn husks on my head.

  When he leaned in to readjust my crown, he whispered, “Meet me at the corn maze tonight. Nine o’clock. Don’t bring the rain this time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On my third day back in True City, I am getting what I deserve, but I need to get on with the business of unlikely miracles. I am alone on the road I travel, except for the white, porched farmhouses predictably placed every ten acres. It is midmorning, which means each house smells of bacon, pancakes, probably over-easy eggs—the second breakfast of the day for folks whose chores begin when the sky is still black as night.

  But these are not the farmhouses I remember from my childhood. Not exactly. Back then, they seemed old, outdated, without individuality. Now, with eighteen years in between, they suddenly seem not old, but quaint. Not faceless, but teeming with life. Sleepy-eyed children in footy pajamas. Fathers with calloused hands, drinking from coffee cups stained with years of early mornings. Mothers wearing cardigans over their nightgowns.

  An ache forms somewhere deep inside me, in the place where one misses those who have gone away and memories that will never repeat. I imagine myself in each little farmhouse, walking around in each kitchen, taking care of people. I imagine having a purpose.

  Midway to the hospital, I open the car windows until the air rushes over me with a gust strong enough to remind me that I’m alive, but someone else is barely hanging on. I take the rich Iowa air deep into my lungs—air I’d recently discovered is capable of strange things, powerful things—and imagine breathing it into Bliss as a life force.

  “Make it right,” I say out loud to nobody and everybody. Dad. Charlotte. Connor. Janelle.

  Bliss.


  When I arrive at the hospital as Kate Snelling, the nurses wave me past the front desk this time like I’m an old friend. Guilt and shame quietly twist and wrench in my gut as I walk toward Bliss’s room and try to play the part of a decent human being.

  When I enter the room, I put down my bag, pull up a chair next to the bed, and get to work.

  “Good morning, Bliss.”

  I watch her breathe, and then after a few seconds, we synchronize. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. This conversation goes on for five minutes, until I get up the courage to change the subject.

  “So how was your night?” I take my book out of my bag. “Quiet, huh?” I say, and lower my voice. “Well, that’s gonna change. One day soon I’ll say the right thing, that one perfect word, and out of nowhere you’ll answer and then…”

  I let the words trail off, wishing them safe travels to wherever Bliss is. I remember my own words. Sometimes it’s a word or phrase that stirs something in the cerebral cortex. I ponder possible phrases that could inspire a person to awaken from a coma. It’s Monday. Nope. We need to talk. Definitely not. It’s time for dinner. She’s probably not hungry.

  I stare at her beautiful face, wonder what her eyes look like. When I imagine what hope looks like there—how she looks at Harold Hill on stage, how she squints when the afternoon Iowa sun is too bright with promise, how she looks at her mother—the tears come. I swipe them away like they were never there. My crying will not inspire her. I need to think of something else for a minute. Get my crap together. Okay. What will Charlotte make for dinner tonight? Will Connor be going to The Music Man rehearsal afterward? How does Harold Hill make his willpower work, and how do I get Bliss to listen? What does it feel like when the impossible becomes possible?

  Answerless, I pull the blanket up around Bliss, but it is folded over in a perfect crease, unmoved from yesterday. Of course it is.

  “Well,” I say, shoving my guilt out of reach, and take Living in the Dark out of my bag. “Where were we?” I flip pages. “Oh, yeah. I’d just fallen in love,” I say, “with film.”

  Most people catalog their most treasured life events, commit them to memory based on their significance. In the scrapbook of their minds, they can thumb through some of their best moments—reaching that summit at sunrise, watching their newborn baby sleep. And I get it. This is what people do. It’s just not what I do. My brain’s Rolodex is filled with Gene Kelly dancing in the rain, birds assembling on monkey bars, and Rocky Balboa training for his life in the cold, early morning before a Philadelphia sunrise.

  This love affair with film began on a Tuesday morning in 1985 when my father had me watch Heaven Can Wait on VHS. I had no idea what happened to us after we died, so when Warren Beatty as Joe Pendleton showed me, I was relieved. It looked nice. A white, fluffy dream. But when he discovered that he wasn’t supposed to be there, that it was an angel’s mistake, I realized that our fate is sometimes out of our control. Life is merely possibility and fallout. From that day on, I kept my head about me. I looked to movies to remind me of the important things, like how we could all go at any time. I started memorizing my parents’ faces—Dad’s freckles on his right cheek and Mom’s impossible cheekbones—in case there wasn’t a tomorrow.

  I place the book, facedown, in my lap, and stare at Bliss’s swollen face. I don’t want to remember her like this. I want to remember the vibrant girl I saw on the news, the one that had so much to look forward to. I am the hypocrite in the room, the one who as a child memorized her parents’ faces, yet never went home to see them when it mattered.

  I am not supposed to be here.

  “She can’t hear you, you know.”

  I don’t hear the big hospital door open or shut, but I feel the faithless words of a faithless man hang heavy in the air.

  I look up to see a man with pale, sad eyes look back at me. His shirt has been buttoned wrong, so it puckers in the middle; that, along with a series of long, slow blinks, announces the presence of a man who is in a state of complete exhaustion.

  I extend my hand, prepared to be someone else, but he walks past me, keeping his tired eyes fixed on Bliss. He runs his hands first through his unruly hair, then over his stubbly cheeks, and finally shoves them into his front jean pockets like they are good for nothing else. But then, as if he’s had a change of heart, he collapses in a chair and takes Bliss’s hand in his.

  His overall essence seems buried, sealed for self-preservation. My throat seizes up.

  He rescues me.

  “Rob Anderson,” he says when he finally turns to me. “This is my daughter. This is my Bliss.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  1993

  Charlotte was my alibi. I had never lied to my parents before, but the chance to be alone with Joey Darnell in a moonlit corn maze trumped my midwestern guilt. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but parents of a teenage girl couldn’t possibly get behind something so right.

  “Can I take the car? It’s the Browns’ annual hayride. Remember, they did it last year after the Corn Festival? Charlotte’s going too.”

  I held my breath, faked confidence. Somehow, my parents deemed bouncing around precariously in a hay-filled flatbed with flimsy railings—driven by the teenage need-for-speed Martin Brown—perfectly fine. I grabbed my Iowa Hawkeyes hoodie, got in the Aston Martin, turned left like I was headed to the Browns’ farm, then took the back way to the outskirts of town where the corn and Joey waited.

  My heart fluttered when I pulled up and saw his white, muddy Chevy pickup truck. I glanced in the rearview mirror, checked to see if my cherry lip gloss was on my teeth, then imagined how my face would look smiling at him as we talked, and if things went really well, as we laughed.

  The entrance to the corn maze was marked by two hay bales, makeshift benches for those who mastered the maze and had to wait for those who had gotten lost. A large sign made of two-by-fours announced the corn maze rules in bright-red paint.

  After yearly childhood trips to the corn maze, I’d committed the rules to memory.

  Rule #1: No smoking.

  Duh.

  Rule #2: No alcohol.

  I was already drunk thinking of Joey’s smile.

  When I crossed the threshold into the maze, I heard him. “Janie!” His voice rang out confident from somewhere in the center of the maze.

  Rule #3: Do not run in the maze.

  I ran, with abandon, toward his voice, still hanging in the autumn air.

  Rule #4: Please stay on the path.

  The straight and predictable man-made path knew nothing of young love, so I left it behind, veered right, bolted into the pure, unadulterated stalks that slapped me in the face as I ran.

  Rule #5: Dare to get lost.

  Too late. I was lost ever since last year in English class when Joey convinced Mrs. Johnston that Raising Arizona should be mandatory viewing in our curriculum. “Mrs. J., it’s one giant fable of Shakespearean proportions, an allegory, if you will, about a childless couple in love seeking the impossible,” he’d said, looking like a young and muscular Paul Newman in a tight, gray T-shirt. “Think pathos, think symbolism, the perfect companion to your Faulkner and O’Connor.” Mrs. Johnston’s eyes came to life, likely from the shock of a teenage boy using not only one but four literary terms she’d taught us, and then Joey sealed the deal with his killer smile. “It would be irresponsible, Mrs. J., not to expose us to cutting-edge popular culture rooted in classic storytelling… We’ve grown up in a cornfield, for God’s sake.”

  When he’d turned and winked at me, I tried not to react, but my body collapsed into a predictable rom-com state of weakness, so I gripped the seat of my sturdy desk chair to look more in control than I was. But I wasn’t. Not at all. I didn’t know if the wink proved that he knew I existed or if it was a simple, everyday thing that confident, beautiful people did, but I prayed the wink was for me. He was perfectio
n in the midst of mediocrity. All the other boys in my class were nice enough, corn-fed cute, solid and simple, but Joey watched movies, real films, not just Déjà Vu’s Friday night showing of whatever. Sometimes he wore a bow tie to a potluck. He read old books. He smelled like a cool rainstorm in a parched summer. He was a bewitching alien dropped from another world into my own personal cornfield. Joey Darnell was a Superman among mere mortals.

  “Hey,” I said breathlessly when I finally reached him, swiping bits of corn tassels from my hair. I willed myself to look casual, placing my hands in my front sweatshirt pocket, like I’d just happened to run into him here, in the corn maze, under a giant harvest moon larger than life. But when I thought about what it really was, our designated rendezvous point, like Marian Paroo meeting Harold Hill at the footbridge, their crossroads of love, I felt like I might float away—up up and away, above the corn, into the never-ending moonlit sky.

  His words tethered me. “You came.”

  I would’ve showed up if the planet was on the verge of destruction. “Nothing better to do.” I smiled.

  He walked toward me, and my body froze, but then he stretched out his hand, holding a bouquet of the saddest, most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen—three yellow mums, one beheaded, the other two wilted, on their last stem. He’d stuck three corn leaves in to try to revive the ensemble, but it’s hard to improve upon perfection.

  His hand grazed mine when he gave them to me, and a shiver shot straight to my toes. “I stole these from Mrs. Jackson’s garden on the way here.”

  I already knew that. She was his neighbor, and everyone in Crocker County knew Mrs. Jackson’s award-winning mums. A smile took over my face as some gravitational pull drew me closer to him. “Best in the county.”

  “Yes,” he said, now close enough to caress my cheek, “best in the county.” Moonlight glimmered off his blue eyes while we stood in our own spotlight, surrounded by our private walls of twelve-foot-high field corn. He reached inside his coat and handed me a VHS tape. “Terry at the video place said he’s sick of you renting it, so…I bought it for you.”