The Squared Circle (16 page)

“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.

It was amazing to watch, though, the way Willie Joe slalomed his way on his crutches across the intersection and the railroad tracks. He went clear to the court without breaking a sweat, so obvious by then was the powerful muscular strength in his arms and back. It was cold, but cloudless, and Willie Joe was right about the wind: There wasn't any.

Sissy held the ball against her bulky leather flight jacket, which she wore over her sweatshirt. “Is it necessary to say an invocation, or is it acceptable to just go ahead and take a shot?” Without waiting for an answer, she took a two-handed push shot with no arc; it banged hard off the rim and caromed clear into the street.

Astonishingly, Willie Joe could somehow balance himself on one crutch only, while shooting push shots next to his right ear. Then he would snatch the other crutch quickly to balance himself. The evidence of his playing days was in the rotation of the ball as it released along his fingertips. If the shot made or missed, Sonny retrieved the ball to hand it back to him. Sissy was bouncing up and down in a guarding posture, but asking for the ball all the same.

Willie Joe missed a ten-footer, but Sonny tipped it in gently. “Shit,” said Willie Joe. “Go ahead and tell me this is cold.”

Sonny grinned at him. “Okay, it's not cold.”

“Tell me this is cold. How many times you been on a playground in weather ten times worse?”

“Hundreds,” laughed Sonny. “Okay, a thousand.”