The Squared Circle

by JAMES W. BENNETT

  “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.”

  Gardner said, “There’s not a more anti-jock professor here than Erika Neil. When she was on the faculty senate, she made it her personal agenda to try and strip us down.”

  Then Sonny informed them, “Erika Neil is my cousin.”

  This information left Price and Gardner speechless. When they looked at each other, they seemed to lift their eyebrows simultaneously. Gardner turned back to Sonny. “Your what?”

  “Erika Neil is my cousin.”

  “What does that mean, your cousin? What kind of cousin we talkin’ here?” It was Price again.

  “I mean she’s my cousin. My uncle Seth is her father and my aunt Jane is her mother.” How could he make it any clearer?

  “She must be forty years old, how can she be your cousin?” But Gardner was giving Price the sign to back off. He poured himself a glass of water before he said to Sonny, “I hope you can forgive the unkind remarks about a relative. That was out of line.”

  “Right,” echoed Price, who was adjusting his necktie knot.

  Price and Gardner both knew Uncle Seth, of course, from booster club activities, but it was apparent they had no idea Sissy was his blood kin. It gave Sonny some pleasure to see them caught up short. It might have been Price’s presence; the assistant Sonny liked was Workman, who was a player. Workman would stay after practice and go one-on-one with you until he dropped. But Price was some sort of middle-aged PR grad assistant. Sonny didn’t know for sure what he was supposed to be.

  “Is Coach Gentry coming to this meeting?” asked Sonny.

  “No, he’s not,” answered Gardner. “He has many duties, but academic compliance isn’t one of them.”

  Price added, “This isn’t high school, where the head coach does the laundry and brings the extra socks.”

  “It’s a big, big program,” Gardner said. “That’s what we’re trying to impress on you here. It’s so big that we can’t make it work without communication and cooperation. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I can see your point.”

  “Everyone needs to do their job, and everyone else needs to cooperate fully so they can do their job. That’s why we always need to work through existing channels.”

  “Are you telling me I can never drop a course on my own?”

  “We’re simply asking you to cooperate with the program for everyone’s benefit.” Gardner paused. He took off his glasses, inserted them in the brown case, then put the case in the inside pocket of his sport coat. He sipped some coffee and closed the folder. “This is not something we like to talk to players about, Sonny, but we have had some preliminary investigative overtures from the NCAA.”

  Sonny wondered what he meant by preliminary investigative overtures but he didn’t ask. He remembered his earlier conversation with Warner, his sportswriter friend.

  “We don’t believe it’s anything very serious,” Gardner continued. “Or anything to be alarmed about, but it does put us in a position where we have to be especially careful.”

  “We need to know everything that’s going on,” said Price.

  “That’s it, exactly.” Gardner agreed. “We need to know because we need to be in control. Can you see where we’re coming from?”

  “Of course I can see, do you think I’m stupid? If you want to break it down, I had an academic problem and I took care of it.”

  “We’ll all hope so. In the meantime, can we count on your cooperation?”

  Sonny’s impatience was uncharacteristic. “Why are you treating me like a hard case? I’m preregistered for second semester, you know what I’m taking.”

  “Okay then. We’d like to apologize again for our remarks about your cousin.”

  SIU’s first home game was against Arkansas, rated ninth in the nation, in the early part of December. Not even the snowstorm that began in late afternoon could daunt the huge crowd that converged on the arena and overflowed it, yelping and bawling for blood.

  Otis Reed, the point guard, went down with a severe ankle sprain late in the first half, which meant more playing time for Robert Lee. It also meant a closer game; the Salukis won the ragged, physical contest by a score of 82–72. Arkansas used a confusing mix of gimmick defenses, in and out of the box and one, the triangle and two, but Sonny’s frustration, whenever it occurred, was never a match for his intensity. He finished with 29 points to share game-scoring honors with Luther. He also had six steals to lead all players in that department.

  Among the horde of postgame backslappers and well-wishers, Uncle Seth and three of his friends were front and center. Aunt Jane, who was also there, seemed to get lost in the congestion.

  Two easy wins, one over Chicago State and another over Evansville, both at the arena in front of standing-room-only crowds, followed finals week. The Saluki record was thus pushed to 6–0, and when LSU lost a road game at Illinois, Sonny’s team found itself ranked third in the nation in the major polls.

  The D that Sonny got in Composition was offset by two B’s, one in a P.E. class and another in Nutrition. He got a C in Earth Science. Combined with the A turned in by Sissy, his GPA would be above 2.5. He was tempted to photocopy the printout of his grades so he could have a spare to take to his old fraternity and throw in Geisel’s face.

  On the road to Memphis for the Tiger Invitational, Otis Reed’s ankle was still tender. “I could probably play him, but I’d rather see him get another day’s rest,” Coach Gentry explained to Sonny. “I’d like to try you at the point, at least some of the time.”

  “Yeah, okay.” said Sonny. It was unusual for Gentry to talk game strategy with individual players. The trip by bus was also unusual, but this was a short distance.

  “We’ll walk through it as much as we can during the shoot-around.”

  “Okay.”

  Warner, who was doing a series of articles on what he called the psychological profile of successful players, was accompanying the team on the bus.

  “You just have to throw the switch,” Sonny told him. “You have to play with intensity all the time.”

  “Yes,” confirmed Warner, “there’s intensity, but then there’s what you do.”

  “He’s always popped,” said Luther Cobb, from his seat across the aisle.

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Warner.

  “I mean he’s popped on ludes and reds. He’s all wired up from the pharmacy.”

  “Right,” said Sonny. Luther laughed out loud.

  “But seriously, folks,” Warner chuckled.

  “I don’t know what it is,” shrugged Sonny. “It’s just a game head. It’s just my zone.”

  It turned out Sonny’s zone was just as effective at point guard. He scored 33 points in an easy 94–68 win over Jacksonville. With his long arms, he could snap passes effectively over a 1-2-2 or a 1-3-1 to locate the seams. Against the man-to-man, his explosiveness allowed him the penetration needed to lay the ball off to teammates for easy baskets. When the defense backed off, he simply rose up to shoot the three-pointer. Because the game was such a breather, Otis and his ankle got another day of complete rest.

  After the game, Sonny had to sit at the press conference table with Coach Gentry. In response to a question about Sonny’s performance at the point, Gentry said, “It might be his best position. But to be perfectly honest, other than posting him up down low, I’m not sure ther
e’s any position that wouldn’t suit him.”

  When a reporter asked Sonny if he had any scoring goals, Sonny said no.

  The question provoked Gentry to remind the press, by way of a short discourse, of the defensive aspect of the game. “All you people think about is points. Scoring and offense. Don’t forget, fifty percent of the game is played on the defensive end. You can’t appreciate Sonny’s real value to this team unless you appreciate his defense.” Hearing his praises sung so publicly was embarrassing to Sonny, but at least Coach Gentry was back in control of the mike. The reporters scribbled furiously.

  Memphis State, the host team, was aroused for the championship game. Their arena was full of noisy fans, their players primed, but even so it wasn’t close past the eight-minute mark. With Otis Reed back at the point guard spot, and Sonny back on the wing opposite C.J. Moore, the astonishing Salukis were back to full-bore. The final score was 116–84. C.J. had 29 points and Sonny 27, but it was Luther’s dominant strength inside that stuffed the Tigers. He horsed the boards for 22 rebounds, blocked eight shots, and scored right at his 21-point average.

  On the ride back, Luther wanted to know if Louisville or Georgetown got beat. Warner, sitting next to Coach Gentry, asked, “What difference does it make?”

  “Come again?” said Gentry.

  “Who wins or who loses. Let’s be honest: This team on the bus is number one in the nation, period.”

  “You can say that if you want,” said the coach.

  “I do say that.”

  “Just don’t let my players hear you say it.”

  But Sonny heard it and so did Robert Lee. And especially so did Hooker, the senior, and former walk-on, who had never before played on a ranked team. Hooker’s grin seemed to stretch from one ear to the other as he strapped on his Walkman and closed his eyes.

  The fresco project was painstaking and tedious, but Sonny’s work turned out to be skillful. “You amaze me,” was the way Sissy put it.

  “Maybe if you didn’t always underestimate me, I wouldn’t amaze you.”

  “Touché. Olé.”

  In addition to its age, the fresco’s exposure to uneven heat and humidity had contributed to its unstable condition. Sissy identified where panels might be separated, based on the mural’s content and condition. Her dividing lines improved the likelihood of the mural’s eventual restoration, but they delineated panels of uneven size and shape. The strength and touch it took to remove them were characteristics Sonny possessed. With his height and leverage, he could even pry out panels next to the eight-foot ceiling while standing flat on the floor.