The Squared Circle (27 page)

His aunt sought to console him: “Don't feel bad, Sonny; it was still a wonderful season.”

“I know.”

“You can't win them all.”

Sonny appreciated Aunt Jane's good intentions. He might have been consumed by grief or regret, but his drugged condition had a neutralizing effect. “Life goes on,” he said glibly.

At the postgame press conference, Luther announced that he was coming out.

“Is he gay, is that what he means?” asked Sissy.

“Very funny,” Sonny replied.

“But he said he's coming out. That must mean out of the closet.”

“No, it means he's leaving school a year early to play in the NBA.”

“He'll finish his junior year, then?”

Sonny adjusted his traction mechanism in order to turn in her direction before he answered. “To be honest, now that the season is over, I doubt if Luther will go to another class.”

“That's wonderful,” said Sissy scornfully. “And to think I've been so cynical about the student-athlete concept.”

It was Aunt Jane's turn: “Please don't be quarrelsome now, Sissy. Sonny needs to get well.”

“Okay, but as soon as he's recovered, I'll be as quarrelsome as I need to be.”

The fresh surgical dressing on Sonny's right hand was encased in a plastic soft cast that reached nearly to the middle of his forearm; the arm itself was housed in a stitched canvas sling secured around his torso by nylon straps. People stared at him. In the library, or on his way to classes, or even locating his car in a parking lot, he could feel the uncomfortable, curious eyes. He was used to being gawked at, but not in this fashion; he didn't like it.

The solitude at Sissy's place was comforting. He didn't have to answer questions or take phone calls, not from reporters, not from anybody. He didn't have to feel the eyes. There were many nuts-and-bolts frustrations associated with learning how to be a one-handed, left-handed person. Everything from driving a car to brushing his teeth was an annoying adjustment taking extra time. Still, he could learn alone; he didn't have to be embarrassed because his adjustments could be private.

One afternoon he went to the dorm to move his stuff out. He was hoping he could accomplish the exodus alone, without encountering Robert Lee. There was the frustration of trying to operate exclusively with the left hand. By the time he had most of his clothes out of the closet and his books and notebooks packed in the computer paper boxes, he was uncommonly fatigued. He sat dispirited on the edge of the bed with shortness of breath and a case of the shakes. He felt weak.
How could he be so far out of shape so fast?

Then Robert Lee came in, sweaty in T-shirt and gym shorts. Wearing a headband. “Sonny. Jesus Christ, how are you?”

“Wore-out I guess. Look at me.”

“Jesus Christ, how are you? Are you okay?”

“I'll be okay when I get my strength back. You been shootin'?”

“Nah, just some team Frisbee. You're packin' your stuff. You're leavin', aren't you?”

“I'm not leavin' school,” Sonny assured him. “I'm just movin' in with my cousin for a while.”

“Oh man, are you sure?”

“Yeah. It's what I have to do.”

“I'm gonna miss you for sure.”

“I told you I'll still be in school.”

“In a way I don't blame you though. The phone never stops ringin'.” Robert Lee asked him about the cast and the sling.

“I don't wear the sling a lot of the time. The cast'll be on for at least another week, maybe longer.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as bad as it used to. I have pain pills anyway.”

“Did you cut off your whole hand, Sonny?”

“Just about. I still have my little finger and part of my ring finger.”

“Jesus Christ, what are you going to do? What about your scholarship?”

Robert Lee had his shirt off and was toweling his sweat. Sonny didn't have an answer for the question. “I don't know,
amigo
, I don't know. I guess I have a lot to think about.”

“I probably shouldn't even ask you that,” said Robert Lee, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. From the top shelf of his cubby, he brought out a gold medallion at the end of a slim chain. “I saved this for you from the ceremony they had for us at the arena. Everybody got one.”

Robert Lee let the medallion drop in Sonny's open palm. It was shiny gold with a Saluki in relief on one side and the words NCAA TOURNAMENT on the other. The delicate chain sifted through his long fingers like sand. Sonny looked at it, but didn't know what to feel; maybe it would have more meaning than the plaque that said 3500.

“The place was jammed. Charlie Vaughn was there. I wish you could have been there, my friend.”

“I heard all about it from my aunt. I wish I could have been there, too.”

“Anyhow, I wanted to make sure you got the medallion.”

“I appreciate it.”

Robert Lee sat down across from him before he said, “You know what, Sonny? We almost did it.”

Sonny knew what he meant. “Yeah, we almost did, didn't we?”

“We almost won the fucking national championship. We almost did that.”

Sonny didn't want to talk about it, though. He said, “Yeah, that's what we almost did.”

“I probably shouldn't even say that though; you probably feel bad enough without that.”

“Don't worry about it, Robert Lee, just say what you say. Just be yourself.”

“Yeah, I guess. Can I help you out with anything?”

“There's one thing. Would you mind helping me take this stuff downstairs? Sissy's coming by in the Bronco.”

“When am I going to be seeing you?”

“I'll be around.”

“No, you won't. We aren't going to be seeing you.”

“I told you I'll be around. Are you going to help me with this stuff or what?”

Sonny spent more time at his studies. More time in the library. More time on walks in the woods, every now and then with Aunt Jane, when she came to visit.

Sissy wasn't pleased. “Life doesn't stop,” she told him.

“This is just a period of adjustment. Don't you remember what my doctor said?”

“I'm glad you're here, Sonny, but I don't want you living with me to escape from reality.”

“Reality? I'm just being contemplative; I thought you'd like it.”

“You're just being a hermit. You don't have to withdraw from the world to be contemplative.”

“I need more time,” he said again.

On the day he went to the hospital to have his stitches removed, he sat with his eyes closed. There was no pain, but when the doctor pulled on the sutures, it tickled. Sonny could feel the fingers that weren't there anymore. The new dressing was small. Held in place by an Ace bandage, it left his little finger and the stub of his ring finger free.

In the hospital parking lot, his right hand resting in his lap while the left reached across to move the car into reverse, he felt tears running down his face. He had wondered when, if ever, they would come. He pushed the gear back into park. The smaller, freer bandage was supposed to signify liberation and a new beginning. Instead, it delivered the harshest confrontation with reality with the force of a two-by-four between the eyes: He was now a one-handed man without a future as a basketball player. There would have to be life after basketball and he would have to discover what kind of life that would be.

Was he resourceful enough to do that? Could he ever? Sonny shut the engine off while the tears ran down his face. He had wondered when, if ever, they would come.

It was the first of May when he was using her tape measure to find dimensions on the old haymow door. He watched Sissy's Bronco as it bounced its way up the gravel lane before lurching to a stop. When she got out, Sonny could see she was holding a basketball.

“What's with the basketball?” he asked.

“What's with the tape measure?” she countered.

“I asked first.”

“I asked better.” She was wearing the Donald Duck T-shirt and her overalls. She was picking hairpins out of her hair to let it loose.

“I'm measuring the haymow door,” he told her. “It's almost four feet by six. If I could frame it up, we could put a window in it. It wouldn't be a skylight, exactly, but it would let in lots of light.”

“
Bueno, Chico
. You can do it all left-handed?”

“I won't have a choice, will I? So what's with the ball? You know I don't want to shoot.”

“
I
want to shoot.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I do. Are you going to make me play alone?”

They shot baskets through the rim on its side. The mechanics of it were about what Sonny expected, except you had to drive the ball hard against the siding to expedite its horizontal path through the rim. It took a while to get the hang of it; Sissy seemed better at it in a way, because her two-handed push shot tended to gather altitude after it contacted the siding.

After thirty minutes they were sweaty and tired. For May, it was hot. They drank the ice water while leaning against the car. “Look what I found,” she said to him.

He recognized the small gold pin she handed him as his fraternity pledge pin. “Where the hell did you find this?”

“In the kitchen, next to the coffee canister. I thought you quit your fraternity, Sonny.”

“I did.”

“So, what's with the pin?”

“I just never got around to takin' it back. I didn't even know where it was.”

“So what do you think of basketball turned on its side?” she asked him.

“Is there any other kind?”

“We're not going to be negative now, that's one of the rules.”

“Rules for what?”

“Rules for sideways basketball.”

“Okay, I think basketball on its side is terrific.”

She changed the subject. “Your sportswriter friend called this morning. The one called Warner.”

“I know; he called back. I ended up talkin' to him.”

“That's good, Sonny.”

“Oh yeah, what makes it good?”

“Anything that makes you less of a hermit is good for you. In my opinion, that is.”

“We've talked about this before, Sissy.”

“What are you afraid of,
Liebcbm?
”

“We've talked about this before, too.”

“So what did Warner want?” she asked.

Before he answered, he took a drink of the water and put the small pin away in his pocket. “He has a theory. Warner's theory is that I cut off my fingers on purpose.”

“Oh, my.”

“Not in my conscious mind, not that I
knew
I was doing it on purpose. It was only on purpose in my subconscious mind.”

“Oh, my,” Sissy repeated. “And does this theory include any motivation for such a drastic form of behavior?”

“You mean the why of it?”

“That's what I mean.”

Sonny looked at the way the net hung flat against the rim's opening. A rim on its side didn't really have a top or bottom, what would be the need for a net, anyway? There was nothing to prevent him from modifying further; he could take away the net if he felt like it. He said, “Warner thinks I did it because I could never stand to be second-best. He calls it losing your nerve. There's always the next level; no matter how good you are, there's always a higher level.”

“The only level higher than college would be the NBA, isn't that so, Sonny?”

“Yes, but there's always somebody better. Even in the NBA there are stars and superstars, and they're all above the role players. No matter how good you are, there's always somebody at a higher level.”

Sissy said, “And the rest of the theory would be, you're off the hook now, because you're a handicapped person. If you're ambivalent about winning and losing, it makes no difference if you can't be expected to take responsibility.”

Sonny was amazed. He turned to look in her eyes. “I don't know how you can do that. How can you do that?”

“You mean I'm right?”

“Almost word for word.” Sonny repeated himself: “I don't know how you can do that. You're too smart for your own good.”

“I'm not the only one, though. It's possible your friend Warner is in over his head.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, if we follow his argument to the end of the line, pretty soon we'll be asking ourselves if there are any such things as accidents at all.”

“Can you stop now? Isn't it deep enough as it is?”

Sissy laughed. She grabbed him by the short hairs at the nape of the neck. “Come and sit down, Cuz; I'm tired of standing.”

They sat on the chopping block, the scene of the crime itself. Its diameter was nearly three feet, so it provided enough room if Sonny sat between her legs. There were no longer any dressings or bandages on his mangled hand. Only bumps and stubs and molded, folded flesh, tender but hardening. He resisted the self-conscious urge to secure his right hand in the left armpit. He said, “I need some more water.”

She passed him the pitcher. “Are you drinking out of the same side?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” Slaked, he passed the pitcher back. “No matter what you say, I keep thinking about Warner's theory. I can't help it.”

From behind, Sissy put her arms around his midriff; the side of her head rested against the back of his neck. “And what about it?”

“I cut off my own hand unconsciously on purpose because I've never resolved winning and losing.”

“Do you believe that?”

“It's what
he
believes. I don't know what
I
think.”

“What if he's right?” Sissy asked. “Is that so scary?”

“It has to be sick. Perverse, to use one of your words.” He could feel her breath on the back of his neck. He was staring at the huge, old sycamore by the barn. He knew sycamores were always last to recover in spring.