The Season of Shay and Dane
by
Lucy Lacefield
Copyright © 2013 Lucy Lacefield
All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
for
. . . first loves
Contents
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The sweetness of his breath whispering past my cheek and ear, as his soft, sure lips warmly grace my skin, makes my stomach feel like a thousand dainty butterflies swirled into flight.
1
shay
The smell of bacon frying wafts up the stairs. I’ve only been home one day and the feeling of never having left comes over me; it feels like I’m eight again waking to the scents of a devoted mother in the kitchen, lunches being packed with care, a check of the clothing to make sure it’s weather suitable, and a kiss on the forehead as she sees me off.
My mom is as intelligent as she is domestic, though her dusty degree in biology came second to having a family. She had wanted a house filled with children and instead got blessed with, “The most beautiful gift of an angel.” Now it was my turn to see how far the degree would take me.
I try to come home every break, but sometimes the backlog of low priority tasks for the department professors gets dumped into the laps of the not-so-unsuspecting graduate students and we find ourselves inventorying labs and ordering last minute supplies, instead of sleeping in until eleven in the secure comfort of our parents’ home, savoring every moment of nearly thought free existence.
It’s my second year in the graduate program at Yale. The university is a lot different than the state university I graduated from in southwest Virginia, a twenty minute drive from home. And for me, it’s every bit the timeless splendor that I would daydream of after having visited it for the first time with my parents. . . the ominous, carved stone buildings that anchor the landscape like museums, with their large lawns sprawled out between them. . . and the trees. . . the mere size of them alone is magical; all of the students seem to especially look forward to spring, with the new, soft, green grass cushioning the blankets of people lazying about in love scattered across the view under these giant canopies of nature. I find my place alone among them and try to study, but like all others, my eyelids eventually close to the warmth of the sunlight and my thoughts float up.
I was raised with all of the love a child could ask for, considering my parents were a little older when they had me. I had been so longed for that the sweetness of their devotion was encapsulating, and I couldn’t be the luckier for it.
When I think of the things that I could best describe my childhood as, it would be of joy and morals, and I never doubted or took for granted one. Just as in the old term of courting, my father was and still is a gentleman. And to this day, my mother’s eyes continue to sparkle with each simple kindness he shows her. And my mom—she must have been what any new mother-in-law would have wanted for her son, proper and gentle, and quiet in her strength.
My father was the first person she had dated, meeting him just after college. She was a greeter at our church, the little red brick one, a walking distance from our front porch that we still attend today, and he was new to the area, and on the suggestion of his family he decided to join the church to meet other young adults. They married three months later. And the tenderness of how it must have begun seems clear in their love for each other now.
It would seem strange to most people someone my age never having had a boyfriend, not even a dinner date. . . and yet, I could sometimes see them looking at me when I let a moment pass before subtly turning my head their way as to not alarm myself or one of them at the onset of their ogling or curiosity. It was just that I was afraid of them, and it seems they knew to be a little more upright with themselves around me. It wasn’t that I demanded it, but I don’t think any boy would want to be known for making a conquest of the banner child for kindness and modesty; the girl this charming small community knew as the student food drive organizer and hospice volunteer—and intelligent enough to see it dared to them. And to be honest, I didn’t mind to get to hide behind the veil of safety that this gave me.
At twenty-two and studying laboriously, trying not to define a true competition among other students wielding their intellect and flattery trying to keep the professors’ attentions by it, I find it’s my solace and only focus being a student.
“Shay? Honey, are you up? Breakfast is ready.” The light tapping at the door lulls me from my waking daydream state. I’ve heard mom’s considerate knock by now thousands of times and I’m glad for the familiarity after a challenging start to the semester.
“Sure, Mom, be right down. Smells wonderful!”
“Hurry, okay? While it’s warm.” I hear her call back as she descends the stairs.
I roll over on my side to face the sunshine and stay snuggled in for one lingering moment. The giant oak tree outside my sitting window dances in the breeze, and I can feel the soft morning air on my face. Reluctantly I move aside the blankets. I don’t want to keep her waiting too long.
I languidly make my way around my room—everything in its same place as if I’d blink and the door would open with Abby hurrying me along, holding chalk for us to go and draw hopscotch on the sidewalk. She’s been my one true friend since we were five and bonded in kindergarten. Her family’s large, white colonial house is just across the street and looks nearly identical to ours—with the same wrap-around front porch and black shutters on every window. Our breaks coincide most of the time, but she loves living in Raleigh where she’s finishing her degree, and more often than not her parents take a mini-vacation and travel there to see her.
I take my robe from the reading chair by the window and slip it comfortably around, loosely looping the belt. As I pass the mirror I catch a glimpse of my tousled auburn hair and reach for a brush. A couple of strokes and I gather the length into an elastic and make a ponytail that’s presentable.
I make my way downstairs, passing by the large dining room on the right that will be filled with family friends and beautiful food on the holidays. To most, the scale of this house would seem unnecessary for only the three of us, but somehow it always seemed just perfect. . . I knew every creak in the shiny wood floors, and every difficult window to get open, as much as I knew the pattern of our day.
I cross the hall moving through the large sitting room on the left that is at the front of the house and takes up almost an entire side of the first floor. Dad calls it a sitting room, not a family room, and the explanation was t
hat somehow when families came here from England there was a misinterpretation, and long ago a “family” member’s room was actually a bedroom. And a bedroom wasn’t referred to as a bedroom, it was a room. Shay’s room. Bathroom was lavatory. . . I knew Dad would be reading the paper waiting for us to eat together. I creep up on him, walking lightly in my slippers. The top of his head barely seen in the red wingback chair that’s one of a pair facing out over the side garden. . . yard, garden. I cover my hands over his eyes and he lets his paper lay into his lap and cups them in his.
“Feels like the softness of youth.” His smile evident through his tone.
“Morning, Dad.” I kiss the top of his head. “Let’s give Mom a hand in the kitchen—I’m monkey hungry.”
“Let’s,” he says, smoothing his paper to fold it back into place.
I can smell the effort of a large breakfast as I get nearer the kitchen and mom humming in her movements.
“Can I help?”
She smiles and passes me a stack of pancakes. “How was your sleep?”
“Good. . . and yours? I heard someone up late last night.” I walk to the refrigerator with the plate of pancakes, balancing them in one hand and reaching in to grab the syrup.
“I had a bit of a headache again, must just be the change of season.” She slides the last pieces of bacon onto a platter. “Will you be going on your hike this morning?”
“Our hike,” I remind her. It took years for her to become accustomed to the thought of trekking through the forest that outlined the town. She’d rather be painting it from memory after passing through it in the car with the windows up and the air conditioner on. “And yes, I’m going. Dad?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He passes each of us a mug of coffee. “I think your Mother needs to sit this one out. I know it’s our Saturday morning start, but we’ll let her rest today.” He casts mom a soft smile.
The breakfast food was beautiful, and I could feel every morsel of overeating in the gorge of a full stomach—a welcome change from the last seven weeks of hot coffees and cold granola bars served up on the run from my studio apartment, two blocks downhill from campus. I was lucky enough though, I felt, to have the small space to myself on the meager earnings teaching the two undergraduate labs that I was assigned to as part of my curriculum..
Dad and I insist that mom go lie down and we begin to clear the dishes to get ready for our hike.
I make a pot of tea as we are finishing up and pour mom a teacup full and fill a thermos with the rest to take along with us. I put two aspirin on the side of the small saucer and head off to her room.
I carefully walk through the slightly open doorway. She’s fast asleep, but I’m sure I see what appears to be a tear in the corner of her eye. . .
I sit the small cup and saucer softly down on the bedside table, and slowly pull the blanket up higher on her arms and leave quietly for my room.
dane
“Coach was a real asshole today—and I can feel it in my legs.” I check for the tightness of the white towel around my waist, my skin still damp from the steamy shower in the locker room. The stadium was mostly quiet. The football team wasn’t starting pre-season practice until the end of the week and that gave us runners plenty of time to have full use of the facility, including the services of the masseuse that somehow we seemed less entitled to.
“Layin’ it on heavy?” Kip sympathizes as he reaches for the disposable paper roller under the massage table and streams a new length over it.
“Sure. You could say that.” I watch and wait for him to be ready for me.
He slaps the table. “Hop on Dane. Let’s see what we can do for you.”
My whole six feet two inches feels as lifeless and hard as the table I’m laying on.
“Where shall we start?” he asks.
I take my right arm out from underneath my resting head and reach around to press my index finger into my thigh. “Here.”
The tightening in my upper leg hadn’t let up since practice. Just standing in the shower took it out of me. I hadn’t complained to Coach Lewis, with him being new this year I didn’t dare show weakness. I’ve been running for the university for three years and I didn’t want to spend every practice turning it into a trial and getting the smackdown of punishment I’ve seen laid onto some of the slackers that party hard and are just milking it to the end, for all of the glory that comes with being a Yale athlete.
I’ve worked my ass off to get here. I don’t go booze it up on Friday nights at a frat house, or look for a cheap good time. There’s too much riding on this scholarship—a humble kid from Kansas making a name for himself, with the help of a small town coach who put a dream in front of him. I owe it to my first coach to do well as much as I owe it to anyone. Without a father around, one who I knew was a complete deadbeat even if mom stopped just short of saying it the few times she did mention him—who leaves their wife and two little kids to go off and find themselves? What a loser. Coach gave me time and attention, and that, I’ll be grateful for for the rest of my life. He became more than a coach; he became a friend. One that showed me simple hard work can amount to something. In his words, “Everyone’s got a hidden talent. You find it, you cultivate it, and you let it shine—and that’s living.”
And I listened.
In the early days when my scrawny body would step onto that track alongside other guys, I doubted every fiber in me, but coach would remind me, “They aren’t your peers—they’re nearly men. You’re just a freshman. Those other boys—they’re juniors and seniors—years ahead of you in conditioning.” And when they’d get to the finish line just two steps ahead of me, it fed me, and I was on my way. Sure, there were times I would cry, especially in practice. My feet throbbed, my knees ached, I’d see all the other kids heading down to hang out at the local burger joint and fill their stomachs with shakes—and I was left in the schoolyard, after a full day—still working, and cry I did. I’d stop mid-lap after what felt like the twentieth time around the track and just lie down, my sweating back sticking to the pea gravel, tears streaming down the sides of my face, and I’d lay there for a bit, long enough to convince myself it was worth it and wait for coach to wander over as I stood up. He’d reach up, brush off the blue-gray gravel bits that got pressed into my skin, and nudge me on. It’s like he had a glass ball to the future. “Cry it out, shake it off—and let’s go again,” he’d ruffle my damp hair and say. Without him pushing me because he saw what level it could take me to, I would never have travelled east, let alone to Yale.
I trusted him for all it was worth.
He’d made sure I stayed up in academics too. One thing my mom insisted on for me and Katie. “You’re twins,” she’d recite, “you have double the advantage to make good grades helping each other out, and getting a good education is going to give you much more than I ever could, and everything in my heart I wanted for you to have.”
The track kids got let out of school early to head to their meets and sometimes that was the only reason any of them ever joined. I was having to miss afternoon classes entirely and he reminded me that not only did the big universities want a strong athlete, but they had to be able to stand up academically, and he found me a tutor. And to make it better, he had arranged for the three one hour sessions each week to be in the burger joint in the evening.
By the time my senior year came and universities started sending their scouts out, he had me ready. And I performed. Even when I felt like my stomach yanked itself into a knot every time I got down in the starting position with all of the eyes looking on. And two weeks into the season—the morning the phone call came from Yale asking coach about me and arranging for a brief meeting ahead of the track meet that they were coming to—was the day that I felt like I had finally given something back to him.
From then on they were at every meet until early spring, when a decision had to be made about the university I’d attend. It was hard enough knowing Ivy League scouts were watching my every race my seni
or year, just seeing if talent could supercede the family name, which I didn’t have, but I had to prove everything each time over when the starting gun shot.
And when those tests were passed, I was called to bring my family and come for a visit to Yale to meet with the blue bloods in person for an interview.
I was going to be flying halfway across the country to meet people in a world that was carved out for the privileged.
I remember walking up those chiseled stone steps that morning—how everything about me said I was an outsider, the unironed black slacks and gray sweater that was a little too large, with my best brown leather shoes that didn’t really match, and my hair—mom suggested I pay attention to it and keep the thickness of it smoothed down. I felt like a six year old boy who’d been forced into wearing scratchy, uncomfortable clothes to church.
To even think back of the blank expression that I must have had as I walked through the campus just getting there, passing lofty building after lofty building—Vanderbilt Hall, Phelps Hall, one after another, towering monuments honoring those families, all of their status and wealth on display for everyone to see. And when I got to the top of the steps, my stomach knotted—just the way it did at the start of a race. I reached and pulled open the massive door—only to see what looked like a gilded palace. Ornate, dark wood lined the grand walls from floor to ceiling. And the ceiling was as high and long as the building was tall, and from it, five monstrous, dimly lit chandeliers, with the exact same distance spaced between them, looked like they floated down—stopping midair, and for as far off as the long corridor stretched, each black and white, crisscrossing, diagonal tile was perfect and shiny, as if they’d never been walked on.
I had found my way to a meek receptionist who led me to a waiting room and went off to tell them I’d arrived. She brought me to a tall mahogany door that must have been as old as the building itself and opened it for me. I paused just a moment before going in and thought of the words coach said when he saw me off at the airport. “Just be your unassuming self, and relax. They’re only people like you and me Dane. You’ll be fine.” He was right. I looked at the four of them seated across the long table, three men, one woman—their faces still bright with color, unlike most people their age with sallow skin, as if they had never worried a day in their life. And slowly I began answering their questions. . . and I watched, as the stoic expressions of those blue bloods softened to a, “Young man with a special talent.” You could see them forming the thought for themselves—country boy done good. Now, not only did the scouts want me there, but the university as a whole seemed interested. And two weeks later, when I took the envelope out of the mailbox and tore my fingers through it. . . I opened a chance to give my family a better life.
The Season of Shay and Dane Page 1
