The Circle Game

by Tanya Nichols

  She couldn’t resist the hateful jab; it had simmered inside her for too long. It came out without thinking, one of her quick-witted traits that usually served her well, but perhaps not on this occasion. The minute the words one more time left her mouth, she wished she could swallow them up again.

  “Of course, of course,” Julie answered. Her gaze seemed to drop slowly as she spoke, moving from Bernie’s face down toward her feet, but still set on her daughter. “I’ll wait to hear from you, then; I really didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “Why are you here?” Bernie asked, again delaying the parting, preventing her mother from leaving. “I thought you had a family; it’s Thanksgiving. Shouldn’t you be home or somewhere doing all those family things? Cooking. Eating. Dishes.”

  “I should be, but I’m not. I talked to Ms. Bennett last night and . . . I don’t know.” Her face looked drawn and worn, everything seemed to sag with exhaustion, but she smiled a little anyway. “I was standing at the stove, waiting for a pot of water to boil, and just felt like I needed to do something for you right now. Right now, well, right then. So, I sat down and wrote you a letter, put on my coat, told my husband to finish dinner, and drove it down here so that you’d have it as soon as possible.” She shrugged her shoulders in half defeat, finding some kind of humor in her rash behavior. “I was halfway here when I realized how foolish it was, then decided that I might as well go all the way. I knew where your office was; I looked it up online. And it was a good drive; I needed some time. You can read the letter, and we’ll talk later.”

  “Are you driving back now?” Bernie noticed a ruddiness in her mother’s cheeks and wondered if it was the cold night air or an internal heat that inspired the flash of rosy color.

  She didn’t answer, just lifted her shoulders and dipped her head to one side; she didn’t know. “I’m sure they’re fine without me at home, but . . . I’m feeling a bit worn out.”

  “Well, like I said; my grandmother is old, and I just can’t upset her. It’s late, and you probably shouldn’t drive tonight.” Why did she care? The woman hadn’t given a thought or care about her welfare since she abandoned her, so why did she care about her driving at night? “There are some hotels not far from here.”

  “Thank you, Bernadette. If you want to talk later or tomorrow, I put my cell phone number in the letter. No pressure, but if you do . . . I’ll get a hotel, and maybe . . . well, if I don’t hear from you by noon tomorrow, I’ll just go back home and wait there.”

  “I think you should get some rest and then go home. You shouldn’t expect my call; I told you, I can’t deal with this right now and Noni, my grandmother, is spending a couple of days with me, so . . .”

  “I understand,” Julie said. “I’m glad I got to see you even for this little bit.” Her body moved toward Bernie ever so slightly, as if she was drawn to her, a magnetic force pulling her closer.

  “Good night.” Bernie took two steps, then turned back toward her mother. “Hey,” she said, again halting her mother’s departure, “what happened to my arm? What did you mean by that?”

  “The last time I saw you, you had a broken arm; it was in a tiny little cast.” Her eyes glassed over with the memory of Ginny lying in the crib, and she rubbed her left forearm to indicate where the break had been.

  “How did that happen?” She was good at asking tough questions and tonight was no different. She knew how to get people to give her information, and usually the best method was to point blank ask for it. “Did you break my arm?” she asked. She held her breath, fearing the answer that followed. “Is that what happened?”

  Julie walked back toward Bernie, and Bernie knew the answer by the way the woman took a deep breath before answering, pulling together her courage, summoning up the nerve to confess to a difficult truth. She had seen witnesses do this deep breath thing hundreds of times. “Yes and no; it’s not what you think.”

  Bernie shook her head in disgust. “Of course not,” she answered sarcastically. “I’m sure you had a good reason for snapping a newborn’s arm.”

  “You weren’t exactly a newborn, and it wasn’t like that.” Her narrowed eyes and rigid body pleaded with Bernie for a chance to be redeemed, to explain. “You were four months old. Four months. And I didn’t snap your arm; it was an accident. I got hurt too; we both were injured.”

  Bernie felt her mind reeling, the ground spinning beneath her. This was never what she had imagined; where was the innocent teenager giving birth to a living mistake, handing the little bundle off to a waiting nun, then rushing home in time for the start of senior year, football games, and prom dresses? She wished she hadn’t mentioned her arm. Reality was no match for the easy-life fantasy she long ago created. Another accident, the inherited lie.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up, not now, anyway.” It was the best response she could muster for the time being.

  “Bernadette, please, let me explain just that.”

  “Not now,” she said. “Good night, Julie.”

  Bernie watched her mother move slowly around her car and climb behind the wheel, looking for any movement that resembled her own. But in the dark, who could tell? Her mother was nice looking, earthy, she thought. She wore silver hoops in her ears and she drove a dark-colored Volkswagen convertible. Was it black or green? Every detail, get every detail, she told herself, wanting to remember it all, bring it out later, examine it piece by piece, word by word.

  Bernie’s eyes burned and the urge to cry made her stomach churn and spasm. Stop, she wanted to scream. Don’t leave me. Please, don’t go. Had those words been ripping at her brain for thirty-seven years, buried deep in her being, unspoken and forgotten? Why did she have to be so cold? Why did she drive everyone away? Why didn’t she just bring her home with her and stay up all night asking all those questions that had burned inside of her for all these years? Why didn’t she let her explain about her arm? Why, of all nights, did she have to have Noni?

  “Bye,” Bernie whispered, lifting two fingers hidden safely in her pocket, an unseen gesture of good will, maybe even affection.

  Smile, she commanded herself as she hurried to her own car. A big fake smile forced its way across her face, the visual announcement that the field trip downtown was all for nothing, that all was well. The façade she constructed was sturdy and strong, a freshly carved ice sculpture, the image of perfect happiness expertly chiseled in her own likeness.

  “Ooooh,” she said as she hopped into her seat, slamming her door behind her, reaching instantly for the seatbelt, avoiding the eyes of the woman who knew her better than any other. “It’s colder than, what’s that you used to say, Noni?” She turned the key and the engine hummed.

  Noni chuckled, remembering how she used to make her granddaughter laugh with the silly sayings of her funny husband from long ago, when she still had so much to laugh about. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra. Your granddad used to say that.”

  “Nice, Noni. You’re such a class act.” She shifted the gear to reverse and backed out of the parking spot while warm air from the heater began to fill the car.

  “That man had more silly sayings than anyone I ever met; he was from Arkansas, you know. They didn’t have much to do there, I guess, but sit around and make dumb jokes.” She drifted away to another time, another life, but only for a moment. She was quick to return to the moment, to know what was going on. “So, who was that lady? What happened?” Noni asked.

  “Oh, it was just a client of mine. She dropped a letter off in the mail slot and the darned alarm went off.” It occurred to Bernie that she used words like “darned” in the presence of Noni. With anyone else, she would have gone right ahead and said what she meant: the damn thing went off for no good reason. “It was nothing; I’ll have to have the alarm company fix it. Funny, though, I mean the mailman drops mail in there all the time and no alarm goes off. There must be some kind of glitch in the system.” She paused to turn and look closely at Noni, knowing how to change the su
bject, to get her back to the humor she’d shown just moments ago, away from the events of the last few minutes. “Or it was Mrs. Gordon playing with the motion detector.”

  “Who?”

  “Our ghost. Didn’t I ever tell you about our ghost?” Bernie reached over and patted her grandmother’s leg, reassuring her, jostling her playfully.

  “No. Your office is haunted?”

  Bernie drove, chattering like a child caught in the act of doing something they know is very wrong, convinced that if they keep talking, nonstop and fast, somehow their infraction will go unnoticed and praise will replace punishment. Again, she thought, I am blaming a ghost for those things I can’t understand. She rattled on, words tumbling out, while another part of her brain contemplated the ease of attributing all disturbances, annoyances, and troubles on the unseen spirit of a dead doctor’s dead wife. “Can you believe it? She steals my files, makes me crazy. Poor Crystal. That ghost drives her to the edge of a nervous breakdown sometimes. It’s actually pretty funny, sometimes, to watch her get scared when a floorboard creaks upstairs. I know it’s just the old house settling or something, but that girl, she’s such a lamb sometimes.”

  The light at the corner of McKinley Avenue and Van Ness Boulevard flashed red, forcing Bernie to brake to a hard stop, ending her banter. A two-story house on the corner was lit up with red and green lights along the roofline and three electronic reindeer grazing on the front lawn. “Christmas lights. Already,” she muttered.

  The days were passing quickly, another year coming to an end. Bernie looked over to the car stopped alongside them. There she was. Julie was making a right turn, looking to her left, directly into her car, staring at Bernie and Noni. Only three feet and two panels of glass separated Julie from Noni. Bernie grew silent at the sight of her mother, subdued by the sad confusion passing over Julie’s face as she peered into her daughter’s car. An artist who discovers her long-lost masterpiece of her own creation damaged beyond repair and not for sale. Bernie offered a weak smile and dipped her chin, a gentle nod from a passing car, nothing more.

  Noni turned to see who caught Bernie’s attention. “She looks familiar, do I know her?”

  “No, it’s just that client from the office.”

  “Oh dear,” Noni gasped and turned back toward Bernie, clutching at her belly.

  “What’s wrong, Noni?” Bernie reached over again to press on her grandmother’s leg, this time with worry and concern, not playfulness. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I don’t know what I . . . I think it’s just a little gas.” She moaned slightly. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?” The light flashed green and Bernie hurried through the intersection, leaving a bewildered Julie Randall behind.

  “No, no. I’m fine. Let’s go home, and I’ll take some Gaviscon or something.” Noni’s chin seemed to tremble more, and she nervously fingered the air vents, funneling the warm air toward her. “Maybe it’s the wine.”

  The need to chatter instantly faded with renewed worry over Noni’s health. “Does this happen often?” she asked her grandmother. “Have you told your doctor?”

  “I shouldn’t have eaten so much,” Noni said, shifting in her seat.

  “You didn’t eat that much, Noni. Maybe you’re getting the flu or something. Should we go to the hospital?”

  The conversation now would revolve around medications, diet, and digestion. The nosy spirit of Mrs. Gordon was forgotten and the whole Julie Randall incident would be set aside for another day. Bernie was the only family that Noni had. Julie Randall had lots of family waiting for her at home. Julie didn’t need Bernie; Noni did.

  Sixteen

  1968

  It wasn’t hard to get a ride home. Juicy simply sat at the counter at the diner across the street from the hospital and made small talk with the waitress. In less than an hour, she’d offered the dark-haired girl who filled her coffee cup again and again, fifty dollars for a forty-mile ride.

  The house was dark. Juicy waved good-bye to her driver and jogged across the street and around to the back of the house where she had hidden a key after accidentally locking herself out one afternoon. She had once feared being locked out with the baby inside; the idea of being separated from her for even a moment unbearable. For nine months, Ginny had been a part of her body. They weren’t even two separate people. Then she was never farther away than the next room, still a source of nourishment as she nursed her, then bottle-fed her. Now she would have to get used to life without her, the quiet nights and empty arms. She had no idea how long she could go on living with such loss, or even if she wanted to, but for now, she wanted something, and it was inside this dark house.

  The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke lingered from a recent party, evidenced by the overflowing ashtrays and scattered beer cans and bottles. Some of the furniture was kicked over; it must have gotten wild as usual. It was a Friday night, and Juicy was nearly certain Freddie would be gone for the weekend, but she still hesitated to turn any lights on. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and she moved on to the one bedroom she had shared with Freddie and Ginny.

  The bed was a mess, all the sheets wadded up on the floor, and there were more cans and bottles strewn about. It had been a real party, just a different girl or girls. She wanted to wretch at the thought of what she’d been through, how she had actually thought she’d loved this man who had given her the greatest thing she’d ever known, then managed to take it away in such a short time.

  It was there on the dresser, knocked over and face down, the eight-by-ten photograph of her holding Ginny. When Ginny was born, the hospital had given her a certificate for a free sitting at Sears and Roebuck. She didn’t have money to buy all the pictures; if she’d known how things would turn out, she would have pawned everything she owned to get every last one of them. This one would have to do.

  She stopped by the empty crib, a used model from the Goodwill store. She grabbed the blanket and stuffed doll; she would take those, too. It wasn’t much, but she had to have something. She took a pillowcase off the pillow and shoved the doll in, wrapped the picture in the blanket and threw that in, too. She went to the closet and took a clean pair of jeans, then a couple of shirts and sweaters from the dresser, some underwear, and a pair of shoes. She didn’t have a lot, so there wasn’t much to leave behind.

  With the stuffed pillowcase dragging behind her, on rubber legs she inched her way to the garage. Tears fell steadily down her cheeks, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. What would be the point? There were so many to follow. Her strength was waning rapidly in this place. She had to get away, and get away fast.

  She knew where Freddie kept the spare truck key: in the old Folgers coffee can of screws and nails that he kept on his workbench. She tossed the packed pillowcase onto the front seat, opened the garage door, then climbed into the very truck that she and Ginny had been kicked out of. The fall hadn’t killed her, only ended her life. She didn’t want the truck, but she needed the ride. She would leave the haunted vehicle behind at the bus station. The cops would find it in a day or two and call Freddie to tell him they’d recovered his “stolen vehicle.” There would be no way to know where she’d gone since she didn’t even know where that was. She would take the first bus leaving, and wherever she landed, that’s where she would be.

  At 9:30, less than an hour after leaving the small house where she had tried in vain to grow a small family of her own, Julie Randall was on a Greyhound bus, traveling north on 99, headed for San Francisco.

  Seventeen

  2005

  Don was waiting on the porch, a bottle of wine in one hand, the other hidden in a jacket pocket, trying to keep warm. Bernie waved to him as she pulled into the driveway.

  “That’s Don,” she sighed, wishing he had forgotten where she lived. The events of the evening had delivered more than enough excitement for her, not to mention Noni, who had barely spoken a word on the drive home. Bernie was worried. “Noni, you�
�re not feeling well; I’m going to cancel this; it’s no big deal.” She wished Noni would agree with her, say yes, send him away. Then the failed evening would not be her fault. She would merely be acting as a diligent caregiver, a loving granddaughter. But that’s not what she said.

  “No, I’m feeling better. I’m an old woman, those things happen. It was just a little indigestion, I think. I probably just need a little Mylanta.” She fumbled helplessly with the door handle until Bernie made her way around to the passenger side to open the door for her.

  While Bernie helped Noni from the car, Don came to offer his assistance, his arm. “You must be Noni,” he said, and even though it was dark, Bernie could tell he was smiling. She knew he was smiling so big that his eyes nearly closed and that a strand of his straight black hair was hanging over one eye. He smelled good, like mountain air, fresh and clean, not like a bottle of aftershave.

  “That’s me. I’m the old woman with bad hips,” she groaned, maneuvering herself in the seat, shifting her legs to the outside, “and a bit of an upset stomach.” Bernie reached inside and put an arm around her, knowing exactly how to bear her grandmother’s weight to get her onto her feet.

  “And I’m Don; my hips are pretty good, so can I help?” he asked.

  “Yeah, why don’t you unlock the door.” Bernie reached in her pocket for her keys, singled out the front door key, and handed the keys over to him. “We have this down, don’t we Noni?”

  Noni didn’t answer, simply nodded and pushed herself up to a standing position, leaning heavily on her granddaughter. Together they would walk slowly, slowly, arm in arm, into the house where a motorized chair would assume the duty of weak legs.