Matthew Crane

Matthew’s father lived two lives. The writer he wanted to be and the writer he was. The money came from Matthew’s mother. That, combined with being born a war too late, meant his father took it out on everyone important to him. Once Matthew figured out he was a better writer than his father it all came crashing down. For both of them. It could have gone either way but that’s how it went.

I met Matthew when we were four years old. We spent every minute on his farm. Fishing for bass and pike on the pond and camping in the back woods or down by the river. Hunting in the fall and playing hockey in the winter. Riding motorcycles and skiing behind the snowmobile. Double dates in the back of the pickup. Our days were filled with cicadas and our nights with crickets and tree frogs. No risk was too high or challenge unworthy as we played in the fantasies of youth and built the dreams of our future.

There was no better time in my life than the high days of summer on the farm with Matt.

Mr. Crane had converted one of the horse stalls into an office for privacy but I think it was because he liked his horses more than he liked people. To a ten year old it made perfect sense. Mr. Crane would walk the boundary of the farm with his black notebook in hand, stopping to reflect and write. When he was happy he was a superhero to us and larger than life. He would create elaborate treasure hunts with hidden texts and maps for us to decipher. As we got older he would challenge us with writing assignments. You were successful if he crumpled up the page and threw it at you. You weren’t if he threw the notebook at you. We were so eager to please that being afraid was of small consequence. Mrs. Crane was the mediator. Always there with a smile and quiet disposition. She was a mother to us all and I don’t remember her not being happy.

There was no worse time than when Mr. Crane was angry. Storming out of the house drunk, shotgun in hand, cursing the squirrels that lived in the attic, swinging passing shots into the walnut trees. Or, pistol in hand, when we would come home after a late night, yelling at us to get lost or he’d shoot us. He’d throw books at us simply because we were happy and he was not. He sent Matthew to five private schools in five years because all the teachers were imbeciles. A failed attempt at university wasn’t Matthew’s or his father’s fault. Everyone else was responsible. The worst thing, though, was the vicious, relentless, crushing consternation he piled on Matthew. No one was ever good enough for Mr. Crane and he made sure we knew it.

• • •

Telluride was to be a new beginning, far from the farm. Matthew worked the Double J Ranch as a guide and horse wrangler. He was a favourite of wealthy clients wanting to experience the wild places of Colorado and the romance of the west. I’d left later for Colorado with the idea of saving my friend.

It started well. Days in the mountains with the horses. Swinging flies to the cutthroats. Mountain bikes, dirt bikes and skiing. Money was tight but Mrs. Crane was there when we needed her. It lasted like that for two years but the better it felt the harder it got. I never saw it coming because my eyes were closed. I’d never been pushed. I never had to stand up and turn my face to the wind. Matthew had spent his whole life getting up after being cut down again and again. He was through with fighting and I was bleeding out simply because I was a coward.

The furniture was gone. The car was gone. Replaced with whatever drug took everything and turned it into nothing. I remember opening my eyes and looking out across the floor. Matthew was laying on the carpet, facing the corner of the room. He was pale and his skin pulled tightly along his spine. I could hear him breathing. A sliver of light from behind me ran down the floor, over Matthew, and up the wall behind him. Dust gently floated in and out of the darkness. That sliver of light was the only warm thing in the room. All I felt was hate. I got up, grabbed what was important to me, and left. It was as simple as that. I left him there and everything changed. I’d stopped the bleeding but I still didn’t know how to swim.

I told myself it started when we sold all the furniture and were living on secondhand mattresses on the floor. Then I wanted to believe it started after his dad died. Like an avalanche, quickly swallowing up everything in its path. Truth is, it was a slowly sinking boat with water seeping through the rotten floor boards, taking everyone down with it. At first I was bailing to keep Matthew from drowning and then it was me. Complacency keeping the hate from pulling me under. When Mr. Crane died it was more ironic than cathartic. By this point the boat had sunk and Matthew had been swallowed up by the black hole of anonymity his father had created. He’d succeeded in turning Matthew into a less angry, more damaged version of himself.

After Telluride Matthew spent his first three years in China teaching English to wealthy Chinese children. He managed to create and destroy four businesses at the same time. When he wasn’t doing that he was wasted. He met a Chinese woman, married, and had a little girl. He spent the next five years in a tug of war with his ex, using his daughter as leverage.

My brother called me in November to say that Matthew was coming home due to a medical emergency. None of us believed it. It was just another way for him to get a ride on someone else’s dime and beat the system.

When he got home he went straight into the hospital. He had an incurable glioblastoma in his brain. He wasn’t lying.

I’d grown comfortable being afraid and kept busy enough to avoid thinking about how much of a coward I was. But I’d never been as afraid as I was, standing outside of that hospital room. There were people inside I thought I remembered. Old friends of Matt’s. Of mine. I stood across the hallway looking in. I could see him in the bed. Mrs. Crane sat beside the bed talking to someone. Between us, two little legs poked out from a chair hidden behind the door frame.

I walked to the end of the hallway to look out the window and stood in the sunlight.

“Hello, Nick.”

Mrs. Crane looked much older than I thought she should. I could see her freckles. Her hair was still thick and curly but now grey. A sliver of light fell across her face.

She stepped forward and hugged me. I cried.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

I stood back and we looked at each other for a moment. The years showed but she carried the weight of forgiveness with grace.

“Come on. He wants to see you.”

I sat beside him. His skin was pale and hung from his face, sunken and tired. His mouth was open slightly and I could hear him breathing. His feet stuck out from under the sheets. He turned his head towards me and smiled. He started to cry.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

“You’re going to die,” I said, without meaning to.

“Yah, I know.” He lifted his arm up and rolled towards me. We hugged each other tightly. He let go and struggled to sit up. I put a pillow behind him.

“Have you met Rose?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

I turned around to see his daughter, still sitting on the chair by the door. She lifted her head up from her iPad and smiled.

“Hi. I’m Nick. I’ve known your father his whole life.”

She smiled. “Hello.”

She was beautiful. Beautiful in the way a child floats on top of the weight of life. Standing on the clouds not knowing what hope is.

Fuck me. I couldn’t even look at a child without thinking it’s going to come crashing down on her. I had to leave. The room was swallowing me up. I was drowning again. I left.

Everything was a blur but I could breathe again. I drove to the bridge over the river and on past the corner store, then left down the crescent. I stopped at the house I grew up in. It was different and the same. It was familiar and foreign. It was dull and grey. The more I looked at that house the more my emptiness was filled with hate. I wanted to get out and smash the windows. I wanted to drive my car through the walls. I wanted to pull up the dirt with my hands. I wanted it all to be swallowed up by the blackness. I cursed my fucking life. I left.

I turned into the farm and parked at the end of the lane. I walked through the steel gate and past the silo to where the grass began to slope down to the pond. There was a dam at one end and a stream at the other. On the far side was the small grove of pines where we camped. Beyond that was a cornfield and beyond that was the river. It was cold, overcast, and all but the oaks had lost their leaves. The wind came from the west and drove into my back.

I turned around and looked past the broken remains of the barn to the silhouette of the house, surrounded by the walnuts. The wind struck my face hard. I fell to my knees and cried. I was so tired of it all.

It was dark when I got back to the hospital. Mrs. Crane was coming out with Rose.

She reached out and took my hand.

“He misses you.”

“I miss him, too.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she walked away.

It was quiet on the floor. The lights were turned down. The shift had changed. I walked in and sat down beside the bed. I put my hand in his and he squeezed it gently.

“I don’t think I’ve ever held your hand,” I said.

He squeezed again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The money.” I began to cry.

“What?”

“The money your mom sent you. The 20k. All of it. I took it and... I just left.” I rested my head on his shoulder and rubbed my eyes into the sheets. “I left.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. I was glad you took it. You had a chance. I didn’t. I never wanted you to come back.”

“But–”

“Don’t you get it Nick? You saved me. You always have.”

I sat back in the chair and cried. In an instant I remembered every second, every detail. Matt and me. The farm. The mountains. Smiling, laughing, standing on the clouds. Invincible… Superheroes.

“Why do you have to die? It’s just like you to screw me over.”

“Hey, you took the money.” He chuckled, then coughed.

I looked up at the ceiling, smiling, crying.

I stood up, closed my eyes and let out a long sigh.

“I love you brother,” he said, quietly.

“I love you too.”

I stopped at the door and turned to look at him. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

“Go. Don’t watch me die. It’s hopelessly boring.”

I left.