The Squared Circle (15 page)

The cake that Uncle Seth custom-ordered for Sonny's birthday covered most of the surface of a card table. Baked in the shape of a huge number one, it was decorated to include a clumsy likeness of Dick Vitale, who had long been proclaiming that the Salukis were the best team in the nation regardless of what the polls said.

Aunt Jane took a Polaroid photograph of the cake before cutting a portion of it into generous squares. With his beer in hand, Uncle Seth asked, “How does chocolate cake go with the king?”

“You mean the king of beers?” asked Hufnagel.

“That's the one.”

“Not too good, as I recall.”

“Then you better eat your cake before you get too much brew in you,” Uncle Seth cautioned him.

“It's a little late to be telling me now.” He laughed out loud and so did Uncle Seth.

The TV was turned up loud. It was halftime in the Georgetown game, and the ESPN anchormen were reporting scores and highlights from around the country. It was unlikely that Georgetown, ranked number one in the nation, would blow its 12-point lead. Paepke was a real estate developer from Mount Vernon. His view was, “If we were in the Big Ten or the Big East, we would've been number one a long time ago.”

It was the prevailing opinion. “You got that right,” said Seth.

“It wouldn't even be close in the polls.”

“It's enough to make you puke, isn't it?” said Hufnagel.

“It's too bad we aren't in one of those holiday classics,” lamented Paepke.

Sonny reminded them, “We were in the NIT and the Memphis Invitational.”

“That's not the same. It's these Christmas holiday tournaments where you get the most exposure.”

“Yeah,” said Oscar. “Look at Georgetown.”

When the second half started, Sonny took the rest of the cake up to the kitchen, where Aunt Jane was mixing a large bowl of trail mix to supplement the potato chips. “I don't think you're enjoying the party much,” his aunt said to him.

Sonny shrugged. “It's okay. It's lots of grins for the good old boy network.”

“It gives them a chance to let off steam.”

But where does the steam come from?
he wondered.
What does it mean?
“Right,” he said.

“Take these downstairs for me?”

“Sure.” He took the bowls down to the den, where a Rutgers comeback was stirring some excitement. Sonny took an empty chair and munched on potato chips. He was familiar with Georgetown, having watched them on TV several times before.

Rutgers cut the lead to six points before Georgetown's six-foot-eight all-American, LeRoy Jackson, took over the game with a couple of leaners in the paint that he converted into three-point plays, three blocked shots, and a breakaway dunk. The lead was back to 14 points. With less than six minutes remaining, the game's outcome was not in doubt.

“They're not that good,” Paepke said of Georgetown. “Jackson's not that good either.”

Sonny couldn't believe it. “Are you serious? He's a first-team all-American. He's only a sophomore, but he could probably come out after this season.”

“He's not ready to come out,” Paepke insisted. “What makes him think he's ready for the NBA?”

“That's what I say,” Oscar agreed. “You can't believe everything the Eastern press wants to tell you, Sonny.”

“I don't care what sportswriters say. I've seen him play enough with my own eyes. Workman says he'll be a lottery pick.”

“Could you guard him, Sonny?” asked Uncle Seth.

“He's six eight,” Sonny reminded him. “I might be able to check him out on the floor, but not posted up.” At times he got impatient with their remote expectations. Where was reality?

“Luther Cobb could guard him,” said Oscar. “Luther would shut him down.”

“Georgetown's not on our schedule,” Sonny pointed out.

“We're talking about
the
tournament,” said Hufnagel to Sonny. “The Hoyas'll be on our schedule in the NCAA tournament.”

“If they're lucky enough to get that far!” exclaimed Uncle Seth. Then the two of them laughed out loud and clinked their beer mugs together.

After the game, when all the guests were gone, Uncle Seth was sound asleep in the easy chair. A monster truck rerun was showing, but Sonny didn't touch the set. He went up to his room. He found a paper clip to fasten together the five loose pages of his library report. Then he went to bed.

The two dreams, which were on the lip of consciousness, merged at times to seem like parts of the same dream: LeRoy Jackson soaring like a hawk to pin his finger roll against the backboard, and Sissy swallowing his finger wet and wild. He awoke with a sweat and a start; the nightstand clock told him it was only three A.M.

On the night of the 30th, it was dark as pitch, but the rain had slowed to a drizzle as Sonny guided the Mazda along the ruts and slush in Sissy's lane. He was relieved to see lights on in the house.

She was wearing her bathrobe. She only opened the door partway, but at least she left the porch light off. “This is a surprise, Cousin. Tell me what's up.”

“I came to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Liar. How did you even find out?”

“Aunt Jane told me.”

“Still a liar. What's on your mind?”

His hesitation was caused by the foolishness he felt. “I don't know. I guess I just wanted to visit.”

“Life in the fast lane must be slowing down; you came all the way up here for the sole purpose of visiting
moi?
”

“I guess.”

She reached to open the screen door so he could come inside. Lamplit from behind, like a silhouette, she seemed large. But it was probably only because she was on the step up. Before Sonny could get inside, it started to pour again. The rain pounded the porch roof like falling marbles. “Oh, the plaster!” Sissy exclaimed.

“What plaster?”

“I put four bags of plaster by the barn; I couldn't get them any farther. The rain will ruin them.”

“I'll put them away.”

She smiled. “We can pretend you came for my birthday and you want to give me a present.”

“What present?”

“Not goods, services. Putting the plaster away.”

She turned on the porch light while Sonny jogged through the downpour. The barn door padlock was troublesome because it was partly iced; he was soaked to the skin getting the bags inside.

When he stood on the throw rug inside her door, he was dripping like a wet tree. Sissy brought him a huge towel, so he took off his sweater and shirt to begin rubbing dry. Sissy held the wet garments, so drenched they were heavy. “You're soaked, Sonny. Let me put your clothes through the dryer.”

His hair was plastered to his face. His teeth were chattering even though he stood near the heat from the fireplace. “I'll probably be okay.”

“Don't be absurd. This isn't the locker room, you don't have to be tough here.”

He started to answer, but his teeth were chattering too much from the wet and cold.

“I have a house rule,” Sissy went on. “No superstar leaves the premises with pneumonia.”

Sonny had to laugh. He found himself in her large bathroom, under the bright ceiling light fixture. He took off the rest of his soggy clothes and handed them out to her around the small door opening. “Run yourself a hot shower,” she instructed. “These are so wet I'm going to put them through the spin cycle of the washer first.”

He called after her, “There's a report folded up in my back pocket. Take it out first, okay?”

Her distant voice was playful: “Have no fear, I never deal in laundered reports.” She sure seemed in a good mood.

For nearly five minutes he simply stood still under the hot water with the steam rising. When his skin began turning pink, he started soaping himself. It was only rote shower behavior, though, because he wasn't even dirty. Because of his height, Sonny could see over the top of the shower curtain. He watched the bathroom door swing open, and he could see the top of Sissy's head as she entered the bathroom.

When he heard the toilet lid clunk down, he realized that she had chosen a place to sit. “I brought you some wine,” she said in a voice loud enough to clear the shower.

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.