The Squared Circle

by JAMES W. BENNETT

  Wine? Sonny stopped in mid-soap. He was taking this shower, while she was sitting on the toilet lid for conversation. It wasn’t possible to see her through the accumulated condensation on the shower curtain. He began soaping his genitals, which increased his self-consciousness.

  “I said, I brought you some wine.”

  “What for?”

  “Birthdays, Cousin. We’re celebrating the anniversaries of our passage from the womb.”

  “How old are you, Sissy?”

  “When you get past forty, you stop counting. Besides, you’re not supposed to ask impertinent questions when you’re using another person’s shower.” She pulled back enough shower curtain to pass him a large coffee mug. He extended his arm to take it. “Don’t worry, you get to keep your privacy. Cheers.”

  The black coffee mug had a printed message in red letters: Pardon me, you’ve probably mistaken me for someone who gives a shit. He had to turn sideways to the showerhead, in order to keep the water out of the wine. He took a sip and enjoyed the warm slide down. The curtain was returned, so he assumed she was sitting down again. He wondered how many glasses of wine she’d had already.

  Sonny wasn’t sure what came next, but he guessed it ought to be conversation. He asked her, “Did you do anything on your birthday?”

  “Mother came up. We had dinner together.”

  “What about Uncle Seth?”

  “He did us both a favor by staying away. He did send a gift.”

  “What was it?”

  Without hesitation she said, “Money, of course. What else?”

  Sonny took two small swallows, then a much bigger one. It was hard soaping your ankles with just one hand. “Is this your first glass of wine?” he asked.

  “It might not be, what makes you ask?”

  “Just wondering.” Just wondering what’s going on here, would be more like it. But the wine and shower were both effective; he felt a warming of the soul and skin. “How’s the project coming?”

  “Still as far behind as ever. We don’t have any six-eight all-Americans to reach the high places.”

  “Six feet five,” he corrected her. “And it was high school all-American; that’s the past.”

  “Leave some of that modesty behind, Liebchen. It will only slow your development.”

  He didn’t understand what she meant, of course, but he was learning not to be overwhelmed. He followed his own thread when he said, “I’d like to help some more with the fresco.”

  “You’ve done more than your share, Sonny. You’ve gone the second mile and then some.”

  “But I like it.”

  “Are we getting hooked on art, Cousin?”

  “I don’t know about that, I just like working on the panels and the cartons. I guess I’m getting attached.”

  His mug was empty by the time he shut off the water. She handed him the towel around the curtain. Sonny felt like the wine was running wheels in his brain. He began drying off.

  “I like being with you,” he said. He couldn’t remember saying such a thing to an adult in his whole life. “I like working with you.”

  “What a kind thing to say. People don’t like me much as a rule; I’m usually too aggressive and blunt.”

  Sonny wondered if it was really true that people didn’t like her. Maybe, like he’d said to Aunt Jane, it was a matter of getting to know her. “You could give me another hour of independent study, only for second semester.”

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Sonny was thoroughly dry. Before he stepped out of the shower, he secured the towel around his waist. Standing on the bathmat, he had to stoop down considerably to look in her mirror, which was fogged anyway. Sissy had changed into a twill shirt and blue jeans. She was seated on the toilet lid with her mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She was using the sink for an ashtray. “Why don’t you just sign up for art history? There’s plenty of time left to add a course.”

  “I couldn’t handle it, not with basketball. I can carry thirteen hours, but not fifteen.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Besides, when I work on the fresco project, I can fit it around the rest of my schedule.”

  She was looking at his chest. “You do have a beautiful body, don’t you?”

  It was one of her abrupt subject changes, partly lost on him while he tried to rub the mirror clear. “I wouldn’t put it that way. What do you mean?”

  “Is there any fat on you at all? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though; how much bodybuilding does the jock ranch put you people through?”

  “We have to lift three days a week,” Sonny replied. “But it isn’t bodybuilding, it’s weight training.”

  “An important distinction, I’m sure. I’d like to do a sculpture. How’d you like to model, Cousin?”

  He looked at her. “Model? Why?”

  “Because you have superb muscular definition. You have what we call striated planes.”

  “You mean just stand there? I don’t want to go to the studio, I’ll get soaked again.”

  “Not the studio,” Sissy explained. “I’d just like to do some sketches. Preliminary ones that I might be able to work from later on. It’s warm as toast in the living room, what do you say, Cuz?”

  Sonny looked at her again. “You mean like this? With just a towel on?”

  She stood up and poured some more wine in his cup. Ran some water over her smoldering cigarette to drown it. She bumped against him. “No, no, no, Wingman, I mean without the towel. I mean life drawings.”

  He could feel the blood rushing in his neck and face. When he looked at her, she was staring straight into his eyes. “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “Of course. Do you forget that I’m an artist?”

  “No, it’s just …”

  “You wouldn’t have the guts, would you?” She was laughing, but it wasn’t scorn, it was warm and playful.

  “You can’t say I don’t have the guts.”

  Her eyes were twinkling. “I already said it. Here, let me say it again: You don’t have the guts.” She handed him the refilled cup.

  “You can’t say that.” His face was full-flushed, but not exclusively from embarrassment.

  Sissy hooked an index finger over the towel fold, just below his navel. She tugged. “Let’s see if you do. Come on.”

  “Are you drunk, Sissy?”

  “What do you think? Come on.”

  He followed her clumsily, surprised and speechless, trying to hold a level cup. If he resisted, he would lose the towel for sure. Sissy had her back turned, like she was pulling a wagon. “I want to see if you can get naked,” she told him.

  “I’ve probably had more sex experience than you have,” he protested.

  “Who’s talking about sex? Sex is easy. I’m talking about getting naked.”

  This typically cryptic remark didn’t reduce his bewilderment. Sonny found himself standing next to the popping fireplace, watching Sissy turning on lamps and shoving furniture around. His face flushed and the fire hot, he stood up straight. “Okay, so tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Drink some of the wine, take the towel off, and breathe deep.”

  “If you don’t think I have the guts, it’s just another case of you underestimating me.”

  “If that’s true, it’s a positive sign. In my opinion.”

  I’ll show you. Sonny took two large swallows from his mug, then he removed the towel. Draped it over the poker handle. He turned a defiant glare on his cousin, but it was wasted; her back was still turned. She was rummaging in her cabinet for materials. Sonny felt so naked, he felt helpless. This wasn’t anything like undressing a sex partner so as to go flesh to flesh, this made him light-headed. Instead of looking at her, he stared through the rain-splattered window clear to the haloed effect of the dim but visible pole light next to the barn.

  He heard the sound of pages tearing, but he didn’t look to face her. Still staring through the window to the
light beyond, he waited a few moments before he broke the silence: “So when do we start?”

  “This is the third sketch,” she replied.

  He looked at her then, seated cross-legged on the easy chair. Most of her face was concealed by her long hair and the shadows in the corner. Making long and bold strokes on the sketch pad, then tearing off the page to begin another. She glanced up at him, then back down at her page, “Are you embarrassed?”

  “What do you think?”

  “The embarrassment won’t last long, Sonny, believe me. Eventually, you’ll just feel bored. What are you embarrassed about?”

  “I’m naked, for God’s sake.” Then he felt defiant again. “I’m afraid I’ll get a hard-on.”

  “If you do, I’ll sketch it. Please turn a little to the left, just far enough so you’re facing the door.”

  He turned a little to the left. “Okay, I’m afraid I won’t get one.”

  “In that case, I won’t be able to sketch it.”

  “Why are you being such a shit? It wouldn’t hurt you to give me a little consideration.”

  “I’m not being a shit. At least I don’t mean to be. I’m just trying to help you feel natural. Try thinking of yourself as a two-by-four, as if there’s simply no you.”

  “I want a drink of the wine,” Sonny said.

  “Go for it. You don’t have to stand perfectly still for these quickies.”

  After he drank two more generous swallows, he began to feel an inner glow like a small flame.

  “Do that again,” Sissy requested.

  “Do what again?”

  “Hold the position you were in when you set the cup on the mantel. Please. Just let your left arm hang free.”

  He did as she asked, but he said, “I can’t do this for very long. The fire’s too hot.”

  “Okay, that was long enough.” She tore off another page. Sonny moved away from the fire and locked his fingers together at the back of his neck.

  “You never talk about your father, do you, Sonny?”

  “No.”

  “Ever think about him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have memories of him?”

  “A few, but I’d rather spend my time thinking about happy memories. My mother used to wonder about him, where he might be or what he might be doing. I never got into that. All I know is, he fucked us over.”

  “He’s a part of you though, Dear One. Your father’s still inside of you. Please leave your arms up there a little longer if it’s not too uncomfortable.”

  “It’s comfortable enough. I told you I have a few memories of him.”

  “It isn’t just memories I’m talking about, Sonny. I mean the whole population center that lives deep down inside of you. All the folks who want to know you. One of them is the father you never knew. Know what I mean?”

  “Not hardly. Sometimes I don’t even try to guess what you mean.”

  “What are you afraid of, Cousin?”

  “Not that again.” He turned once more to pick up his mug. This time he drained it. When he turned back, Sissy asked him if he would lock his hands behind his neck again.

  “No problem.”

  “Turn to the side a little bit, please? I’d like to detail this one a little more. Do you think you could hold that for about three minutes?”

  “No problem,” he declared. Sonny assumed the position and even arched his back. He found himself in an unexpected comfort zone, warm and mellow. The lamps were haloes at the shades, and the warm fire tingled his skin. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t wearing any clothes.

  “What are you afraid of, Sonny?”

  “You want to know?”

  “That’s why I’m asking.”

  “Okay, if you really want to know, I’m afraid of LeRoy Jackson.”

  Sissy stopped adjusting her sketch pad long enough to put her glasses back on. “So tell me. Who is LeRoy Jackson?”

  “He plays for Georgetown. Sometimes I have bad dreams about him. He can jump out of the gym and he’s strong as steel.”

  “And that makes him scary?”

  “It isn’t just him, it’s what he stands for. No matter how good you are, there’s always somebody better.”

  “I suppose that stands to reason.”

  “I mean, you can always keep turning the switch up higher, but there’ll always be somebody better.”

  “We both know how little I understand about sports, but all the available information seems to say that you’re one of the best college players in the country. Aren’t you proud of that?”

  Sonny’s serenity carried him to the threshold of drowsiness. He yawned. “I guess so.”

  “Isn’t it enough?” she asked gently.

  “I always think it should be, but in a game situation it’s not. When the ball goes up, nothing’s enough. It’s never enough.” He yawned again. “So you like this body, huh?”

  “You make a lovely model, Liebchen. If you ever grow weary of basketball, you might make an income at it.”

  “You can get paid for doing this?”

  “Most definitely. If you can learn to get past the embarrassment. Speaking of which, how are we doing?”

  “What embarrassment?” he giggled. “Are we almost done now?” What was that smell?

  “I think we’d better be. Your towel’s catching on fire.”

  6

  Even though Coach Gentry was a composed and sophisticated man, the strain he felt was evident in his answers to reporters. He turned aside all questions about the impending NCAA investigation with a brusque “no comment.” After two easy road wins at Tulsa and Wichita State, reporters asked him if the SIU schedule was holding the team back.

  “We make no apologies for the Missouri Valley Conference,” Gentry replied. “We think the teams in our league are quality opponents, and we expect we’ll have to work extremely hard to beat them.”

  Sonny, squirmy in his seat at the press conference table, wasn’t surprised at this line of questioning. It was becoming routine. Besides, it was standard grist for the discussion mill among Uncle Seth and his cronies.

  But the reporter persisted, “Apparently, the national polls are suspicious of your schedule, or you would be rated number one by now.”

  “We don’t spend our time worrying about the polls,” Gentry said. “Polls are fun for the fans.”

  “Do you think you’d be undefeated playing a Big Ten schedule?” asked another reporter. Sonny recognized him as one of the Chicago writers. The question was obviously loaded.

  Gentry had a smile on his face, but not in his voice. “I’ve already stated how much respect we have for our opponents. Our hands are full taking care of business in the Missouri Valley. The teams in the Big Ten and the Big Eight will have to take care of their own business. What happens in other conferences is not something we can control. Neither is what goes on in the polls.”

  Then another man asked Sonny what he thought when people impugned the quality of Saluki opponents. Sonny’s heart beat a little faster, the way it always did when he was asked to give public answers. Why couldn’t it be Luther’s turn, or Hooker’s? He licked his lips, then said, “Well, we beat Michigan and we beat Arkansas. We won the Big Apple NIT and the Memphis Invitational.”

  Sonny assumed it must have been a very good answer, because Gentry was smiling ear to ear. “Out of the mouths of babes,” he said, and the reporters had a good laugh. The rest of the questions were for the coach, so Sonny tipped back comfortably in his chair.

  On a free Saturday in the middle part of January, Sonny helped Sissy crate two large and awkward fresco panels in the Pyramid lodge. They transported them in the Bronco to Willie Joe’s spacious workroom. From his wheelchair Willie Joe instructed, “Just push that shit out of the way. Take all the space you need.” Sonny and Sissy got the crates into the flat position on one of the worktables.

  “Are they airtight?” Willie Joe wanted to know.

  “It’s touching of you to ask,�
�� said Sissy, “but rest assured that the packing meets the highest professional standards. Our point guard sees to that.”

  Sonny had no comment; he’d given up correcting her basketball terminology. But Willie Joe asked him why he was free on a Saturday.

  “We’ve got the Virginia game tomorrow,” said Sonny. “They changed the date so the game could be on CBS.”

  “Oh, man, kick their ass on national TV.”

  “We’ll do our best,” said Sonny. “They’re good, though.”

  “Would I ever like to see that game.”

  Sissy said, “He just told you the game’s on television.”

  “No,” said Sonny. “He means in person. Willie Joe, if you wanta go, I’ve got two comp tickets left.”

  “You serious?”

  “Yeah. Uncle Seth usually uses them but he’s in Florida this week. You can have them if you want them.”

  “You better believe,” said Willie Joe.

  Then Sissy said, “I’d like to come too, Cousin.”

  “You want to come to the game?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I need to find out firsthand what this madness is all about.”

  “I just didn’t think you’d want to.”

  “That’s because you always underestimate me,” she said. Sonny looked to see if she was teasing him, but her back was turned.

  By this time, Willie Joe was utterly psyched up: “Hey Sonny, you wanta take five and shoot a few?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You’ve seen our court; it’s called Makanda Square Garden. Let’s put a few up.”

  “Right now? It’s cold, Willie Joe.”

  “It ain’t that cold, and there’s no wind.”

  “Aw, it’s cold. Anyway, what about a ball?”

  “In the corner there, behind the scrap box.” Willie Joe pointed and Sonny looked. It was a bright orange playground ball with a rubbery, pebbled surface. Sonny walked over and palmed it up like a cantaloupe. “So who’s gonna play?” he asked.

  “You, me, and the man-eater. We go three-on-three.”

  Sissy stuck her tongue out at him, but Sonny doubted if Willie Joe saw it, as he was pulling on a heavy blue sweatshirt. Sonny felt like pointing out it would take six people to go three-on-three, but a bigger mystery was how a legless man expected to play at all.