The Corn Husk Experiment

by Andrea Cale

  Crash knew that this year, his pick was especially deserving. He also sensed that his brother would need special convincing.

  On the bleachers of the Jamesville-DeWitt field where the duo had once enjoyed so much success performing on the same team, the brothers met to discuss the latest crop of walk-on prospects. Time had turned their athletic frames into looser bodies with bellies that pushed ever so slightly over their belt lines. They both wore five-o’clock shadows, black sneakers, and gray sweatshirts without planning the coordination.

  “I’ve got one late spot this year for an offensive walk-on. So where’s your ingenious local pick going to come from this year? West Genesee? Baldwinsville? Liverpool?” Flash had asked his brother.

  “You’re looking at the place,” Crash had said.

  “Right here at Jamesville-DeWitt High? You think Travis Addison can hold his own, do you?”

  Travis had earned the recognition of becoming Jamesville-DeWitt’s star receiver, but he wasn’t the player on Crash’s mind.

  “No, my recommendation is JP Hemmings. I believe he should walk on the SC team.”

  The collegiate coach had let out a roar of a laugh, the kind that erupts immediately when something is seriously funny.

  Like a wise defensive lineman who always studies his opposition’s moves, Crash had expected this reaction from his brother. He still failed to see the humor.

  His twin instantly tried to make amends.

  “Listen, man. I’ve got all the respect in the world for that little guy. I’ve watched your games. He had a great season. I’m as impressed as you are at what that little piece of dynamite is able to achieve, but let’s face it, he’s too small for high-school play, not to mention D1 college.”

  Flash may have held the more prestigious job, but the humble high-school coach was on his home bleachers now.

  “If you’ve been to my games, right here on this field, then you’ve seen JP play as a freshman and you’ve watched him steadily improve game by game and year by year. He’s not done climbing, either. He’s the hardest worker. He’s got the best attitude. He’s not necessarily a natural talent, but he’s a fighter. He plays each dang game as if his life depended on it for some reason. He’s responsible for converting more third downs than any other player on the team this year. He’s a solid player now, worthy of D1.”

  Crash had brought a book of JP’s performance statistics even though he already knew them by heart. He displayed the stat book like a salesperson clinging to his electronic presentation to get the yes.

  “All my assistant coaches at SC—no, the players themselves—are going to harass me for this decision,” his twin had said. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Crash encouraged his brother to bring the stats home with him. “Maybe the book will give the team some inspiration,” he said.

  “OK, listen. Let’s not get crazy, but let’s give the kid a shot. He can come practice with us for a day. It’ll be an informal tryout. If he holds his own—really holds his own—then he can walk on and become a more permanent fixture in practices. If he has as good of a work ethic as you’re describing, maybe he’ll be a good addition. I think there is a greater chance of Syracuse seeing no snow this winter, though, than this kid seeing some playing time.”

  Finally, it was the high-school coach’s turn to chuckle.

  As JP took his spot at the dinner table between his parents, his broad smile revealed the success of the tryout. While his mother’s chili cooled before him, he realized he had savored in the moment as long as he could. He unzipped the warm sweatshirt and unveiled his very own Syracuse jersey beneath it.

  JP’s father jumped up and whooped in celebration. The man’s belly bumped into the table, rocking plates, glasses, and a halved avocado that would soon catch the proud tears falling from the face of the other professor.

  CHAPTER 11

  CAROLINE

  The Troubled One

  Caroline dropped a fluorescent pink-and-green tube of pharmacy mascara into her makeup bag with a clink and smoothed a wrinkle from her black dress, a simple frock that she had purchased at a Warwick, Rhode Island, discount store before leaving the Ocean State for college. While the wrap-style dress managed to hug her stylishly, it failed to protect her from feeling like a misfit among the University of Boston’s freshmen girls who were shimmying into their finest designer wear in preparation of the momentous day.

  She overheard one of the primping girls explain within the lively bathroom of Wellfleet dormitory that the number-one rule of fashion is to always have on one fabulous thing. Caroline touched her mother’s locket. While she would’ve traded that most prized possession for her mother to be alive again, she felt grateful for the first time in her life that the piece of jewelry contained several diamonds.

  Caroline watched the girls prance around the bathroom without much clothing or worry. Fancy outfits aside, they were still different, she noted. A dozen years had not been able to wash away the fact that at a vulnerable age, with Caroline’s father out working to pay for her dance classes, food, and roof over her head, she had been violated by the young person trusted to care for her. Even the scholarship to attend the prestigious UB as a cheerleader—a scholarship earned by her own hard work and talent—hadn’t lessened her intense feelings of being troubled, bruised, and tarnished.

  “You look pretty,” Caroline’s new roommate told her. “You ready?”

  Caroline’s nude pumps felt heavy as she forced one thin, long leg after the other toward the exit of the girls’ beautiful brick dormitory and onto Laurel Lane to officially become part of the freshman class marching to their convocation, an event symbolizing the beginning of their academic and social journeys at University of Boston.

  Caroline had been tasked with carrying one of the many maroon-and-gold-trimmed torches. As she leaned in to ignite her flame from that of a fellow classmate and torchbearer in the fall wind, her red hair took flight and caught the attention and admiration of all around her. She may have been from a small pond called Cranston, Rhode Island, among a sea of intimidating fish now, but she was by far the most captivating in these cool waters.

  As the large group of freshmen stood quietly, a senior priest from UB’s Center for Ignatian Spirituality proudly spoke the words of the Jesuit founder, Saint Ignatius of Loyola:

  “Set the world aflame!”

  Even the usually pensive Caroline couldn’t help feeling rushes of excitement. She vowed in that moment to work her hardest in her own steady personal journey away from her past.

  Behind a banner reading “Class of 2017,” the students were told that they’d complete the same march in four years, at the time of their graduation. For Caroline, a girl with a history of swimming in a perpetually rough sea, those words sounded well-intentioned but unlikely. She didn’t know what the next day would bring, never mind the next four years.

  A few weeks into the school year, Caroline slipped off sneakers that had been provided to the cheerleaders through a team sponsorship.

  “Perks of the job,” the coach had said when they were distributed to the girls in a bag filled with complimentary warm-ups, T-shirts, and sweats.

  Caroline treasured all the items, but she couldn’t help feeling unworthy of them. She glanced at the shoes, now sweaty from practice, and placed them in her bag as though they were Cinderella’s glass slippers. As she tugged at her necklace with one hand and shifted her seat on the turf with the other, she began doubting what she was giving back to the school. Would someone really decide to attend University of Boston after seeing her cheer on the sidelines? Was her football team really going to win a game because of her backflips? Would she have received her scholarship if others had known about her past?

  Her unspoken questions would’ve continued rolling on if her coach hadn’t broken the silence.

  “Can we talk?”

  Caroline swallowed hard as she followed the woman into the coaching office. She carefully unrolled a mint from its wra
pper, just as her father had on the day Harper Manufacturing offered him a promotion.

  “How is everything?” the woman asked.

  Caroline reflexively launched into a rehearsed speech.

  “I love it here; everything is going great,” she said. “I feel like I’m starting to get into a stride, but I know I can do better. I’m going to add extra gymnastics practices to our regular workouts. I know I need to get more height on my flips.”

  The coach raised a delicate hand, lowered her voice, and slowed the conversation’s pace.

  “Your flips are fabulous, actually. Have confidence in them.”

  “Thanks?”

  “I’ll film your gymnastics runs if that helps. Anyway, you’re in here because I want to make sure you’re happy. I know it can be a big move for a freshman, and you have a lot of extra responsibilities on your shoulders—your work study, being the youngest member on our traveling team, and so on. So, how is everything really going?”

  “Oh.”

  Caroline tucked a smooth strand of her red hair behind a lightly freckled, delicate ear and awkwardly tugged at her necklace. She hadn’t prepared for this topic.

  Knowing only half of the girl’s tragic story, her coach broke the silence once more.

  “Listen, I know you haven’t always had it easy. I can’t promise things will be exactly laid back here either. Your days are already busy, and they’ll soon be filled with studying for midterms and writing ten-pagers. I want to make sure you’ll manage it all here, not only because you’re my best girl but also because the most important thing above all else—including this cheerleading team—is that you’re happy. You know, if you ever need to talk to someone, a female figure perhaps, I’m here. I’m really here, Caroline.”

  The kind words would ring in Caroline’s head later that evening as she sat on her work-study stool at UB’s Wiley Hall during her service as a dining aide to make ends meet. Even though cheerleading covered her tuition and Caroline’s hardworking father paid for her room and board, the cost of living in the city of Boston was beyond what she expected.

  “You’re not in Cranston anymore,” she said aloud to herself as she crunched her new expenses with a dull pencil and a page from a trendy local magazine that had been left at her workstation.

  Textbooks had eaten up her lifetime savings of $825. The $8.50 an hour she made as a meal card cashier would have to go toward her own meal card and occasional dinners out with teammates or friends from her dorm floor, she thought.

  She hadn’t been on campus a month, yet she was already feeling the economic pinch. She wondered where she would get the funds for “mad money,” as her mother had excitedly referred to extra cash before the car crash that wrecked both of their lives. Caroline wondered how she’d pay for new makeup, razors, or even toothpaste. She tugged nervously on her locket and studied a polished girl removing a meal card from a fashionable bag. The student handed the card shyly to Caroline for a swipe through the machine.

  Caroline watched the stylish girl disappear toward the trays and wondered where she would get money for updating her own wardrobe. A request for new outfits would seem frivolous to her practical father, but on a campus of girls dressed in gear that looked like it came from Newbury Street, the ability to look good here might as well have been the base of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. The chart happened to be peeking out from Caroline’s “Introduction to Psychology” text, an item that had cost her $61.80.

  She mentally revisited her coach’s kind offer to discuss any troubles before wincing at the thought of mentioning money problems to the woman who handed Caroline the only scholarship she had.

  As Caroline’s eyes focused on the magazine, an advertisement caught her attention. It read:

  Start Your Week at the Gentlemen’s Club

  Monday Night is Amateur Night

  Stop in for a complimentary appetizer with your favorite entertainer and help

  us pick which amateur goes home with $1,000.

  Help us make your Monday night an amateur’s night!

  Caroline drew in a long breath and smelled a collision of cafeteria smells from the dining hall’s hamburgers, hotdogs, steamed vegetables, and pasta with meat sauce. As her colleagues in the hall pondered their best options for dinner, Caroline found herself faced with a darker, more unexpected choice. She knew that stepping foot in the club would be wrong, but the typically conservative girl also knew it would be one Monday night contest, and if she had the opportunity to dance, it would literally be money in her bag. She told herself it wouldn’t be right, yet she discreetly slipped the ad into her pleather purse.

  Caroline focused on a group of students arriving for dinner. As she swiped each of their cards with her left hand, she tugged incessantly on her locket with the other.

  CHAPTER 12

  HENRY

  The Shy One

  For the shy little boy named Henry, sweet relief from a seemingly endless childhood of clumsy punch ball whiffs, schoolyard bullies, and looks of pity from his well-intentioned mother came during special opportunities to watch his beloved University of Boston Falcons play football at Chestnut Hill Stadium with his best friend Oscar at his side.

  “Gum anyone?” offered Henry’s pretty mom to the two boys and her own mother, a woman who accompanied her to games just as she did through almost all other important occasions in Misty’s life.

  Henry could smell the artificial grape flavor of his mother’s gum as she delicately chewed it. Misty’s hair was tied in an effortless ponytail. Her eyes still glowed. She was relaxed yet energized by the sounds of the marching band and the enthusiastic chatter among the fans. It all brought her back to more youthful and carefree days.

  “Yes, please, Miss Misty,” Henry’s friend Oscar said, cupping his hands and fidgeting like an excited puppy about to get his treat.

  Henry’s best friend was having a hard time containing his delight, for Oscar was away from home, a place that frequently felt more like a war zone than a safe haven, because his mother lacked sound judgment when it came to finding a good man. Her boyfriends’ resumes ranged from convicted domestic abusers to drug dealers. Oscar’s verdict was still out on what could be wrong with this month’s man. The boy overheard the guy talking on a cell phone earlier in search of ice. If it had been anyone but a boyfriend of his mother’s, Oscar would’ve politely told him to help himself in the freezer, but Oscar didn’t talk to these men. To gain an ounce of control and comfort in an uncontrollable life, Oscar soothed his pain with food.

  The aromas of the stadium’s hotdogs and sausages made Oscar’s mouth water. He felt grateful for Henry’s kind mom, even if her small gift of grape gum was already starting to lose its flavor.

  Misty considered her ability to get tickets for her family—her son’s friend Oscar included—a lucky break in a life that so far had more downs than ups. Her boss at the restaurant was a University of Boston alumnus who held season tickets to the games. The man had learned of Henry’s love for the team when the boy had visited Misty at the restaurant with an eager smile, his signature UB sweatshirt, and a writing pad and pen to keep happily busy as his mom worked. The boss hadn’t seen Henry around in a while, but these days, if the man couldn’t make it to a home game with his own family, he’d proudly pass along the tickets to his most valuable employee so she could take her own.

  Misty temporarily set to rest her worries about her son during these occasional Saturday afternoons. They reminded her of the baby lap-sit story hours at the local library when Henry was a late-to-walk toddler. At the stadium in dreamy Chestnut Hill, her unassuming and awkward boy was safely tucked away from the things that made him different. He was away from the schoolyard games. He was away from the kids who called him names. He was just a regular kid in the sixth grade, cheering on his favorite football team with his best friend. Still missing was a father, but this moment served as a temporary bandage even for that.

  Misty’s mother glanced at her beautiful daughter un
folding gum wrappers for the boys and saw a vision of who Misty once was—a happy young person enjoying a game. The elder woman closed her eyes with a pinch as she envisioned the face of the salty, football-playing boyfriend whom Misty once fed the same gum to under a helmet and acne. As she opened them, she felt grateful that Chad had stayed out of their lives.

  If she had to choose one quality for Henry to inherit from the man, she would’ve gladly selected Chad’s homely looks as long as the boy was able to acquire his mother’s cheerful way. It didn’t matter that he had missed absorbing any of Chad’s athleticism. It didn’t matter that Misty and Chad’s level of popularity eluded him too. She was just happy the boy had inherited her daughter’s kindness.

  The overwhelming challenges of low-income life in an aging body snapped the woman back into its more usual grouchy way.

  “You know what’s my least favorite word in the entie-yah English language?” she asked.

  Henry typically amused his grandmother with a reply, but on an early-season game day just before kickoff, he was trying to scan Boston’s sideline for any injured players. He was squinting too to see how the arm of his favorite player, UB quarterback Devin Madison, was working in the warm-up.

  “What’s that, Ma?” Misty asked while debating within her head whether the upcoming rant would have to do with the grocery store, politics, or the woman’s work as a cashier at their neighborhood gas station.

  “Well, let me tell you something. Yestahday at work, I suggested to my manager that he wrap some hotdog buns in tinfoil and put them in the hotdog wah-muh so customers could have a nice, soft roll with their lunch.”

  Oscar licked his pudgy bottom lip and tried to put the tasty images out of his mind.