Nothing but Air
The slamming of the front door signaled My Love's departure from The Montana to Gertrude's apartment.
I sigh heavily and slowly get up and set back up the unicorns that had fallen over because of my thoughtlessness earlier. As I do so, my eyes catch a glimpse of a particular photo. It is a rare photo of my now thirteen-year-old nephew, Frederick and me.
I gather the picture in my hands and go and sit by the fire for I have caught a chill. I study the picture closer and with more interest. It is from a few years back when he came to Seattle and had, (no thanks to Frasier-long story), won the National Spelling Bee. In the picture Frederick is "awarding" me his trophy. Before long, the picture becomes blurred in my trembling hands as I become misty-eyed and lost in a memory. A memory, a point in time that I never shared with anyone, for it was too painful. Even with Frederick, I shamefully lied, just to deny and spare the hurt feelings from resurfacing.
"Niles Crane…" the voice boomed and summoned me.
I was a small boned nine-year-old boy, with superior language skills and with a 156 IQ. I unsteadily made my way up to the microphone.
I looked down at my parents and Frasier, five years my senior, in the front row. By my own admission, I was obsessed with one thing and one thing only (ever since I was six) to win the National Spelling Bee (something Frasier had never done).
Dad, who joked and boasted (though not into sports, I still recognized and understood a sports reference when I heard one), with all the other fathers at the bee, that "some people might think he (meaning me) wasn't ready, that it was a mistake to bring me up to The Show right out of elementary school, but I made it." And now, not only did I make it, I've made it up to the very last word.
Mother on the other hand bragged to all the other mothers that even as good a speller that Frasier was, it couldn't, in mother's words "compare to Niles'". But in her own private moments with me, she stressed the importance of winning and its direct correlation to me receiving both her approval and her love.
She reminded me, again, that morning before the final round in the hotel room while combing my hair.
"Now listen to me Niles. I will not, and better not, hear you use the excuse that you lost because you are 'only nine' or because you were the 'youngest ever to compete in the National Bee'. Do you understand me?"
"Yes ma'am."
"On a more personal note my approval and love for you, I'm not going to lie to you and say "it doesn't matter if you win or lose"…cause you are old enough to know by now that it does."
Translation, I had better win, if I wanted her approval and love.
Frasier, who in later years would explain when retelling the tale to Frederick, that I "didn't even try to spell it…" And that I "…just stood there for a moment, then turned and walked off the stage." Of course Dad had to add "he was immediately disqualified and he never competed again."
And now that William Karek from Akron and that Peterson girl from Omaha had been eliminated (who were my toughest competitors all weekend), the moment was now within my grasp. All I had to do was spell this last word correctly and I would be National Champion, and I would also capture something much more coveted and elusive, my mother's conditional (the only kind she gave) love.
I look down at my mother and meet with her promising eyes that will fulfill a lifelong (even if it was only nine years at that point in my young life) dream. Contingent on me spelling this word correctly of course.
Ironic. The word has got to be the cruelest word there is.
My heart skipped irregularly. I wasn't sure whether to dismiss it as nerves or my congenital heart condition, or a mixture of both.
My palms were as sweaty as the sweat that had now beaded and gathered atop my forehead and rolled down my cheeks. Mixed with it, but undetectable and unbeknownst to others were my tears, my shame. My shame in knowing I was going to fail once again and not get my prize.
Make that the second cruelest.
"Niles Crane, your word is… contingent."
Contingent.
As in conditional.
As in the story of my life.
With arms spread open wide, and sobbing, I run towards Mother, desperately seeking her reaffirmation and hoping she has reconsidered her ultimatum. Upon reaching her, the enormous weight of the stress of the past few days takes its toll on me and my knees buckled and I collapsed at her feet. Hoping to be recharged by a hug, I instead get her stern reminder.
"I'm disappointed in you, you failed Niles. You know what that means…"
"But, I'm tried…" I mumble through my tears.
In a desperate move, I try and scoop her up instead. But she walks away, leaving me to catch nothing but air.
To be continued…