Circle Nine

by Anne Heltzel

  The documentary is told in ministories that chronicle certain lost souls — orphans and street kids. After it’s over, a melodramatic narrative voice bellows across the lawn from the sound system around us:

  This film is dedicated to the loving memory of one of our own Winston County Documentary Film Club members who passed away tragically last year in a fire on Orchard Lane in Pineview.

  As the voice continues in monotone, the camera pans to a neighborhood setting that looks vaguely familiar. Then a photo flashes across the screen: a pretty little dark-haired girl on a tire swing. It looks as if this will be a slide show, in memoriam. I see a date and the beginnings of a name, text that passes quickly under the photo, but before I can see the rest, Sam snatches my hand hard enough that I cry out, and though the sound is mostly muffled, I see some people turn. My arm might be pulled from my socket. Sam is on his feet, blocking the screen from view.

  Stop, Sammy! I want to say, but I say nothing. I have never seen him look so monstrous.

  We need to leave. Now. His tone is harsher than I’ve ever heard, and his eyes glow red, so I follow him because I am afraid.

  But part of me feels urgently that I must stay here. I glance back to the screen, which is smaller behind me and partly obscured by the trees we are now dashing through. I am hurt and confused and something in me needs to see who the dead girl was, even though my head is begging for mercy.

  When we get home, I face Sam in anger. He has ruined my date. Why do I have no choices? He catches his breath and pulls me to the floor, where he sits.

  Abby, he says, that film was evil. It will pollute your brain. And it was mediocre. We’re above that, you and me. The people who made it must have been dumb. Infantile. Plebeian. Sam shakes his head in apparent disgust.

  But why, Sammy? Why was it so bad?

  Everything about that place is bad, he says. It disgusts me; it really does. You will become evil if you let it tempt you.

  I don’t think it’s so evil, I say. I am obstinate. I think you make this up, I say.

  If you don’t believe me, Abby, I can tell you this: you will lose me forever if you begin to desire Circle Nine.

  I am silent; there is nothing more for me to say. It always comes down to that, and I can’t argue. He knows I want that least of all, less than I want to explore the world. Our argument is over and Sam takes me tenderly in his arms, but I am still bothered. There was something about that film that seeped under my skin and became a dozen small worms wriggling there. I scratch all over. I need it out. I must find out. I need the truth now, and nothing can send me back to that oblivious state in which I was once happy. I will find out what happened to me, who I am, what came before this life with Sam, regardless of what Sam thinks. Regardless of how dangerous it may be.

  I know I must look a sight. Sam passed out cold again after a sleepless, tense night of pacing. When he passes out these days, I can usually count on an hour, maybe two before he wakes up. Leaving is a risk, but I had to try. It took me forty minutes to run through the woods. I don’t have much time.

  The librarian is eyeing me warily. I know all kinds of things about libraries, even though I don’t know this particular one. I know it’s where you go when you want answers. I know about the archives, where old newspapers are kept. I think I must have always known, even though I don’t remember when or where I learned it. I think the things I carry with me — bits and pieces of Circle Nine knowledge — stay with me from Before because they have nothing to do with the big blanks of nothingness that are Me, my essence. I have lots of this kind of knowledge. The things I remember are the things I least crave to know.

  I had to ask someone where the library was; I’ve only been in this town once before. I went right to the park, the park where we saw the film. I walked right up to one of those Circle Nine demons because I had to know. Where is the library? I asked. The demon — it was a girl about my age, holding a baby — didn’t look evil. Neither did the baby. But I know underneath it all, they’re corrupt and teeming with sinister thoughts. I had to do it, though. I had to know about the library. She told me and then she looked at me strangely, as if there was something wrong with me instead of something wrong with her, but I guess that’s what they do; and I hurried away. She didn’t follow. But I’m still feeling a chill.

  Do you have anything about a fire on Orchard Lane? I ask the librarian. The street name is the only bit of information I have to go on.

  The librarian clucks her tongue. My, what a tragedy that was, she says. She turns her back on me and begins clicking on her computer, scrawling notes with one hand as she squints at the screen. My mind wanders; I am getting anxious. I don’t know how I know how to speak to the librarian, why the musty shelves feel warm and comfortable instead of unfamiliar. As far as I remember, I have never been here before. Yet I am beginning to get used to this curious déjà vu, this instinctual knowledge I seem to possess. I know I must have been here, or somewhere like this, Before. I fight to remember, but I can’t. The librarian clears her throat, and I jump. She’s looking at me oddly. Are you OK? she asks. I nod and take the index card she’s extending toward me.

  Reference, it reads in her neat print. 4th floor. 4.10.1791. She taps her finger on the last number. This is the code — four for fourth floor, ten for Reference, 1791 for order of the periodical. Let me know if you need any help.

  Thanks, I say. She nods back. Her face is still distorted into something wondering. I hope she doesn’t get too curious, start asking questions. Suddenly the gravity of what I’ve done hits me: I’m in Circle Nine. Fully here, on enemy land. Any wrong word or motion might betray us. And there’d be no chance for escape. Someone asking questions could mean someone following me back could mean Sam and I are separated, forced to live somewhere apart. All because we are too young. Sam has always been right. This place is frightening — the power of everyone in it overwhelming — especially without him.

  I duck my head as I walk away, toward the elevator, old and creaky. When I reach the fourth floor, it takes me a few minutes to locate the reference section. It’s quiet in here, so quiet I’m spooked. I estimate it’s been almost an hour already. If Sam sleeps for two, I might have fifteen or twenty minutes left. I pray he sleeps for two. If he finds out I came out alone, in the middle of the day . . . I shudder at the possibility.

  When I get to Reference, I see a stack of papers a mile high. I panic. She forgot to write down the date. There are a week’s worth of papers in this stack. I feel the hopelessness of it. But I begin thumbing through them frantically, anyway. I’m not even sure where to look, so I just glance at the headlines.

  It’s been ten minutes and I’m losing hope because I only have ten left, max, and I came all this way and I refuse to go home with nothing. I am shocked at my own boldness, but at the same time my nerves are on overdrive. I accidentally drop some of the papers, and I jump at the sound they make, even though it’s soft, as they hit the floor. I’m gathering them up again when I see it:

  Blaze on Orchard Lane Pending Investigation

  Four locals are reported missing following a fire that destroyed their home last Monday. The fire, which authorities believe originated in the master bedroom, quickly turned one family’s two-story home into an uncontrollable inferno.

  “Any bodies would have been reduced to ash,” said Fire Chief Jim Wexel. “A fire like that, there was nothing we could do.”

  Although evidence does not point to arson, the cause of the fire is still pending investigation.

  Chills crawl up my spine as I read. The article is sad; it is a horrible thing to have happened to a family. Part of me wonders if I am connected to this at all — it seems far-fetched. It occurs to me that Sam really did just want to protect me from seeing the ugliness of the world, like he says. That he just wanted to keep Circle Nine from hurting me, like he always does. That makes far more sense than the idea that I’m somehow connected to a local tragedy. But memories of the night I met Sam flash through
my mind. The charred building, the heat on my face, the sirens in the distance. I’m cold all over.

  I must get home to Sam. Maybe I can find a way to ask him about it, so this will all be cleared up without me having to sneak around. But not just yet. Something tells me to keep my secrets just a little while longer. I’ll ask Sam when I have more of a reason to think that there’s a link between me and this fire. Something to prove I’m not just imagining things. For now, it’ll be my secret. Every girl needs her secrets. This is something I’m learning late.

  My heart thuds a little harder as I realize I’m probably behind schedule, that Sam might be awake and waiting for me — or worse, looking for me, worried. I gather up all the papers in a stack, except this one. I take a quick look around and, when I’m convinced there’s no one up here, I quietly tear out the article and shove it in my back pocket. I hide the mangled paper in the middle of the stack. If the librarian somehow were to find out, that would be the end of my research. I must come back. I must find a way to have more time to myself. But how, during the day? Sam is nearly always around lately. He never even goes to Sid’s anymore. Poor Sammy, always sick and listless. But how can I capture more than two hours for myself?

  I promise myself to figure it out later. For now, getting back there before he wakes up is the only important thing. I run down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator and as I’m darting past the front desk, the librarian calls out to me, Do you need anything else, honey? And the way she says it shoots warning signs into my brain, but I shake my head and wave and keep going anyway, hoping she’ll pass this off as one other weird thing that happened in her day, just one more crazy teenager.

  Then I’m off, faster than before. I dart through town and into the woods behind the high school like a gazelle. I run around trees, over stones, until the paths bordering the property thin out and give way to dense foliage. I know these rocks and trees so well by now; it couldn’t be easier if they wore labels.

  Then I am back, bending over my knees, my chest heaving, and as I catch my breath and walk into our home, I see him stirring a little at the sound of my footsteps.

  Abby? he says groggily, What are you doing?

  Nothing, honey, I say. Did you have a nap?

  Yeah, he says. He struggles to sit up but clutches his head. I have the worst headache.

  Is there anything I can do, Sam-Sam? I am struggling to keep my voice even, since I’m still catching my breath.

  I don’t think so, babe. I don’t know. He pauses, as if considering something. Then, No there’s nothing.

  So I bring him some water from the brook, wet on a T-shirt, and use it to blot his forehead, which is sopping and coal-hot. My poor Sam. I usually tell him everything, but this time, this one time, I can’t. I am guilty over it all night.

  Tell me how beautiful I am, I say. It is our old game, and I want to resuscitate it. It is a rare day today; Sam is well and in a good place. We’re outside and there’s a slight chill in the air and we’re lying on dirt and leaves that crinkle under our bodies but somehow feel soft at the same time. And when the chill’s too much and my skin begins to pimple up, Sam hugs me close. It’s perfect out here, lovely and serene. Sam is more handsome than I ever remember seeing him. I take a deep breath and hold it for as long as I can. As long as I can hold it in, none of this goodness can escape. Things feel so normal, so good, that I give in to my urge to forget everything that’s been happening to us. Sam’s poor health and the dangerous hunger for knowledge that propelled me into Circle Nine three days ago. I need this peaceful time with him. I dunk my body in his words and swim around in them, drinking them close to my heart.

  How can you not know how beautiful you are? You are more beautiful than life, he says. I can tell he means it, but I push him further.

  That’s nothing, I scoff. Life is hideous.

  OK, he says, starting over. You’re lovelier than the rocks that jut out into the sea on the coast of France. You’re lovelier than the way the water crashes against them and sprays its mist on my toes.

  You don’t know that, I challenge. You’ve never even been to the coast of France.

  Haven’t I? he asks. How can you be so sure?

  Well, what about this? I say. I roll over on my hip and point to a dimple in my thigh.

  That? he asks, surprised. That is pure joy. That is innocence. It’s a baby’s smile. What could make me happier? He caresses it as if it’s something to be treasured.

  OK, then, this. I grasp the left side of my chest in my palm and nudge it upward to show him. The left side is smaller than the right, lopsided. There is no beauty in that.

  He laughs. Oh, you think you’re clever, he says. You think because I am a guy, I won’t love all of you. Well, let me tell you a story.

  I roll my eyes. Somehow, my stunted left breast invited a story. But I listen anyway — that’s the rules of the game.

  Once, he begins, there was a tiny duckling. His feathers were scraggly, and he never outgrew his newborn fuzz tufts. His beak was nothing to brag about. His siblings, though — now, they were something else.

  Stop! I say, laughing. You’re telling me “The Ugly Duckling”? You’re actually likening my breast to the ugly duckling?

  Oh, you know it? He seems genuinely surprised.

  Of course I do, I say. But then I wonder, as I do with all things like this, why I’m so sure and where I’ve heard it before. It’s one of those strange things I just know.

  Well, then, I’ll have to be more creative, he says, taking my hand. He can tell my confusion bothers me. Sam is always able to read my thoughts.

  Once, he says, starting yet again, there was a tiny particle of fungus. Actually, I am not too sure what he was — some molecule or another. He was unpopular and nearly anonymous, as you can tell from the fact that I don’t even know his name. We’ll call him Louis.

  Louis? Why Louis?

  The name suits him. Stop interrupting me.

  I roll my eyes.

  So, Lou just carries on for many years — centuries, really, like most bacteria and molecules and scientific stuff do, until one day, someone discovers him. Lou isn’t thrilled, because he’s come to like his anonymity. He’s comfortable. He has a niche. No one pays much attention to him, but that’s OK with him. So then someone discovers him, and he’s all hot and bothered. Not to mention, he has a serious inferiority complex.

  Sam nudges my leftie, and I giggle.

  So when he’s almost totally given up on himself and settled entirely for this life of nothingness, he’s all of a sudden plucked out of nowhere. He’s prodded, he’s experimented with, he’s basically lavished with attention, and he doesn’t necessarily like it at first. But then . . . something special happens.

  What happens?

  Well, someone takes the time to really study him. To look at him, admire the attributes everyone else ignored. A little time goes by, and magic happens. Lou and his little fungus friends become . . . He pauses, watching my face.

  Yes, Sam? I say to encourage him. He’s all about the drama of the storytelling.

  They become penicillin.

  What? I am incredulous. That’s ridiculous, I say. You’re not even using the correct terminology.

  You’re missing the point. Anonymous, lonely, undervalued Louis becomes penicillin.

  So you’re saying my left breast is an antibiotic.

  I’m saying it is capable of big things.

  You’re ridiculous, I say again. Then he’s on me, all over me, kissing and tickling until I’m yowling and laughing so hard I almost pee and I’m begging him to stop. There’s a warm glow surrounding us that I want to hold on to. And Sam’s feeling well, and when he’s well, his energy transfers right over to me and makes it impossible to think anything’s bad. I want to have this silly, smart boy forever, but moments like these are so few now. I need these moments back, and just one, having just one every now and then makes me think I can have them all back again, every day. Sam helps me forge
t the library. He helps me forget what it is I wanted to discover. Most of all, he helps me forget that I’ve already forgotten so much, way too much.

  Again he sleeps. Sam is no longer a walking, breathing human. He is an automaton, a shadow. His basic functions have changed from a pattern of sleeping, eating, moving, loving, to sleeping, crying, retching, sleeping. It’s getting harder to see him as fascinating or handsome these days. Every now and then I trick myself into it, but then a day passes, and the magic fades. I hate the way things have changed. Nothing I see is quite right anymore. I miss my Sam, the Sam I have loved all this time. I want him back. Sometimes he has good days, but they no longer outweigh the bad. I hate seeing him like this. I pray that he will recover.

  But I don’t think long about sneaking out as soon as he’s fallen asleep. He sleeps longest and heaviest in midday. As soon as his breathing becomes steady and deep, as soon as the sheets have stopped rustling from the movements of his body, I slip on my jacket and step out onto sopping grass pelted by a drizzling sky. Everything is gray, so gray, and it is the perfect color to describe my present state. If only I could pick a color each day to slip in front of my eyes and change not only my vision but my perception. The world I’m jogging through no longer seems quite as murky and dangerous as it once did. As I run, I watch the foliage that borders our home begin to thin into a smattering of trees. And then I’m behind the high school and its yellow cement blocks and heavy columns, with the knowledge that only seven blocks away is a small brick building that holds all the answers.

  It seems no coincidence that the more I venture out alone, the less afraid I am. But then that is the most frightening part of Circle Nine, according to Sam: it is quietly deceptive. It lures you in by seeming familiar, comfortable. And by the time you realize you’ve been duped, it’s too late to turn back. That, says Sam, is why I must stay away from this world at all costs. I know there’s danger in what I’m doing, but I’m drawn to it anyway, as though I am the moth and Circle Nine is the flame. I wonder if there’s always such danger in seeking the truth.