Lullaby of Love (2 page)

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 senior 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.

Kip patted my back. “I think you’re good to go Dane. Get a long night’s sleep and you’ll feel brand new in the morning.”

My body felt mostly recovered. It wasn’t the little boy body lacking in tone and form anymore, I was conditioned, and sometimes I got it—that I pushed myself a little too hard, but each time I crossed the finish line for Yale and heard the cheering and stomping, well,—there’s not much else like it.

I take a minute standing up from the table, savoring the restful state my
body’s in and slowly stretching my legs.

“Top form for a star athlete, huh Dane?” Kip had his back to me as he looked over his appointment book.

“Working on it, thanks.” I yank my towel tight around my waist again and head off down to the locker room to dress and walk back to the athlete’s housing. Tomorrow’s the last chance I have for an early morning run through campus, I tell myself—to get to hear only the pounding of my own two feet on the familiar path I’ve come to love, before there are thousands of students you can barely manage to walk among.

shay

“Be sure and call us when you get to your apartment.” Mom’s nervousness about me travelling back and forth hasn’t gone away in the nearly two years since it began, not to mention her anxiety about me living on my own without a roommate.

I give her one last hug before I board my flight. “Don’t worry, I will. And I’ll be seeing you in a couple of months. I’ll be back before you know it, as soon as the semester ends.” She gives me a weak smile. I can’t tell if it’s weak because she’s more sad this time for some reason—there was something not right about it.

I turn to give dad a hug. “Love you Dad.”

“We love you too. You better hurry along. You’re already one day later than you wanted to be getting back.” He picks up my carry-on bag and computer case and hands them to me.

I walk towards the line forming to depart, leaving them standing at the gate. I tell myself the smile is nothing, and turn around to wave before I’m out of sight.

* * *

The flight was uneventful and fast, what I’ve come to rely on.

Jenny was waiting as promised to give me a ride home. She’s been the biggest help I’ve had since getting into the graduate program. She’s one year ahead of me and in real time that amounts to about ten years of good advice being passed down, including the suggestion that I take a look at the vacant apartment in her building that was just one level below hers—which I did.

She came with me when I signed my lease, and helped me and my parents unload the few furnishings that I had. As far as apartments go it’s not anything special, but I’ve made it my own.

“A studio
flat
,” Dad said as he walked through it, seeing if it had everything essential and working that I might need. “Well, I think it’ll be just fine,” he offered as he reached inside the refrigerator and adjusted the temperature.

I thought it was perfect.

I didn’t care if the bathroom sink was still that robin’s egg blue from the 70’s, or that there wasn’t a real division for a bedroom, at least that way I could feel safe being able to see from which corner any little sound came that I heard. I was just excited at the thought of living on my own for the first time, even if it was just a college apartment. And actually, it kind of reminded of our house from the outside, and that made me feel even more comfortable.  You could tell that there were many wealthy families wanting to live near Yale when it was built, and those old, large houses eventually got dissected inside into many boarding rooms—then in time, many small apartments. And if we were standing inside of my house, my apartment would be in the same place as the dining room and about the same size.

It only took me about a week to get it looking the way I wanted it to. It’s amazing what you can do with a little frugal shopping to a nearly empty square.

The walls had been painted a milky cream color, which was a nice contrast to the beautiful crown molding stained so dark it was nearly black, that lined the whole room; I just needed to add some brightness to the space. I bought a pine daybed and covered it with a light pink duvet with tiny rosettes scattered over it and put it below the one large window that I had. The old fireplace, making me think that this once was a bedroom or part of one, wasn’t useable anymore, but it was pretty anyway I thought, and I set some large candles on the flat stones of its opening. I hung eyelet curtains with a ruffled edge over the window above my daybed, and the small one above the kitchen sink. Mom and dad gave me a quaint round table and two chairs that they had stored in the attic. I found a light green and white gingham tablecloth and bought a vase and flowers and arranged the table in the middle of the room. A giant, soft, white rug spread between the bed and table, nearly connecting them and covering the original, cold, well-worn wooden floor—some new, fluffy towels and washcloths on a narrow stand in the small bathroom, and I had made myself a home.

Jenny couldn’t believe how it looked, comparing it to hers; that she thought looked like the inside of a high school locker.

I was glad she was just one floor above me. . . and every once and awhile I remind mom of that.

“Shay!
Over here!” she calls over the crowd shuffling about, the wheels of their luggage rattling on the concrete. I wave at her with my one free hand.

“Thanks for coming to get me. Have you been here long?” We walk over to luggage pickup, waiting for mine to come around.

“Nope. Just got here about fifteen minutes before you did—and have I got a bulletin for you! Of all people! Professor
Dick-dick
has a list of three labs he’s raving mad about—and your name’s on the top! Your lab’s not ready. What gives?” She reaches to help me yank my luggage off.

“Great,” I muster, envisioning his pitiless ascent on me in the morning. “I don’t know,” I say, trailing off as my thoughts begin wandering, “some supplies hadn’t arrived yet and I’d planned to be back yesterday, before his usual storming about.” I kept telling myself on the flight that I wasn’t getting lazy, but I really wanted to stay a little longer. Maybe I am getting lazy. The visit was just so different this time, and it’s not like the lab is a
ship
, everything isn’t—it can’t be—in militant order, some things are out of my control, even as hard as I try, fetal pigs don’t arrive on time, someone cuts their finger, or better yet, sticks it in formaldehyde and spends the rest of their life schleffing off and re-growing skin in the spot that got saturated from it—stuff happens. “And call him Richards,” I say half-scoldingly and frustrated. “What will people think if they hear you—if he hears you?”

It’s not a secret he’s a right pain to deal with, and Jenny fearlessly knows which buttons to push. As if it’s a humorous release for her to be able to keep coping through the semesters. For me, I was so glad to get into such a selective degree that it may have clouded me as to what to expect and until now I didn’t take it for granted, not even a little.