The Season of Shay and Dane (3 page)

shay

Coffee
.
. . the aroma winds its way through the air and stirs me from my sleep.

Of all the Christmas
presents that I’ve gotten over the years, I think my favorite would have to be
the ugliest black coffee maker I’ve ever seen, with big, neon-greenish numbers
on the clock—
that I love
, and without a blip, faithfully has a steamy
pot of coffee ready and waiting for me every morning.

I look at the time on
the alarm—5:58—two minutes before it would blare at me, jerking me awake. I
shut it off, telling myself to keep my eyes open and look at the sunlight
cresting through the window. It’s one hour before I would normally get up, especially
on a day when there isn’t a lab to teach, and after two semesters here I’ve
finally earned a schedule that isn’t dragging me out of bed every day at a
punishing time.

I burrow in the covers
and stretch for a moment, absorbing the soft, warm feeling, before my feet feel
the shock of the cold floor, and knowing that I won’t be this comfortable again
for a whole tedious day. Slowly sitting up, I get a clear look out of the
window. The street is quiet this early and there’s only one walker with an
anxious dog on a leash.

As irritable as I could
be at such an early start, I’m actually a little excited at the thought of
having the tranquility of Yale to myself.

I tiptoe across the
chilly floor, happy for the short time I’m walking on the rug, and lift a mug
from the cupboard, pour myself a cup of coffee, and fast retreat to the warmth
of my daybed, just until I finish this first cup.

I can see the lab room
in my head—there wasn’t that much to do really. If my shipment of half-semester
dissection specimens arrived, I only needed to claim them from the supply room,
sign the inventory sheet on the refrigerator, after checking the quantity and
quality of their arrival, and take them to my lab. Then finish setting up each
of the lab tables with two working microscopes. By now the few replacement bits
I ordered for them would surely have been in the office mailroom waiting for me
and I could replace the parts that became damaged.

For some reason the
overzealous
undergraduates had a habit of being less than gentle with the equipment—even
when they were reminded over and over again that it’s somewhat fragile. “Our benefactors
aren’t interested in giving their money to refurbishing equipment—it’s for
research! Take care of your labs!” Richards would yell each time he got
approached with a requisition form. It was worth it to share any extra parts
among ourselves just to avoid his repetitive lecture. But this time I needed
too many and had to subject myself to his familiar wrath.

I finish my last sip of
coffee and look over at the clothes stacked on top of the dresser beside the
fireplace that I set out last night after my shower. The pale blue blouse and
light gray, button-up sweater with a hood still seemed just right for a breezy morning
like today; some lightweight jeans and loafers and I’ll be comfortable all day.

I place my mug in the
sink and open the curtain for the little sunshine peaking through this early.
The big green numbers on the coffee maker read 6:22, enough time to freshen up and
be up the hill by 7:00—one hour before Professor Richards is likely to be
passing through the labs—and enough time to give me a good head start on being
prepared.

dane

I’d already hit the
snooze button once.
“Discipline!”
Coach Lewis rants. How many times has
he been the voice in my head? Summer break couldn’t come soon enough. Spring
break was for everyone else. This time around I managed to take one day off to
spend it with Katie and mom. Their trip here had been planned since
Christmas—had to do it for them. But now with classes about to start it’ll be
full on grind.

I lumber into the bathroom
and place my palms on both sides of the sink to get a good look at myself.

Right.

I reach in and turn on
the shower to get some steam going and heat up the cool morning air. I’ll never
get used to being either too hot or too cold. I’m sure the thermostat for all
of the rooms is set by some antagonistic troll in the darkest corner of the
basement, who likes seeing us suffer year round. To make matters worse, Vince keeps
the bathroom window permanently open a couple of inches to aerate the constant
puke smell from him and whoever he introduces into our room for the night.

“Hey, Dane? You gonna
be long? Gretchen’s gotta pee,” he pleads, rapping on the door.

Jesus
—I
just got in here. I ignore him altogether and step into the shower, leaning my
head back in the water and soothing myself with the warmth. I move my spread
fingers down my chest and linger a moment before reaching for the soap. I slide
the bar down my leg, slowly guiding it around my toned form; it’s less tender.
The hypnotic calming of the shower shrouds me and I alert myself to move a
little quicker finishing up, knowing the water will only stay hot for about
five minutes.

I grab the track
practice shirt and shorts off the top of the towel rack and slip them on. I’ll
eat breakfast when I get back—too eager to get started up to campus while it’s
quiet.

shay

God
—
Spring
is wonderful!
I know I don’t have much time to daydream going up the hill,
but it’s only a five minute walk.

The melodies of the birds
are about the only sound you can hear this morning, perched in the
newly-budding trees. And the sunlight is so glistening and the beauty of it, the
way it bends through the branches coming fully into view, almost makes me want
to cry. I forget how peaceful it can be here.

I decide to take the narrow,
curving walkway through the trees, passing alongside the small pond and bell
tower leading up the hill, instead of my usual more direct route up the main
street lined with lecture halls and offices that goes right to my building. I
should do this more often I think to myself.

I follow the bending
sidewalk to the bottom of the cascading steps that leads up between the backs
of my building and Langley, the chemistry building beside it. There’s just a
short walk down the sides of them as I get to the top.

I get almost to the end
to turn and be at the front of the building, and stop for a minute to admire
the large lilac bush that spans several feet out from the corner and is way
over my head. I can see it from my office window on the third floor, and in the
whole time I’ve been here it’s the first moment I’ve taken just to touch the
delicate purple flowers and smell their fragrance.

I reach for a tight
cone of its blooms and gently pull it to my face, closing my eyes with the slow
inhalation. I carefully release it from my fingertips and take a few steps
further and reach for another one—my eyelids closing, only wanting the perfect
aroma to exist in the moment. . . slowly stepping out from around the bush. . .
the perfumed scent lingering with me.

“Holy shit—!”
Someone’s words cut into the air.

—My body stings as it
collides with the concrete.

The back of my head
immediately throbs. . . I can’t find my focus.

I reach down my side, my
satchel’s not there.

I hear a desperate voice.
“Are you okay?”

I slowly turn my head
his way.
“Ou—. . .,”
my thought stops. He hurriedly kneels beside me.
Yale
Track.
The large letters on his shirt come into view. He must not have seen
me come from between the buildings.

I start to tremble; I
can’t speak. I move my left hand slowly up to my head and slide my fingers into
the back of my hair feeling my scalp for blood. His face is near me searching—I
can tell he’s upset.

He speaks softly, his
eyes full of concern,
“Don’t try to move just yet, let me see if you’re
bleeding.”

I don’t take my hand
away; I just listen to his voice. He cradles one hand behind my neck and stretches
his other hand over mine, lacing our fingers together; the unfamiliar touch makes
me flinch, and he begins slowly moving through my hair.

“No blood,”
he whispers. The relief is evident in his smile beginning to form.
“Do you
think you can stand?”

“Yes,”
I struggle saying, my lips quivering—my voice nearly inaudible.

I get myself to a
sitting position, forcing back tears as the pounding in my head gets stronger
with rising.

He leans to me
reassuringly,
“Ready?”

I nod.

He slides one arm
around my waist and holds my hand with the other, bracing me as he lifts me up.
He must be nine or ten inches taller than me and I let the weight of my small
frame fall guiltlessly into him. A tear streaks down my face and I bend my head
further trying not to be seen. I don’t know if I’m crying because of the scare
and the pain, or that I’m so close to him now.

He leads me a few feet
to the small bus bench outside of my building.

“Thank you. . .,”
I say carefully, looking slowly to where I had fallen to see where my bag was.

He follows my eyes and
walks back over to collect it and the emptied disposable coffee cup. As he
turns around, I can see the coffee has splattered on his shirt and shorts and I
begin to smile a little at the whole confusion, at the same time more tears
start to flow down.

He places the bag
between us on the bench. I can feel him looking at me with my face turned
downwards and my hands, one rubbing the other, in my lap. I’m sure he sees the
tears now.

“I’m so very sorry.”
The apology in his tone makes me feel sad for him, and I know it’s only right
and kind that I lift my head.

I turn to him, and the
tenderness in his eyes catches me.

“It’s alright,”
I say, wanting to be courteous for his help and yet feel able to simply be remaining
on the bench with him. But I’m a little winded and want to wait a second before
walking up the flight of stairs to the front door—my hands still caressing
together on my jeans. He reaches for them, just lightly touching the tops, when
I slide them down the sides of my legs.

“Are you sure you’re
okay? Can I walk with you to where you need to be?”
his voice still the same softness.

“I’ll be fine, thank
you. . . and this is my building.”

He looks behind us to
read the words carved at the top,
Everett Science
.

I find the courage with
his distraction.
“I’m sorry the coffee got on your clothes,”
I say
quietly.
For myself I needed to acknowledge it, and I meant it. He
wouldn’t think I was just maybe shy around men, he would probably think I was
rude if I didn’t, and a Yale athlete and maybe from an affluent family, he
probably has all types of girls wanting his attention and then trying to be
difficult to make a chase of it. He’s been gentle to me and I couldn’t let him
walk away not feeling my gratitude.

“It’s nothing.”
He
looks down at his clothing and smiles, lightly brushing his shirt with the back
of his hand, both of us knowing that won’t change anything, and I’m sure only being
thoughtful for my benefit.

I find myself smiling, with
warm tears still drying on my face.

“Can I at least replace
your cup of coffee?”

“Really, it’s alright.
. .but I should probably get inside. . .thank you for getting my bag.”
I reach for it and slide my hand over the top, my fingers moving over the
contour of the monogramming etched in the pale leather above the closure, a
graduation gift from my parents.

“Sure
.
. .
You sure you’re okay?”
He hadn’t noticed the strap on my bag had
formed into a loop and was resting on his bare thigh.

“I’m okay
.
”
I begin to slide my bag to pick it up and stand; the sensation going across his
leg makes him see my hesitancy, and he lifts it and passes it to me.
“Thanks.
. .”

As I walk away, I can
see he’s still there on the bench.

Dane

I lean back into the
bench and tilt my neck looking up at the sky in utter disbelief of what just
happened. In all of my years running track, I’ve never had such a colossal hit.

Where was my head?

And she was so nice
about.

The rhythm of my run
just got too centered. I wasn’t seeing a thing except for the path traced out
in my mind—that I pounded down.

Jesus!

And now she’s somewhere
up there in that building trying to walk it off.

She must have been
nearly a foot shorter than me, and so quiet. There wasn’t anything more that I
could do but apologize, but still—
shit
. The burning coffee that washed
over me was nothing compared to the fall she took.

I rub my hand across my
forehead and look down at my clothes, lifting the bottom edge of my shirt to
see if I’m scalded—only a little pink. Some professor, I assume, walks past me
judgmentally with a black leather bag and dressed in an expensive cardigan and
slacks—they’re easy to spot. Their
attire
looks mid-nineteenth century—all
but the cloak. He looks back over his shoulder
firmly
scrutinizing my
appearance.

Sure.

I slap my thighs with my
hands and get up from the bench. What a way for my last morning run to
end—wiping out some sweet girl.

—Everett Science
.

I turn to read the name
and ground myself with where I’m at. As I look up at the building, I’m almost
positive I see her in the window. I move a little to the side to get out of
view of a few branches blocking me.

She’s gone.

I didn’t tell her my
name when I offered to replace her coffee. And I didn’t ask her hers—wouldn’t
have. Just saw the initials on her bag—S with a big B and an L . . . expensive
bag, and probably an expensive girl—a legacy—with alumni parents.

My thoughts clear
somewhat and I decide to head back the way I came, not finishing my run—just shower
and get some breakfast.