She swallows prematurely and reaches for her Dr. Pepper, taking a fast drink. “Have fun. . . at the museum. No, really, I hope you have fun.”
“Thanks, Jen,” I say, picking up my sweater leaving, and stopping at the door to halfway turn and somewhat wave.
The building’s always so quiet walking through it on a Sunday. I wonder if the museum will be as quiet today.
There he is.
. . . This time he’s waiting at the end of the steps. I’m too far back the hall for him to see me yet. He looks so handsome. . . polished, today.
My nerves flit at the top of my stomach, and I slowly open the glass door.
dane
She’ll be here soon.
Standing here in front of this building waiting for her doesn’t seem real altogether. This whole week she’s consumed me. And today, the first time we’ll actually spend any length of real time together. A first date, I guess. I hadn’t thought of it that way.
I move my hand down the back of my hair to the crest of my neck, then lightly feeling my collar, before bringing my hands together, twisting and rubbing my palms.
It’ll be a good day. . . relax.
The sound of the door opening gets my attention.
She looks amazing.
I don’t think I’ve felt this happy before. The rest of the world seems shut off when I see her.
“Hi.” I walk over to her coming down the last couple of steps. “You look very pretty.” I can tell there’s a heightened nervousness to her.
“Thank you.” She doesn’t make eye contact. Instead she looks down at her sweater draped over her forearm and lays her other hand carefully over the top of it. “You look nice too.”
The museum is about two blocks away through campus from where we are. The walk will be good, before we’re more restricted to ourselves inside of it.
The footsteps behind me padding down the concrete stairs, urges me on to begin going that way.
Shay’s thoughts seem interrupted by it to.
28
shay
Oh, no. I’m sure she waited as long as she could—until she thought we’d be gone anyway.
The questioning furrow in Jenny’s eyebrows as she continues to walk past behind Dane must mirror my own tension.
I release my expression and soften to a small smile, that she catches—and takes cue. Only then to raise her balled hands up to her sides, forming a concentrated, exaggerated look and taking the next few steps in long, animated strides like a sprinter.
Oh, Jenny. If this percolating laugh I managed this moment to bottle in my throat comes up, he’ll know something’s happening behind him.
I move a little to the side as if making room for us both for a passerby, but not before Dane catches notice of Jenny who hurriedly collects herself just in time for him to see only a shared glance between us.
“A friend of yours?” He smiles her way, turning back to me.
“Yes, a friend. . . a very good friend.” I’m interested in his momentary thought of her. Nothing changes in his kind smile. . . if only he knew.
“Cool.”
“Yeah.” The dormant butterflies begin to stir in my stomach. “Shall we go?”
“Sure.”
dane
I don’t want to let on that I’m a little more nervous today, like she is. And the afternoon sun glistening on the curves of her small shoulders doesn’t help matters much.
“I’ve only visited the museum once since I’ve been here.” I become aware of my hands in my pockets, and rub the crease of lined fabric in one of them between my finger and thumb. “You probably know every exhibit, being in biology. We could’ve gone somewhere else.”
She’s quiet. “I like the museum.”
“Yeah.” I slip my hands out of my pockets to let the warmth of them cool.
“Do you get to see your Mom and sister very much?” She slightly looks over my face as I turn my head her way for a moment walking.
“Some. Not as much as I’d like. How about you? Your parents must miss you, being an only child.” I’m glad mom has Kate there with her.
“I go home every break. And yes, they do miss me. . . a bunch. . . especially my Mom. . . but they’re glad I got into the program this year.” The museum is in view and she gently lifts her sweater from her folded arm, guiding it behind her shoulders and loosely tying it in front of her, letting her hands fall to her sides. And in a soft motion I take one in mine.
29
shay
The displays on the first floor are all North American, and very familiar to both of us. And it’s not like a metropolitan art museum, where the atmosphere nearly demands silence, and for this I’m glad. . . so the small questions can still be asked about each other, even though the trepidation in me. . . could never bring me to ask the questions I dare to even let myself think about.
“Dane. . . do you stay here for the summer semester?” The last part of spring semester goes by so fast, and the three month break sees a campus enrollment about one-fifth its size, normally.
“I do.” I nervously catch the smile in the corner of my eye. “I try to get home for a week though before the half-semester begins.” His thumb strokes the back of my cusped hand and it makes me feel a concealed sense of alert. “Then I head back for any training that I can get in around classes while the campus is mostly dead. How about you?”
“This summer is my first one here, and I’m staying. . . the first year grad students seem to be expected to volunteer with teaching the introductory biology course in the summer. . .but I don’t mind.”
We walk to find the elevator to go to the second floor, and I urge myself on to continue talking, and ask about his training. If I don’t, I don’t know what else will fill the silence, and I’m too afraid to think further, with my beating heart being the only other thing I’m hearing around us.
dane
Her soft, shy laugh is just as sweet as her voice, when I try to lighten the atmosphere telling her about my training regimen on the way to the second floor, which basically includes just not eating 60 chicken nuggets and a pack of Guinness as a meal like most of the other runners.
We make our way around artifacts sparingly encased in glass, streaming through three small connected rooms on one side of where we stepped out of the elevator, a bunch of cooking pottery and utensils, with a couple of remnants of clothing with stories in plaques telling about them.
I let her focus be on the display cases, hoping to see her calm more before we make our way to the other side of this floor. As we get near the last exhibit, I finally commit to asking her.
“Shay, can I ask you something?” I think I already know the answer, but nothing’s for sure.
“Yes.” She steps further in to a case and releases my hand, putting both of her palms and fingertips gently down on the edge of the glass, and seeming more interested than I know she is. And for as polite as she is, that’s a clear sign she’s more than nervous, maybe sensing, what I’m about to ask.
“Did you have a boyfriend back home. . . before you came out here?” My speech slows a little as I step in to look at the things, beside her. The wait isn’t long before she finds the courage to answer.
“No. . . I didn’t. . . I. . . Dane, I haven’t had a boyfriend. . . before.” She can’t look my way, just keeps her subtle gaze on the case.
I place my hand in the small of her back. “Would you want to go to see the other side?” I ponder my thoughts. Glad for the one thing I wanted to hear.
As we get down the hall, a large, red fabric rope is loosely hanging looped between two gold poles, closing off the area for renovation. There’s nothing planned after this, so anything less to look at means, less time with her; emotion rises a little at the thought of it.
30
shay
The tremor pulsing under my skin moves wildly with every second, not releasing me, and Dane’s cautious way right now increases the anxiety. . . maybe for him too. . . I’m sure.
As the elevator reaches the third floor I can hear children’s voices, and the door opens to people, a young family waiting to go down. In the moment this seems to be just what we both need, to deflate things a little.
The ease with the way he guides my hand into his to move around them coming on, and step out of the elevator, feels so natural, and I become aware in this instant that I’m not hesitating much, to allow him to take it, not anymore. The mix of emotions coming over me today feels like a thick fog. I keep reflecting on it, at every case when I’m trying to show interest, not knowing what will make me come through it. . . if I will. All of this creates such a sense of dependency towards him. . . one that I don’t understand and that makes me afraid. Even though, I keep encouraging myself.
“Dane. . . when is your next track meet?”
His caring eyes connect with mine, before I look away towards the direction we’re walking.
“Saturday. . . at Cornell.” I can feel him looking at me. The sound of humming bees nears us and I know we’re coming to the living exhibit sponsored by the biology department. An incubated habitat that was made with an opening tunneling to a vent to the outside in clear tubing for families to see the process of honey-making and the stages of their life cycle. I liked that there was time and budget taken for this. I know I would’ve had enjoyed it as a child. “This is new, since I’ve been here, a long time ago anyway, probably a lot of things new that I’ve missed.” I feel some relief move through me at his interest in it.
“It was completed last October.” I watch as the clustering bees busily navigate back and forth, some flying freely outside, and look up to the large window as they make their way into the trees, feeling more at ease than I have yet to today.
dane
I step closer behind her to see the bees that have escaped the cloister and are flying high and away. Everything seems so right, like life has paralyzed itself into something so good, outside of me. But it’s not outside of me. She’s standing right here. . . with me. I lay my hands around the sides of her bare arms, her sweater brushing the tops of them. . . and I can feel the tension in her, succumb to a softness, as she turns to me.
My eyes meet hers, holding them, telling her not to be afraid, I feel the same way. And in that moment, in that small look, she releases, she trusts me.
My hands slide down her forearms and carefully I bend my body to hers, her fingers lightly touching my skin, reassuring her with every subtle motion, until my eyes close and I find her lips slowly coming to meet mine. The delicate kiss is brief, but any resistance in her before has calmly parted, and our bodies are gently gloved, her small frame fitting into me. I come to her near lips again, tenderly probing the supple moistness, letting her find her way, until a slow rhythm takes us.
In the distance the elevator door slides open. I stroke the back of her hair, kissing her forehead.
31
shay
The ringing from the phone collides into the quietness as I hazily open my eyes, recalling the day, and forming a small smile, getting up in the darkness to walk over to it.
“Hello?”
“Shay. . .” dad’s voice sounds faint, emotionless. I look over to the kitchen for the time—11:38. An alarm sounds in my thoughts.
“Dad?”
The words come one after the other, suspending time, numbing me further and further—until the phone falls to the ground bouncing one end to the other in a cracking melee, coming to rest by the dresser.
dane
I walk back in front of the glass doors, looking up to them. I know I didn’t miss her. I’ve been here 40 minutes and I’ve seen the face of everyone who’s gone near those steps.
7:26. I squeeze the leather band of my watch, twisting it some on my wrist. Damn.
I’ve got to head to the stadium. I peer at the shadowed glass entrance one more time, maybe she came extra early, doubt it though, 6:50’s pretty early. Nothing.
32
shay
“Hello—Jenny Giovanni here!” her voice booms into the receiver. I can’t. . . dad said call the department. . . make sure. . . just call the department. Jenny will help. I have to tell Jenny.
“Jenny. . .”
She breaks right in. “Hey! How’d it go?! You have a surprise waiting for you in your room—well—partly in your room—I shoved the paper under your door as far as it would go. Look down—don’t step on it and bust your ass getting in. Big headline! Front page stuff! ‘Great Dane Sprints Past Harvard’—all legs—something like that!”
“Jenny. . .”
I’m interrupted again; the reality of time settling into her. “Hey—you sick? Where are you—it’s 7:30?” Tears streak more violently down my cheeks, words won’t come. “Shay?”
“Jenny,” I try to swallow, just to get enough said. “It’s my Mom. . .,” I press my eyes closed, forcing down the streams of wetness, finding any control, “she died last night. . .”
“. . . Shay.” A surge of empathy comes through the receiver. “I’ll be right there. . . I’ll get a note to Professor Richards. . . for you. . . hang on, okay?”
dane
I scuff my shoe through the dirt on the side of the track, waiting for the signal to step on for my turn around. Where was she?
“Dane! Get goin’!” My look penetrates the asshole with the whistle.
I head out onto the track, not into it and not really caring, not right now anyway.
“Again!” This time coach burns into me.
Fine. Fucker. What’s gotten into me? I can’t think about her right now. Now, I’ve got everybody standing around waiting.
I gain my focus, for the moment anyway, and give them what they want.
33
shay
“Shay. . . I’m so sorry. . .,” Uncle Elliott’s words are whispered privately, tenderly, in the busy airport as he puts one arm around my waist, reassuringly supporting me and reaching for the luggage from my hand. “I told your father I’d pick you up. . . the funeral director is there. . . well,. . . he’ll be waiting. . . let’s just get you home to him.”
Funeral director. My lethargic body weighs into his, as his grip around my waist feels more stabilizing, and I’m guided to the waiting car.
How did this happen?
Why did this happen?
The trees flash past blurring more my cloudy wet vision. There are no words exchanged. Just the sound of my father’s voice and a statistic not meant to be my mom’s, not her. The odds were low. Non-existent nearly. They didn’t want to worry me. No need. Keep her in school she said. Focused. Heart stent’s a normal procedure. Normal. Enough. And then. . . blood clot. . . heart attack. My breathing staggers and I force my head further right, looking out of the window, squeezing the moist clump of tissues balled in my hand.
dane
Dammit!
She was happy—I’m sure of it.
I slap closed the textbook on the desk, and slide it down into my backpack, yanking it up from the floor.
One hour. One hour—waiting, watching—there’s no way I could’ve missed her again today.
I fumble the idea around in my head. I’ll skip lunch—go to the biology building—go inside—try to find her. Yeah. Have to. I’ve got to know.
The campus is packed. Groups of people stand around carelessly, passively, blocking every bit of concrete alongside the street teaming with slow moving buses, inching at a crawl for their stops and full crosswalks.
Now that I’ve made up my mind my patience frays, and I doggedly stick to a straight path through the crowds, hearing grunts and profanities snapped at my back making my way.
“Shay, Shay Bennett,” I repeat. The impatient irritation in my voice gets met with a look over the top of her glasses. She reluctantly slides a directory in front of her and opens it. “Thanks,” I muster, not wanting to cause a problem.
“Shay Bennett. 3rd floor. Room 304,” she releases. I turn away looking for an elevator, or stairwell sign. “Hey, are
you a student hear?” she calls at my back, headed to the stairs around the corner. “You shouldn’t be just wondering—without a purpose—. You know—you might need an appointment!”
The door slams closed behind me, and I take three steps at a time to level 3, catching a breath and opening the door.
I’ve got to be quiet.
Room 301, 302, I keep walking. I can see students in the classrooms. 303. There’s not a reflection of light from the glass on the next door. 304. It’s dark. The note taped to the door says: Out of office. See front desk.
What’s happened?
Front desk?
I look around, making my way back up the hall, not having noticed the small waiting area in front of the windows looking out over the campus, with an open door to a receptionist counter. I walk in.
No one.
Shit—it’s lunch—probably gone for an hour.
My agitation kicks off even more. I’ll wait. Right here. I turn to eye the chairs I see back through the doorway.
“Can I help you?”
I spin around to the voice. A slap of hands down the counter dragging herself in a rolly chair, slides to the center in view. I recognize her. Before I can get any words out. . .
“Dane. . . right?” She searches my eyes, her half-critical expression easing.
“Yeah,. . . you’re Shay’s friend. You were there Sunday.”
She gets up from the chair, coming through a doorway from behind the station, while I stay looking at her.
She slightly gestures her head for me to follow her to the chairs outside of the office.
“. . . About Shay. . .”
The Season of Shay and Dane Page 9
