The Circle Game

by Tanya Nichols

  The house was warm and still smelled of roast turkey and sweet corn pudding; the dining table was still covered with their elaborate dinner, just as they’d left it. “We had to go to the office,” Bernie explained to Don. “The alarm went off.” She gave a quick version of the dropping envelope, the version where Julie Randall was simply a client hand-delivering a letter.

  “That’s better,” Noni said, back in the comfort of her chair, independently mobile once again.

  “How about I make you a cup of mint tea,” Bernie said. “It will warm you up and help your tummy.”

  “That might be good,” she answered, her trembling hand lifted and wavering in the air, signaling to Bernie. “Let Don try some of that zucchini casserole. Heat it up a little first.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s delicious,” he said, “but I really couldn’t eat another bite.”

  Bernie could easily envision the scene of his Thanksgiving dinner, a large family gathered around a long table, plates piled with mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, another table in the kitchen for all the younger ones, the kids’ table.

  “Well, how about some pie and coffee?” she offered. “Or a glass of wine. I made a pumpkin pie, but I don’t know if it’s any good. It looks good, but you never know about the flavor until you slice it, so it might be awful. I may have overdone it with the spices.” The rambling speech plagued her again, as though the sound of her own voice would drown out the last hour of her life, keep it all at bay.

  “I’d love a piece of pumpkin pie,” he said, adding a slight bow of his head in submission. “And there is no such thing as bad pumpkin pie.”

  “Apparently you can eat another bite,” Noni said, “just not my zucchini casserole.”

  Bernie flinched at the old woman’s remark, but couldn’t decide if she was trying to be funny or simply rude. Whatever it was, Don seemed oblivious to Noni’s wry jab.

  “Actually, I was saving just enough space for dessert. I didn’t even have any of my mother’s boysenberry pie, a personal favorite, so that I could have pie here with you two.”

  Good save, she thought. He’s charming Noni into liking him, just like he charmed me, like he undoubtedly charms all his women. His boyish smile was infectious and eager, as if the very source of his joy was the sight of her. Bernie felt her cheeks warm with a happy blush, a softer shade than angry red. Her moment of tenderness was brief, tainted by the painful knowledge that he was slick, especially with the ladies, an accomplished player, apparently even with elderly women in wheel chairs. That might be valuable for her in the courtroom, watching him charm a jury, but she didn’t need that complication in her personal life.

  “Noni, how about you? A piece of pie? You think you’re up to it?”

  “Maybe a small piece,” she mumbled as if sacrificing something, a holy martyr for a simple slice of pumpkin pie.

  Don followed Bernie into the kitchen, leaving Noni to herself in the living room. Bernie would make coffee, slice pie and whisper endless apologies about the messy kitchen, her failure as a pie maker, not being there when he arrived, all while her mind raced on about meeting Julie Randall, wondering if she stayed in town and got a hotel, replaying an internal tape of memory over and over, each word spoken, how she looked, moved, how she clutched at the hem of her jacket, how she had driven two hundred miles to stick a letter in a mailbox. Bernie had not yet had a chance to read that letter. It was still tucked in her coat pocket, saved for later reading when she was alone in the safety of her bedroom.

  While Bernie and Don tended to the business of dessert, Noni glanced again through the morning’s headlines. No one noticed the dark colored Volkswagen convertible slowly passing by the house, making a U-turn at the corner and passing by again.

  After quickly clearing the dinner dishes from the dining room table, Bernie relit the candles. They would eat their pie and drink coffee, surrounded by a warm glow of candlelight, and the night would be calm once again. But, despite Bernie’s efforts to create a peaceful ambience, Noni seemed distracted and uncomfortable.

  “How’s your pie, Noni?” Bernie asked, concerned about her grandmother’s obvious distress.

  “Oh, it’s fine. Fine.” Noni’s brows were furrowed, and she trembled from head to foot, shaking and quivering as if she was chilled to the bone.

  “It’s delicious,” Don said. “You’re a pretty good cook, Ms. Sheridan.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling the pink spread across her cheeks once again. “Noni, are you sure you’re feeling okay? Maybe the night air was too much for you. I shouldn’t have left you sitting in the car all that time.”

  “I’m fine, really, just tired. I think I want to go back to my place in the morning, though. It’s easier for me to get around there, and my bed there goes up and down like a chair.” Though she had only eaten two small bites of her pie, she put her fork down and pushed her plate away and sighed heavily.

  “Sure,” Bernie said, “whatever you want.” Clearly, something was terribly wrong, and it seemed like much more than an upset stomach. Noni had been so anxious to meet Don, so happy at dinner, hungry and chatty. She was getting old, Bernie reminded herself, noticing the nonstop tremor in her grandmother’s hands and jaw. She tried to remember how old she was, did the math in her head. Noni was eighty-six.

  “I’m going to go to my room for a while, if you don’t mind,” Noni said, rolling herself away from the table. “It was nice meeting you, Don.”

  “Do you want me to help you?” Bernie offered.

  “No, I just want to read a bit.” She maneuvered her chair easily across the living room, picked up the newspaper, and rolled down the hallway to her old bedroom. She closed the door, leaving Bernie and Don free to talk.

  “I don’t know what’s come over her,” Bernie said, keeping her voice low and away from Noni’s range of hearing. “She’s not feeling well, I can tell.”

  “Maybe it’s me,” he offered. “Did she know I’m Vietnamese? Sometimes that’s a problem with older people, the war and all.”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t be it. Noni doesn’t have a mean or racist bone in her body. Before she had to take me in, she was a social worker; she loves everybody, well, most everybody. She really is the most fair-minded person I’ve ever met.”

  “Bernie, everyone has a racist bone in their body. Sometimes they’re little bones and sometimes they’re really big bones. Sorry, it’s not the issue right now, I know.” He paused and sat quietly, his gaze fixed on Bernie. “Maybe she’s just tired; it’s getting late.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said, but she knew that wasn’t it. Her instincts were screaming that somehow this had something to do with Julie Randall; it had to be. Everything was fine until that phone call, until they had to leave the house. If Julie made a habit of making unannounced visits to hand-deliver letters on holidays, there was probably trouble ahead.

  They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, their bodies angled toward one another, like breathing bookends, occasionally sipping the Italian wine Don had brought along to share. The trip to the office and meeting Julie Randall still haunted her, but the mellow flavor of the wine softened the sharp edges in her mind. While she had initially wanted to send Don away, she now welcomed a bit of time to talk with him while Noni spent some time alone. The proximity of another person was a distraction from the can of worms about to be opened. She knew in her bones that this was one of those times when no amount of planning could control the impending chaos as life simply spun out of control.

  Bernie studied the way Don seemed to unfold as he relaxed, one leg crossed over the other so that his left foot rested on his right knee, his long fingers curved around his ankle, his nails cut short and clean, nervously tracing the diamond pattern of his black and red socks. His V-neck sweater matched the color of the wine, a rich burgundy, and his blue-black hair refused to stay in place. Eventually, the electrical currents that had coursed through her body for hours slowed to a more pleasant rhythm, a soft hum rath
er than steel drums.

  “I had a weird night,” she finally said, her voice low and confessional. She was sharing a secret, unable to keep this news to herself.

  “I thought something might be up. You seemed kind of wired and amped up earlier, and I didn’t think it was me.” His gaze was intense and curious, inviting her to lighten her emotional burden.

  “Remember when I asked you if you’d want to meet your mother, your birth mother, if you could?” Her eyes shifted to the left, then right, searching for the words and the courage to take this conversation further.

  “Yeah.” He sat up straighter, his foot dropping to the floor to allow him to inch nearer to this new friend, to hear her whispers.

  “Well, tonight . . . I did.” Just saying it out loud caused a well of unexpected emotion to wash over her. Her eyes burned with a threat of tears. She swallowed hard and willed them away, tightening her stomach, steeling her nerves to any sign of weakness. No tears, she reminded herself. This woman was nothing more to her other than a little shared DNA.

  “You met your mother? Your biological mother?” He could just as easily have been asking if she’d won the lottery, his eyes flashing wider than she’d ever seen, full of anticipation and curious wonder.

  “Uh-huh. She’s the one who set the alarm off.” Bernie didn’t respond to Don’s excitement; she fought to remain expressionless, took another sip of calm, slowly set the glass down on the end table behind her, and casually combed her fingers through her hair. Numb, she thought, again, I’m numb.

  “So, where is she now?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t let Noni know who she was, so I sent her away. It was getting late, so I told her to get a hotel and rest, then go back home in the morning. She lives in San Rafael.” She shook her head from side to side. “Can you believe it? She drove all the way down here on Thanksgiving Day to stick a letter in the mail slot at my office. She must be a little nutty. Anyway, I couldn’t talk to her about anything right then, not while I’m dealing with Noni.” Her gaze briefly shifted toward the closed bedroom door. “Noni would freak if she knew what was going on, and you can see she’s not feeling well.”

  “You’re kidding.” He seemed baffled by her news, his lips slightly parted, no smile anywhere in sight. “Did you arrange to meet later?”

  “No. I told her Noni wasn’t well.” Sensing his disapproval, she emphasized, “this whole birth mother thing is very upsetting to Noni. She’s old, Don. She doesn’t need any more to worry about. I can’t be dealing with that while Noni is struggling.”

  “What exactly does Noni know? How much have you told her?”

  Bernie shared with him how she’d gone to Noni after the first call from the social worker, and knew then not to let her know about the exchange of letters. She now needed to put it all on the back burner for a while. “Noni’s old; I have to think of her first. It’s my turn to take care of her after all she’s done for me.”

  “Okay, but why should your grandmother care if you met your birth mother? It really doesn’t have anything to do with her.” Confusion seemed to evolve to utter exasperation. “I don’t get it.”

  “Because Noni only thinks of my mother, my adopted mother—her daughter—as my mother. And since my mother’s dead, the very idea of someone else taking her place is just too painful; kind of like killing her again. I can’t do that do her.” She was adamant, convincing herself that she was doing the right thing as she explained her decisions.

  “But you’re not doing anything to her; you’d be doing something for yourself and for your biological mother too, who, by the way, is obviously alive. I would think Noni would want you to have someone other than just her.”

  “You don’t understand; there are things that happened and . . .” Her eyes closed, “you just can’t understand.”

  “Tell me,” he pleaded.

  “I can’t.” The pleasant lull of Italian wine and conversation had passed. Bernie felt pressured to share painful secrets, and that was not going to happen.

  “We all have things to hide, don’t we Don?” She hinted at her knowledge of his cheating and lies, the cause of his divorce. “We put ourselves out there like we want people to see us, but underneath, well, there’s usually some dirty little secret hiding under the bed, or maybe up in Seattle.” She cocked her head, raised a knowing eyebrow and lifted her glass.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, but her back stayed firm. There was no apology in her clenched jaw. “I really think you should probably go.” His look of incredulity was unexpected and painful, a familiar knot in her gut. “This was nice and all, but I need to work through some things on my own. And I need to deal with Noni, help her get ready for bed. Still, these are my problems; I shouldn’t have gone after you like that. Really, I’m sorry for being rude.” And this time, her shoulders and chin fell. She was sorry.

  “But what did you mean by that secret in Seattle business?”

  “Nothing, forget it.” She picked up her glass and swallowed the last bit of wine. She scooted forward on the couch, looked over to him, waiting for him to get the hint, to stand and head toward the door.

  “No, you meant something.” He stayed put. “You’ve heard something or seen something, probably about my divorce, right?”

  She didn’t say anything, her face a blank slate.

  “I thought you prided yourself in being direct, not leaving questions unasked. So,” he said, “tell me, please, if something is bothering you.”

  Bernie sat quietly, slowly shaking her head.

  Don finally rose to his feet, resigned to her stubborn silence, her wish for him to leave. “Bernie,” he said, “if you want to know something about me, just ask. I’ll tell you. I’m not perfect, and I never claimed to be. I also don’t feel any need to confess every sin and flaw of my past to you, but if you want to know something, just ask. I won’t lie to you.” He picked up his jacket, draped it over his arm.

  “Okay, I’ll ask. Are you divorced? You told me you were divorced; are you?”

  “Yes, officially as of November fourteenth. I admit that when we met the divorce was not quite final, but in my defense, I considered that a technical formality. I do not consider that a lie. The reason I’ve been in and out of town so much is to go back and take care of those last bits of formality.”

  “Did you get divorced because of another woman?”

  He sighed then pressed his lips closely together. “No. I met someone while my wife and I were separated, and it certainly made things more complicated, but it was hardly the cause. But why do you ask? Where are you getting this information?”

  “So, where’s this woman now?” Bernie’s voice remained flat, absent emotion, compelling Don’s piqued manner to adjust to her own, from fire to ice.

  “In Seattle, I think. Why does she matter? I haven’t even seen her in months. And what does that have to do with anything going on here?”

  Bernie smiled knowingly and rubbed her left eye with her ring finger, desperately wishing she had not opened this door, wishing she had never invited him over, never shared a burger or a trip to a cemetery, never hired him to work on her cases. This was why it was better not to get too involved with people. It always led to her feeling more alone than ever.

  “Bernie, it’s an old story, but if you want the sordid details, I’ll give them to you. Even though, quite frankly, it’s none of your business. My wife worked hard to ruin my reputation during our divorce. I guess it worked since her rumors spread to people I’d never even met at the time.”

  It was the angriest and most intimate conversation she’d had with a man in years and the only way she knew how to deal with it was to end it immediately. “Don, I don’t want to hear the dirty secrets that ended your marriage. Seriously, I think we should call it a night. And maybe we should just stick to business for a while.”

  Don pulled his jacket on and stood looking down at Bernie. “You’ve had a rough da
y, and I’m an easy target. I’ll talk to you soon, and meanwhile you think about if you’re comfortable being my friend, and I’ll think about it, too. It bothers me that you felt the need to dig into my past. That’s weird, Bernie. Tell me, is your life an open book? Do you want people digging around in your past? I doubt it.”

  For a long while, Bernie sat in the weighty silence and tried to sort out the preceding hours, yet another example of life going off script, sending the best laid plans into the trash heap. The happy day she had imagined as she and Noni prepared their holiday feast was just that, imagined. Noni was alone in her room, upset about something or not feeling well. Don had gone home angry and the first friendship she’d made in a long time was likely over. Her kitchen was a disaster. And more than all that, she had met the woman who brought her into this world thirty-seven years ago. There was a time when Julie Randall had been her source of life, the very air that she breathed. Now they were strangers.

  Any other night, Bernie would have drifted off to bed, leaving the bits of turkey and mashed potatoes to harden on the good china, the leftover casserole to rot on the counter. But the very presence of Noni in the house denied her the luxury of lazy procrastination. She stood at the sink, scrubbing casserole dishes and saucepans, pondering the state of her life and everyone in it, both living and dead, sipping on one last glass of wine. The familiar ache of loneliness spread through her like a heavy weight.

  Now that Julie had a face, Bernie found it increasingly difficult to blame her for a rotten childhood. Julie didn’t look like the evil person she had imagined; she looked . . . nice. And in the end, Bernie had survived and done well in her life. The stories hidden under her bed were gruesome tales of other nightmares, of horrible deaths, murders and suicides, husbands killing wives, wives killing husbands, even parents killing their own children. Who lived through those stories? Someone always lived to suffer, but did they spend their entire lives consumed with ugly bitterness as she apparently had? Like Noni had? All these years later, and they still only had each other.