The Squared Circle (10 page)

“I'm really sorry,” she repeated. “I don't mean to pry about things that are private.”

Sonny felt two dollars in his pocket. “You don't have to be sorry, you didn't do anything wrong. I'll buy you a Pepsi at Goldie's.”

At Goldie's, there were flies. The elderly waitress who stalked them with her flyswatter wore a hairnet and dangled a cigarette from her lips. Goldie's special of the day, chicken fried steak, was written in chalk on a blackboard behind the counter.

Back on the sidewalk with the Pepsis in hand, they walked north. Sonny was nervous as always about keeping up his end of the conversation; he thought about offering to carry her coat for her, but that seemed too geeky.

As they approached St. Mary's Church, they could hear organ music. Some of the windows, the ones that weren't stained glass, were open, clearing the way for
fortissimo
strains of “O For a Thousand Tongues.” Sonny wanted to keep right on walking, but Barb wanted to stop at the church steps because she thought the music was so beautiful.

Sonny felt his stomach tighten up; he knew it was his mother playing the music. To make it worse, she was supposed to be at work. “Maybe we should just keep on going.”

“Let's wait just a minute. It's kind of neat, don't you think?”

“What's neat?”

“Just the weather and the music. Don't you like to stop and smell the roses every once in a while?”

Sonny shrugged. “If you like church music.”

“It must be Protestant music,” she said.

“It's Baptist music,” said Sonny glumly.

“Do you and your mother go to church?”

“We used to.” He longed for a way to change the subject.

Unexpectedly, Father Breen did it for him when he came out through the wooden doors of the church. Sonny remembered the time he came to visit at their apartment. The priest greeted the two of them: “How about if an old man passes a few minutes with the two of you? I think these ancient bones can still make it down here.” He groaned himself into a seated position on one of the stone steps. He asked Barb for help to remember her last name.

“Bonds,” she told him.

“Bonds, that's it.” said the priest. “Barbara Bonds, B.B., that's very nice. Do you remember your catechism, Barbara Bonds?”

Smiling, she said, “I hope so.”

Father Breen smiled, but all that did was show his rotten teeth. “If I asked you a few basic questions right now, you could answer them successfully?”

“Maybe, but we were just listening to the music.”

“Just to humor an old priest, hmmm? You were always so exceptional in CCD class.”

Barbara didn't say anything and Sonny felt sorry for her because Father Breen was going to put her on the spot. You couldn't miss the booze on his breath, either.

“Why are we put here on earth, Barbara Bonds?”

“We are here on earth to learn to know God, to love and serve Him, and one day to live with Him forever.”

“Excellent. Why do we say God is truthful?”

“We say that God is truthful because He always speaks the truth. He can't be mistaken or tell lies.”

“Excellent again. And why do we say that God is faithful?”

“Our Father is faithful because He always does what He has promised.”

This quizzing made Sonny edgy. He looked at the stone facade of the church, which was old and gray. There were weeds sprouting up through the cracks of the sloped stone steps. His mother was now playing “And He Walks with Me.”

“Are you as solid on the Blessed Virgin as you seem to be on God the Father?” asked the priest.

“I'm not sure.” Now she sounded annoyed and looked away.

“Let's find out. One of the prayers to the Holy Mother perhaps?”

“I'd rather not, Father.” She was looking him straight in the eye. Sonny was impressed by her swift answers, but even more so the way it seemed like she was standing up to him.

“So be it, then.” agreed the father. He gave Barbara a chummy clap on the shoulder. “If we did it all over again, you would still stand at the head of the class.”

Then he said to Sonny, “Your mother plays a spirited repertoire of sacred music, young man.”

Sonny looked down. “She likes to play the organ,” he murmured.

Father Breen said, “Not only likes it, but excels at it, I would say.”

“It's your mother who's playing the organ, Sonny?” asked Barbara.

While she belongs at work
, Sonny thought.
Why did this priest have to butt in anyway?

“If only we could get her to come to Mass,” said the priest, “and bring her son with her.”

Sonny avoided his eyes. “She tries sometimes, but she usually can't get her hair right.” It sounded stupid, but it was true.

Father Breen was lurching to his feet. It took a while, and a while longer before he looked steady. “Maybe the son will lead the mother, then. Speak to him about the spring retreat, Barbara Bonds. Remember what the church teaches about ministry to scattered Christians.”

“I remember.” But no enthusiasm in her voice.

Father Breen was gone then, heading slowly south on the sidewalk, watching his steps carefully.

“Oh, I'm so glad he's gone!” said Barbara, when the priest reached the corner. “He can be so irritating sometimes.”

Sonny was glad, too. He hoped she was ready to go now.

“I think he's getting senile, too.”

Sonny didn't know the word but he wouldn't ask its meaning because that would make him seem stupid. It must be something to do with his drinking. “Are you ready to go now?”

“Sonny, you didn't tell me it was your mother playing. Let's go inside and listen for a while.”

“Why would that be any better than listening out here?”

“I've never met her. Please.”

The bind was, if he argued her out of it, he would probably make her mad, especially since she was already pissed at Father Breen. Reluctantly, he followed her inside the church.

It was his first time ever inside a Catholic church. It seemed like a large cavern away from the world; maybe that was part of the attraction for his mother. There was dark wood, low lighting, and the strong, rich smell of furniture wax. There were small statues in hollows in the side walls, and a large statue of the Virgin Mary near the altar. The huge organ was way behind the altar, so they could only see the top of his mother's head bobbing.

In the center aisle, just before finding a seat in the last pew, Barbara lowered herself to touch one knee against the floor. When she stood up to take a seat, Sonny followed nervously.

There were many small candles burning on the altar, casting up most of the light in that end of the sanctuary. If Sonny's mother knew Sonny and Barbara were there, she gave no indication; she went right on playing. In a very low voice Barb asked him what hymn it was, but Sonny didn't know.

This was very tense. What were you supposed to do in a Catholic church in the middle of the afternoon, sitting next to your girlfriend? And your mother playing hymns on the pipe organ when she was supposed to be at work at the phone company? He asked her what the statues were in the wall hollows.

“Those are the Stations of the Cross.” Her answer came between clenched teeth because she was clamping two hairpins in her mouth. She was reshaping the mass of hair at the back of her head with a small, silver elastic band.

“Oh.” His mother was playing something Sonny had never heard. She must have all the stops pulled, he thought, the way the notes came tumbling out of the dark, vaulted ceiling like an avalanche.

“What's she playing now?” Barb asked in a louder voice.

“I don't know.”

“You can tell it's something classical,” she said. “It's nothing like a church hymn. She has a lot of talent, doesn't she?”

“I guess she does, but I don't know much about music.”

After another ten minutes, it was plain that his mother intended to keep on playing. “She won't be stopping for quite a while, will she?” Barb asked.

“I doubt it. Maybe when it's too dark to see the notes.”

“Maybe we should go then.”

“Sure,” said Sonny, relieved.

“I can meet her some other time.”

“Sure.” On the way out of the church, Barbara stopped long enough to do the knee-touching thing again, but Sonny didn't feel like asking her about it. On the walk she asked him, “Why did Father Breen bring up the spring retreat? Do you want to go?”

“I don't want to go. My mother wants me to go.”

“Why?”

“So she won't feel guilty about playing your church's organ. You should see her on Sunday mornings, when she thinks she's going to Mass. Then her hair isn't right, or her makeup. She ends up not going.”

“That's too bad, Sonny.”

Sonny shook his head. He was feeling impatient. “She doesn't even want to go. What she wants to do is play the organ when there's nobody in the church. The truth is, I think there's something the matter with her mind. She thinks if she goes to Mass, it would give her more of a right to play the organ. But she can't get her act together, so she thinks I can do it for her if I go to a retreat. You know what I'm sayin'?”

“I understand what you're saying.”

“Yeah.” He didn't say anything about her drinking or the nerve pills. He'd already told her more than he was used to telling.

They were silent for a couple of blocks and then he said, “What's a scattered Christian?” He didn't really care, but it would be better than a long, embarrassing silence.

“That's you,” she giggled.

“How is it me?”

“You're not a Catholic, so you're lost. If you're lost, I'm supposed to help you get found. I'm supposed to convert you.”

“I don't care about that.”

“Don't worry, I would never nag another person about religion. I believe religion is a personal thing; each person has to make up their own mind.”

When they got to her house, they stood inside her screened porch. The shadow from the large spruce trees was dense. He kissed her once but then he said, “I'm not going on a religious retreat just to make her happy.”

“I don't think you should,” she replied. “A person shouldn't do a thing like that just to please someone else.”

4

Sonny spent the night in Sissy's guest bedroom. At breakfast, he told her he was having spells where he lost his concentration.

“Spells? Didn't you just score a thousand points in that New York tournament?”

“If you mean the NIT, it wasn't anything like a thousand points. I'm not talking about basketball, anyway. I mean other times and places. It's like getting lost in thought.”

“Lost in thought about what?”

“Usually memories. Certain things make me think about other things. Mostly it seems to be about Brother Rice, my ninth-grade coach, or Barbara Bonds. She's an old girlfriend.”

Sonny was finishing a bowl of Cheerios while Sissy poured him a tall glass of orange juice. She was wearing an old flowered housecoat with a zipper front and walking around barefoot. “It sounds like normal reverie activity,” she told him. “Are they bad memories?”

“Not necessarily. It's just different. It's not something I usually do. The memories seem …”
How to say this?
“They seem important.”

Sissy poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across the table. “You're worried because you're having important memories.”

“Not exactly worried.” Now it seemed so silly he was sorry he brought it up. “I just feel like I'm spacing out.”

“Do me a favor, Sonny.”

“What favor?”

“Go to class.”

“I have to go to a meeting at Lingle first.”

“Fine. Go to the meeting, then go to class.”

When he got to the meeting, he discovered it was going to be a heart-to-heart with Gardner, the compliance officer, and Price, one of Gentry's assistants.

Gardner started right in talking about his course load. “The thing is, Sonny, you did it without clearance. You didn't get approval for this.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, that's all. I think I'm capable of dropping and adding a course on my own.”

“Sure,” Gardner agreed. “But you have to understand the unique position you're in as a scholarship athlete. Especially one with a profile as high as yours.” Sonny squirmed in his chair while the basketball secretary put some coffee and ice water on the table.

Coach Price said, “The system is carefully set up to help you through the rough spots. When you're a basketball player, you don't have as much time for schoolwork as other students. It means you're going to need an academic support system.”

“Look,” Sonny repeated himself. “All I did was drop a course and add one. I'm carrying twelve hours.”

After sighing, Gardner put his glasses on slowly. He was looking in an open folder on the table. “Art history?”

“Yes,” said Sonny.

“Art history isn't a preferred option for a varsity athlete,” Gardner declared. “Never has been.”

“This isn't exactly the same as art history,” Sonny tried to explain. “That's just its name. Besides, it's only one hour of independent study.”

“I can read the note here,” said Gardner quickly. He was trying to hide his impatience. “One hour of independent art history. With Erika Neil.”

“Oh god,” Price moaned. “When did you sign up for this?”

This overreaction was puzzling to Sonny. “Last month, but the credits retroactive. Everything's okay, believe me.”

“Sonny, we're trying to run a
program
here.” said Gardner. “Do you have any idea who Erika Neil is?”

“Of course.”

“She'll bust your balls, man,” said Price. “She is the number one ball-buster on this faculty.”