The evening continued with the same cruelty. The principal repeatedly refused to call Stephanie to the stage for the rest of the awards, including math, art, and even reading. Reading? At that point, Mr. Krowinski knew that the deck was stacked. How could Stephanie crap out in reading? His wife read to Stephanie every single night since birth. Well, the nights he came home late, he wouldn’t know, but he’d bet the remainder of Stephanie’s piggy bank that he was right.

He recalled the night he had read to her. Stephanie was four and absolutely delighted that her father was going to read to her for a change. Of course, he only volunteered so that he could get to her piggy stash, but he had enjoyed the experience immensely, and a part of him envied his wife for being Stephanie’s cellmate while he was only the night shift guard. At four, Stephanie was a terrific listener, and as she followed along, he knew she was also a skilled reader. In fact, she had corrected him at least twice that he could remember. He remembered feeling proud of her reading. His little princess was a smart one. However, he also remembered how that pride was sullied with shame as he took another twenty in change from her savings as she slept.

That was four years ago, wasn’t it? Even then, Stephanie had such a keen interest in books. Surely that hadn’t changed. So how could she not be on stage for her reading prowess? This, he didn’t know, but he knew defeat and despair all too well. And now, without mercy, so did his little princess.

He vowed to make it up to her. He would take her for ice cream. He would take her to the zoo (and stay there). He would try and win extra money for her birthday and Christmas this year. He would do lots and lots to show her how sorry he was for causing such grief and misery. He was sorry for making her a loser—like her dad. Yes, yes, yes. He would even write her notes.

As the applause subsided and the principal urged the final winners back into the audience, Mr. Krowinski ground his teeth and watched the principal lean into the microphone and say, “At this time, we ask that Stephanie Krowinski come to the stage.”

There was a low grumbling in the cafeteria auditorium, people speaking in neighboring ears, necks craning every which way, looking to see who’d rise to that name. Mr. Krowinski’s heart skipped a beat, and his mind went blank. Indeed, he had no idea what to think. He was frozen, rendered lifeless by the onslaught of endless possibilities. When Stephanie stood, he blinked from his stupor and looked over at his daughter and wife. At that point, he saw what he didn’t see before, even though it was there all along—a mother-daughter bond that only comes from a generous investment of time and energy. A bond that allowed communication without words. A bond created by effort, not chance. And with such a bond, he knew that it was possible that they knew what was going on, but they spoke to each other only with smiles and nods, gestures he couldn’t begin to decipher. And even though Stephanie patted his knee as she excused herself, he felt like a jilted card player, watching silently as life neglected to deal him a hand. Whatever this moment was, he wasn’t a part of it. Not in the least.

He looked over at his wife, and her eyes were misty as she clasped her hands together and placed them over her quivering lips. He didn’t remember the last time he saw his wife so—what? Happy? No. This was more than happiness. On her face, the gargoyle had morphed into a sprite. A delighted little pixie that was brimming with love, comfort, and—that was it. He didn’t remember the last time he saw his wife filled with joy. He recalled such an expression when he had proposed to her a lifetime ago. And it was there in the delivery room, when Stephanie was born. And he knew there were other occasions, but he couldn’t remember. Joyous occasions.

Mr. Krowinski turned his attention to Stephanie as she ascended the stage steps and approached the principal. Stephanie’s face also showed joy.

“What’s going on?” he asked his wife. She shrugged, but he wasn’t sure if he believed her.

Then the principal spoke, seizing everyone’s attention. “Once in a while, a student comes along who is so amazingly talented, so incredibly focused, and so refreshingly courteous and polite that he or she doesn’t seem to be real. It’s as if someone had sent in a mail-order coupon that read ‘Order your phenomenal student now while supplies last.’”

Mr. Krowinski’s wife laughed along with the audience, but he could only manage an unsure smile. After the room quieted, the principal placed a hand on Stephanie’s shoulder and said, “I am pleased to announce that for the first time ever, a student has earned a medal in practically every category, and, I might add, even a few categories we didn’t have. Categories like punctuality, enthusiasm, and diligence. But how do you recognize such a student? What do you give such a student? How do you award such a student?”

Immediately, Mr. Krowinski saw dollar signs. (Three dollar signs, to be exact.) They appeared in his mind one at a time, like a slot machine jackpot. His little princess was about to get paid, and he was already planning his next family trip to Atlantic City where they—no, not Atlantic City. They would go where Stephanie wanted to go for a change. She deserved it. He’d go to Atlantic City alone. Or maybe never. Or maybe—

“After much deliberation,” continued the principal, “we decided that in addition to this handsome plaque”—she produced a marble plaque from inside the podium—“we also present Stephanie Krowinski with a bookstore gift certificate in the amount of two hundred dollars, and educational software valued at over three hundred dollars. Well done, Stephanie.”

Everyone applauded along with the principal. So did Mr. Krowinski. He was swelling with pride. However, he was also plagued with guilt. Stephanie had done it all despite having such a—yes, yes, yes, he forced himself to admit it—such a terrible father. With all he did and didn’t do for her, she succeeded anyway, and he was extremely proud of his little princess for beating the odds.

After the applause subsided, the principal said, “Of course, no student can achieve such accomplishments without strong support from the home. At this time, we’d also like to recognize Stephanie’s parents. Will Mr. and Mrs. Krowinski please stand?”

The cafeteria auditorium applauded as Mr. Krowinski hesitantly stood alongside his wife. Then, without thought, swept by the emotion of the moment, Mr. Krowinski doused the applause with hand gestures, asking permission to speak. The cafeteria auditorium went silent, and all eyes rested on him.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came. He didn’t know what he wanted to say even though the message was lodged in the throat of his heart. So he spoke with gestures first, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. Then he found his voice. “I don’t deserve this,” he muttered. People whispered to each other, obviously not hearing his mumbling, so he spoke louder, but this time, looking at the floor. “I don’t . . . I said, I don’t deserve this.”

Everyone remained quiet, studying him. Then, avoiding all eye contact, Mr. Krowinski launched into a lengthy explanation, which was to be his first “session.” First and foremost, he gave all credit to his wife. Then he confessed everything. His mouth was on autopilot. He even confessed to Stephanie about her piggy bank. For almost five minutes, Mr. Krowinski spilled his soul while everyone listened. When he finished with “I’m so sorry, princess. Please forgive me,” a few members of the audience wiped at their eyes, and silence seized the cafeteria auditorium again.

Then came the applause.

This time, the applause didn’t seem as if it would end, and then a strange thing happened. Mr. Krowinski felt—well, he didn’t know what he felt. But it was—something. Standing there, listening to the applause, watching his daughter clap along with the rest of the crowd, the feeling that he felt overwhelmed him, and he started to cry. Softly at first, but when Mrs. Krowinski gently seized his hand, he embraced her and released all of the pain, frustration, despair—every cancerous emotion he’d been harboring for far too long—in a fit of uncontrollable sobs. This caused the applause to strengthen.

Between sobs he asked his wife if she’d attend the counseling sessions with him.

His wife kissed him softly on his cheek and whispered, “Of course, silly. I love you. Remember this feeling? This is what it feels like to be loved.”

Mr. Krowinski shook his head. “No, sweetheart. This is what it feels like to win.”

At that moment, someone grabbed him from behind. He didn’t have to look to know it was Stephanie. Her arms were as comforting as the notes from years past.

The audience applauded forever. Approving shouts came from everywhere. And Mr. Krowinski was grateful to all of them.

Especially the wonderful, whistling wild men.

 

 

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