The Season of Shay and Dane

by Lucy Lacefield

  The sound of the dryer door slams shut from around the bathroom door. “Would you want to grab the red bowl from the refrigerator?” She leans out and smiles as she finishes up with a load of laundry, knowing I’ll be impressed with her effort.

  “Sure. Looks great in here,” I say, taking it out and removing the plastic wrap off of the top. She already has plates and a loaf of wheat bread sitting on the small, old formica table, a prized possession that used to sit in her family’s basement, that her papa, nonno, and uncles would play craps at. She always says that Italians have these great, three-story houses, but they live in the basements. I look past the sink and see green grapes sitting wet in a colander. I grab a bowl from the cupboard and finish shaking them, dumping them into it.

  “Hey,” she comes from around the corner. “How’d it go? You get everything done on your to do list?” She grabs two sodas from the door of the refrigerator and sits one in front of me.

  “I did. Thank God. And not a moment too soon—Richards was never too far off after you left. Thanks again for helping out this morning.” I help myself to opening the bread, passing each of us two slices. “You’ve been a life saver and now you’re feeding me,” I say almost laughing.

  “We have to stick together around here,” she grins, spooning tuna salad out.

  It was the best tuna salad I’ve ever eaten. And I ended up eating two sandwiches as we laughed and talked about her eventful visit home with her brothers and sisters. Coming from a big Italian family she wouldn’t have any excuse not to be able to cook and lunch today proved that, right down to the brownies; that tasted like I bit heaven doused in chocolate.

  “Hey Jenny,” I call from washing our dishes as she grabs the last load of towels out to be folded. “Do you think I could look through your newspapers fast?” We both had a full day ahead of us tomorrow and I didn’t want to hang around too much longer.

  “Sure. Have at it.” She pops the towels onto the cleaned table and starts folding them. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Well,” waiting for it, “I thought I’d see who that guy was that hit me this morning.”

  “You’re endless,” she says, knowing most likely it had stuck in my head today, and whether or not she would admit to it, I’m sure she was a little curious too.

  I take four or five papers off the top of her neatly formed pile and sit crisscross on the floor beside them across from where she’s folding and can see me.

  Flipping through the first one, the sports section mainly boasts about the upcoming football practice soon to be starting. I turn it upside down to keep it in date order, placing it beside my leg, and reach for another one.

  A headline this time mentions track. Yale Track Brings Home Wins. It’s a lengthy article. All articles are written by student staff trying to one up each other and doing their best to get the attention of large papers reading an unforgettable article and having to have them on staff straight from graduation. You find out a lot of useful-not-useful information as you get through them. Reading on. . . Continued on pg. 5.

  I flip to the back to page five. It has three pictures. The largest picture’s caption reads, “Sprinter Dane Montgomery claims personal best time in 100m, taking first place against Big Red—Cornell.”

  I bring the page closer to my face, peering at the small figures in black and white all clustered together running down the track, except one, who seems to have broke free and leads them.

  “That’s him!” I surprise myself at my reaction. I straighten my legs out of the stiffened position and get up to bring the paper over for Jenny to see.

  She leans in to where I’m pointing. “Are you sure it’s him? That’s a pretty small image.”

  “I’m sure—those facial bones—his profile sitting on the bench. . . ” I stop, becoming aware of myself and catch her eye and coy smile. “Alright, alright. I don’t know what’s gotten into me either. . . at all.”

  “Let me see more closely.” She takes the paper for herself and reads the caption, “Dane C. Montgomery. He’s a hottie alright.”

  I grab it back. “It didn’t say C.”

  “Dane Clod Montgomery—you never know—that’s all I’m saying,” she hurriedly interjects as I’m locating his name under the picture.

  “Jenny!” I take one more look at the picture before folding the paper and putting them back on the stack. “You’re relentless, really.”

  “Come on, Shay. His only admission’s requirement may be that he needed to know how to put one foot in front of the other—a little faster than most,” proud of her analysis.

  I slap my forehead. Sometimes her Italian wit catches me off-guard.

  “No, really. How is it that all of the athletes each year get this big send off after the exact four years here—no extra year or two to scramble getting their degree. When half of the students here have to wait at least an extra semester with pre-requisites—at minimum, just to get into the next sequence of courses? Think about it,” she probes me.

  How do I defend that? She’s right. “Yes, yes. I hear you.” I pull a chair out from under the table and help her finish folding the last few towels.

  I let the busyness of folding consume the few seconds of silence hanging in the air.

  Finally. “Montgomery? As in Senator Reginald Montgomery of South Carolina?”

  “I don’t know Jen. I have no idea. Could be,” I put out there, not having thought in the last few minutes about the last name, just liking the sound of his first name. Dane.

  “Well, I hate to burst your bubble as small as I know it is with your dart and run exercise around any good-looking guy in our building, but unless your name is Little Miss Sally May Yoo-hoo and your daddy’s in oil, there’s not a chance. Those types are betrothed from infancy.”

  In the short time we’ve known each other Jenny knew me inside-out, and now, even with my timidity near boys, I’m unable to conceal from her the slight curiosity I’m feeling—and that comment mostly deflated the little bubble forming in me, but not entirely.

  “Right.” Still, he could be talented and smart, and not from a wealthy family—not too wealthy anyway.

  I remember something my dad said to me years ago, probably at the age when any other young girl might have invited the idea of beginning to date. “Just remember, getting a sense someone is a delicate thing; it takes time. It took me a month of showing up at the same 11:00 church service, when there were two other services on Sunday, just to be sure I could see your mother as the greeter, and for her, she was asking others if she could take their spots to be at that door just to get to see me.” He had said it with a laugh, as if it was an intricate dance they performed, each not knowing—but knowing.

  Not a word to Jenny. I’m going to be near that bus bench at 7:00 tomorrow and put dad’s theory to the test. There aren’t too many risks in it; I have to walk past it obviously to go up the steps to my building, whether it’s 7:00 or 8:00. And in all likelihood he won’t be there anyway. Yes, what am I saying? I’m sure he has a girlfriend, maybe more than one girlfriend. What type of guy would still act that way—like any semblance of a gentleman, especially when so many girls are in full pursuit meeting at after-game parties or one of the dozens of clubs that snake the outside of campus. Even though it’s not for me, it seems to be just about what it is for most everyone else.

  “Thanks again for a great late lunch.” Shifting my thoughts and stacking my towels onto hers.

  “Take some brownies,” she calls, headed off to the bathroom to put them away. “There’s plastic wrap in the drawer beside the stove.”

  I wrap up a couple, dipping my finger into the icing on the top of the last one I set in, licking it.

  “See you in the morning Jen!” I say loudly, opening the door to leave.

  “See ya there!”

  dane

  “Gretchen, right?” I ask, closing the door and walking further inside to see the two of them curled up on the sofa watching tv.

 
She lifts her head up to Vince for reassurance of being there and then turns to me, “Yeah, hey Dane.”

  “Hey,” I say with my back to them reaching for the phone to take into my room. She must possess something the others don’t. It’s the first time the same girl has returned—at least two days in a row.

  I push my door closed and kick off my shoes, falling back on my bed outstretched, staring up at the ceiling. I know until I at least attempt to talk to this girl it’s going to keep drumming in my head. I’ve got to find a way to run into her again—Jesus!—without actually running into her again.

  What’s wrong with me?

  How stupid did that sound?

  I let out a long breath, pushing away the thought of her and reaching for the phone I let drop beside me on the bed. It feels good to lie down.

  Kate and mom will be expecting a call from me any day now and it’s as good of a time as any to catch up for a minute.

  I dial the number. It only has to ring twice before Kate answers.

  “Hey sis.”

  “Dane!” The excitement in her voice picks up. “Hang on, okay?”

  “Sure.” I can hear her palm scratch across the mouthpiece, covering it as she yells for mom to come to the phone.

  “Mom’s on her way. How are things going out there?” She likes hearing about Yale. Even when the news sounds the same to me every time, but I indulge her. Other than coming out here to visit me, she’s stayed mostly near home to be with mom. When she decided to get a nursing degree she chose a small university only thirty minutes away to be home every night. Being left to feel like the man of the house since I was little, I owe her a lot. “We saw Coach Malloy at the steak house last night. He said he’s leaving Thursday to get to see you before your big meet this weekend. He says you’ll have no trouble against them again this year.” Kate gets really excited about the Yale/Harvard rivalry and that her brother has made the headlines the past two years. I make sure to send her all of the papers with track news—and she makes sure to show everybody back home, whether I like it or not. She’s made a book of the clippings that she puts with all of my trophies I’ve kept. Each time I get home she shows me the new additions to it.

  “Yeah. I heard from him a couple of days ago. It’ll be good to see him. How’s school?” I don’t want to feel like I’m the only one working hard. I know she works harder than I do just taking care of everything; the two of them there on their own.

  “School’s great! It’s going really well—no complaints. How about you? Were you able to get rid of Vince yet?” she teases, knowing I’m stuck with him until the end of the term.

  “Hardly.” If I say too much more I’ll get myself frustrated just thinking about it. Luckily he took a road trip to Florida over spring break and I spared them of his ways for the short time they were here.

  “That bad still, huh?” she asks with sympathy in her voice.

  “Just a couple of more months, I’ll manage. How’s Mom?”

  “She’s right here. Love ya Dane.”

  “Love you too, sis,” something sticks in my throat. It’s a long way from home, and a long time before I’ll be back again.

  “Honey! How are you?” I know mom, by now she’ll have been patiently pacing waiting her turn.

  “Hi Mom. I’m doing fine, just fine! Everything okay there?” I ask certain if something ever did come up Kate would call me immediately.

  “Sure! Everything’s good. We miss you honey! Do you need anything?” Their voices are all I need somehow to break up the monotony out here. My whole heart is in running, and representing an Ivy League school is a dream come true, but even then the demands get a little heavy at times.

  “I miss both of you, and no, I’ve got everything I need to get by. Thanks Mom.” I feel myself calming down from the day just talking to them.

  I switch the phone from one ear to the other and raise my arm back behind my head, stuffing it under the thickness of my pillow.

  “Dane?”

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Son, is there anyone special?” I could hear Kate’s protest in the background. Somehow I had gotten spared of that question when they were out here—I guess she thinks she’s being less invasive subjecting me to it on the phone only. I can’t remember one call home where she hasn’t felt compelled to pry about girls.

  “No, Mom. Don’t have time.”

  A click comes on the phone and Kate’s voice joins in from another line. “Don’t worry about Mom, Dane. She knows they’re like mosquitoes to sugar around you, and all of them as shallow as their empty Prada bags they prance around with. And you know what coach says—the worst thing for a runner’s legs is a girl.”

  Shifting from my comfortable position, my face feels warm, and I rub my hand across my forehead and down my closed eyes and mouth, to rest on my chest. Kate’s right about the girls, but even then not being out here she has no idea how hard it really is on us guys, to keep any moral sense about us.

  “Kate!” mom breaks in, and jars any further thoughts for the three of us. This is the part of the conversation I could live without.

  “Yeah, well, it’s getting late and I’ve got to get up early,” I cue them.

  “Sure honey. We miss you and we love you. I’m sending a couple of things along with Coach Malloy. We’re all so proud,” her voice begins to shake a little.

  “Don’t cry, Mom. I love you both.”

  “See ya soon, Dane,” Kate chimes in before hanging up to go to mom I’m sure.

  “See ya, Kate.”

  “Love you son.” I can hear Kate near her.

  “Love you Mom. See ya soon.”

  I’m beat.

  The apartment’s quiet. I heard the front door slam shut while I was on the phone.

  I decide it’s worth it to go to the kitchen and heat something up. My stomach’s been growling since before I left practice.

  8

  shay

  I’m not letting myself admit that I took a little extra time getting ready this morning, or that I was restless sleeping last night. I’ll chalk it up to the fact that this is the first day back after spring break.

  It’s 6:55 and there are other people already here tying up a few last minute things before their first students arrive.

  I look around my room—everything ready to go. It’ll stay this organized for about one more hour, before the undergraduates are unleashed upon it. Oh well, we’re halfway through the semester, by now some of them are beginning to understand this is the last haul to pass the course and become a little more serious about their effort, and that proves to give me somewhat of a break commanding them.

  I look at the time on my watch; three minutes have passed. If I’m going to do this I better get going to the front door. I take a slow breath in, not to relieving. I can feel I’m slightly trembling just inhaling.

  “Okay, now or never,” I say softly into the air.

  I leave the door unlocked, walking out of my room—with a back thought—stepping back in to grab my satchel. How obvious would I be standing there looking aloof at the bench—no bag. I grab it and rush down the corridor to the stairwell to get to the front door.

  As I’m getting nearer the entrance I find myself going a little faster not to miss him right at the stroke of seven—if he did happen to come. And then I begin to realize how much I’ve been fantasizing about something that is more of an anomaly than a real possibility and the feeling of disappointment starts to set in. But I make myself a promise to follow through no matter what, urging my footsteps to keep going and get outside. The bench can’t be seen from just standing at the doors. I’ll have to actually walk down the steps that are overcome on both sides with giant, decades old shrubbery, to even get a look.

  Oh my God!

  Now what?

  His back is to me—he hasn’t seen me yet—I could fast go back inside!

  Too late.

  dane

  I begin to count the empty buses as they go past to collec
t students. I’m sure the coffee is getting cold by now. I can’t throw it away, it’s my only excuse to be sitting here on this bench—an offering—an excuse.

  What’ve I got to lose—it won’t be the first time I’ve looked ridiculous in front of a girl. I’ll just tell her that I thought the least I could do was replace her coffee and see how she’s doing—any bruising? What am I saying—she’s not one of my teammates! Jesus! Why am I so nervous?

  I twist my wrist to look at my watch out of the sun’s glare. 7:00—ish. It could be a minute or two fast or slow. If it’s slow I may have already missed her by now; it was about this time that I clobbered her yesterday. For that matter I don’t even know if she would show up here the very next day, what with classes Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Tuesday, Thursday, most of them. Being here’s a roll of the dice.

  . . . I’ll risk it.

  Not even my dreams could escape the thought of her. I tossed and turned all night, getting up once to saunter into the kitchen and get a glass of water. They came one after the other. . . she was there in the stands waving the school colors as I crossed the finish line. . . and with Kate laughing at my mishaps, as I took joy in seeing them smile together. . . I saw her sitting with me on the porch swing back in Kansas 50 years from now—looking the very same way. . . and I saw her in my bed, softly breathing, asleep in my arms.

  I sit the coffee on the sidewalk beside the bench. My hand’s started to sweat a little, maybe from just clinging to it for the walk here, or from my nerves that seem to be running way too high. Anyway, if she does finally let me touch her hand and introduce myself, I don’t want her disgusted by the warmth.

  I rub my spread fingers up and down on my jeans. The hardness of my thighs being pressed against this bench, squeezed into heavy denim, makes me glad to get down to the stadium and change into shorts. I roll my head around one time trying to shake away any obvious unease. And take a deep breath in and out.

  Just as I get a little centered, I hear a glass door clang shut from up and around me, and footsteps for the first time since sitting here. . . but coming from the building. . .