Sometimes, though, he told Sissy to slow down.
“Don’t be silly. I’m fully recovered.”
“Let’s hope.”
“I am five feet nine and one-hundred fifty pounds of focus,” Sissy declared. She locked her arms in the pose of a bodybuilder. “I am woman. Hear me roar.”
Sonny laughed out loud at the comical image of his middle-aged cousin in the bodybuilder’s mode, wearing her Donald Duck T-shirt beneath her Oshkosh overalls.
It was ten P.M. by the time they were on the road back to Makanda. A few snow flurries sprayed the air, but nothing to affect driving conditions.
“Do you mind if I sleep in the guestroom?” Sonny asked.
“Please do. You must be exhausted.”
“The dorm’s closed and I don’t feel like driving to Abydos.”
“You don’t need to ask permission, Sonny. You’re welcome to use the bedroom anytime you like.”
When they got to the house, he didn’t do any unloading. He went upstairs to the guestroom. There were two books on the nightstand. One was a large hardcover of art restoration, with pages of illustrations and photographs. The corner was turned down on the first page of the fresco chapter. The other book was a paperback about the Isis and Osiris legend. The two books gave him a good feeling because they were gifts from Sissy; they had nothing to do with required reading.
The good feelings did not prevail on another day, later in the week. When he got to her house, Sissy was on the phone. He couldn’t distinguish her words, but her tone was one of distinct irritation. She was on a long time, so Sonny made some toast.
Sissy was wearing a blue twill work shirt and Levi’s blue jeans. Her annoyance was evident in the aggressive manner she burned her toast and gobbled it down. While Sonny maneuvered the Bronco down the uneven hillside, he thanked her for the two books.
“You’re welcome.” But her distraction was obvious in her flat voice.
All the way through Carbondale and two-thirds of the way to Murphysboro without conversation. Silence. Then Sonny told her about the grilling he got from Gardner and Price over dropping Anthropology without permission. It was his attempt to make conversation, but it turned out to be a mistake.
“Please.” she said. “What would you expect?”
“It wouldn’t hurt if they treated us a little more like human beings,” was his answer.
“And why should they do that? Just to pretend there’s something humanizing about big-time college athletics?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. Coach Gentry has a way of keeping himself out of the picture, more or less.”
“Why would you expect him to do anything else? Do you expect him to care for you? He’s an overpaid, over-protected broker of a large corporate enterprise.”
“This is college competition, Sissy, not the NBA.”
“Oh, can you grow up? You’re a professional jock who doesn’t get a paycheck. You are useful, like a copy machine. You line the pockets of CEOs and media executives. You’re a spare part in a professional entertainment industry whose only link to the university is pretend.”
Now he was mad. “I can’t understand why you’re so pissed. And why do you always assume that I’m stupid?”
“Did I say anything about stupid? I wouldn’t waste my time on a stupid person. You’re just underdeveloped; too much of your brain is in storage.”
“I just love basketball; it’s as simple as that.”
But Sissy wouldn’t let up. “You don’t just love basketball, you’re driven. People who are driven are frightened. Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid of anything. Maybe I’m afraid of you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why.”
“Are you afraid of yourself? Are you afraid of finding out who you are?”
Sonny was even more pissed. “Would you get off my case? Why is it such a big deal to you what I think?”
“Turn here.”
She meant the mini-mall on Murphysboro’s edge, which they were approaching. Sonny swerved sharply into the mostly empty parking lot. Sissy got out of the car and went inside.
Times like this, thought Sonny to himself, his cousin could be a real load. Too much of this and he might come to understand why Uncle Seth kept his distance from her. He remembered the Christmas dinner they had years ago when Aunt Jane fixed the huge spread. Sissy was there, which was very unusual. It was around the time of Desert Storm, because Uncle Seth and the two farm neighbors, Oscar and Sydney, kept saying they’d give anything to get Saddam Hussein in the sights of their deer rifles. Sissy called them adolescents with immature gun fantasies. She asked them if they had any plans to grow up.
That got Uncle Seth so pissed that when he got beers from the refrigerator he slammed the door so hard he almost toppled it over. He called Sissy a commie feminist who was disrespectful of the American Way all the way back to the sixties. It was a very tense situation; Sonny’s mother started to cry while she picked at her balled-up handkerchief like a bird.
When Sissy returned from the convenience store, she had two four-packs of Seagram’s wine coolers and a pack of Marlboro Lights. She lit one up.
“When did you start smoking those?”
“Sometime in the sixties. The harder question would be when did I give them up?”
After they were through town and heading north on Highway 127, she said, “The phone call I got this morning was from the National Endowment office. They may be cutting the grant.”
“The grant for the fresco?”
“The grant for the fresco. It may not be renewed.”
He was still feeling hurt but he managed to say, “That would be too bad.”
“Wouldn’t it though? Let’s be thankful it won’t ever happen to football stadium construction or ESPN triple-headers on Monday nights.”
Sonny could see what she was getting at, but it didn’t seem like he deserved this contempt. “Would you give me a break?”
Sissy took a drag before turning her head to look out the passenger-side window. “I was just about to say I shouldn’t be taking this unhappy development out on you.”
It was an apology, more or less, but the day at the worksite was strained. While Sonny tried to make adjustments to the furnace’s temperamental pilot light, Sissy lamented how far behind the project was.
“And if they cut your funding it will be worse.”
“Of course it will be worse.”
Sonny didn’t look at her. He was reaming the thermocouple again with some fine wire from the toolbox. “So what’s the solution?”
Sissy shrugged. “The seminar will just have to do more transporting and less restoring.” She was putting the wine coolers into the fridge. “Are you going to be able to fix that or should I go get Smith?”
“I can fix it.”
They worked steadily, but without much conversation other than Sissy’s occasional tactical ruminations, when she was essentially talking to herself. Just before dark, a large panel, which included the detail of Osiris’s coffin washed ashore, broke a corner when Sonny pried it loose. When it was down, none of the cartons was quite big enough to suit it, and there wasn’t enough spare lumber to build a new one. Sissy’s frustration seemed to peak; she threw a screwdriver across the room.
She went to the refrigerator while Sonny put on his coat to go outside. Without speaking. He couldn’t begin to know the words that might lift her out of her funk, but even if he did, he needed to be away from her. Around back, the shelter that housed the Dumpster was ramshackle, but it still had plenty of good two-by-fours. Sonny had the crowbar. It took an hour, but he pried loose a dozen good ones, by which time his hands were frozen numb while the sweat ran down his face.
He took them inside where he stacked them. Sissy had two bottles of Seagram’s down and was working on a third. She was using one of the empty bottles for an ashtray. After his last trip in, when the scope of his labors was evident, she said, “You are re
sourceful, Sonny. I do underestimate you.”
Somehow, he felt better. Maybe it was being tired. “It’s okay,” he said, “you’re havin’ a bad day.” He was taking off his coat. Sissy was sitting on the floor now, facing the other direction. From behind, Sonny could see her shoulders heaving; she was crying. Self-consciously, he watched her, paralyzed. He wouldn’t know how to comfort her, and besides, anything he might try would probably make things worse.
His inertia lasted longer than her distress. Finished crying, she wiped her eyes and said, “Come have a drink, Hero. You deserve a break for putting up with such a bitch.”
“I was going to cut these.”
“You can cut them later. If you don’t slow down, I’ll have to give you two or three credits instead of one.”
Sonny put down the Skil saw and went to the fridge. He unscrewed the top from one of the bottles, then sat on the floor beside her. Her eyes were red, but that was all. There was no mascara to run.
“Sonny, you’re cut.”
He looked down at his right hand, which was dripping blood to the floor.
“Does it hurt?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t even know it was there. But my fingers were numb.”
“Sit still.” She went to the bathroom and returned with the first-aid kit. Sonny was staring at his index finger, but the blood ran so freely he couldn’t actually locate the cut. Sissy blew her nose on a Kleenex before she sat down.
“Let me see.” She took his hand. First, she dabbed at the blood with a cotton ball, enough to show that the cut was at the second knuckle. The she took the finger into her mouth. It surprised him. He could feel her teeth and tongue working the cut; it seemed awkward, but it didn’t hurt. Her left hand folded down the other three fingers. The curious part was how long she kept doing it, much longer than it would take to get the blood off.
When Sissy finally took the finger out, it was clean as a whistle and the short, deep cut was visible. “You’re not supposed to suck on a cut,” he told her.
“I know, because of the germs.”
There were bloodstains between Sissy’s front teeth. She put antiseptic on the cut; it stung, but not badly and not for long. Then a Band-Aid. Sonny flexed his hand to see if there was any stiffness.
“I hope this won’t ruin your jump shot.”
He smiled. “No, but there’s blood on your teeth.”
She tongued her front teeth as if to remove traces of misapplied lipstick. “You haven’t touched your drink.”
“It’s too cold,” said Sonny. “We need something hot.”
“A good idea. Let’s hop in the Bronco and go get some coffee.”
5
The Butler game was an uneventful blowout that the Salukis won by more than 40 points. The usually rabid crowd was mostly subdued. It might have been a boring night altogether, except for a single remarkable moment Sonny experienced just after he and his fellow starters were pulled from the game to make way for the subs.
He got a towel from the trainer, wrapped it loosely around his neck, and then with no warning whatsoever, he felt like he was walking on air. There was no gravity.
It scared him. Without touching the floor, he walked cautiously to the locker room to take a piss and get a drink of water. He heard the muffled roar of the crowd; somebody must have dunked.
Feeling weightless and shaky, he sat on a bench in search of equilibrium. This was eerie, like he was leaving his own body to float on the air. After he took a few deep breaths, though, he felt fine. A little overfatigued and with a touch of drowsiness, but okay. He walked back to the bench with his feet firmly on the floor. He dismissed the incident from his mind. It was nothing.
For his birthday, Uncle Seth bought him a new car. It was a Mazda RX-7 with silver pinstripes on its steel blue paint. Sonny said it was too much, but Seth dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Nah. It’s not really a new car anyway, it’s just a newer one.” He held the keys dangling for Sonny in the den festive with friends, the night after the easy win over Butler.
Sonny felt a twinge that he couldn’t quite identify. “It’s not my birthday yet.”
Seth was well along toward getting sloshed. “What are you nitpicking for? You deserve it. Call it a combination present, Christmas and birthday.” It was an approach long familiar to Sonny, whose birthday fell on December 28.
“I can’t believe how expensive it must’ve been.”
“Bullshit. You know how these things come and go. It’s always on the wholesale index.” He winked at Sonny before he said, “What’s on your vacation schedule?”
“We’ve got a lot of time off because we played in the NIT and the Memphis Invitational.”
“I know your game schedule, I’m talking about your practice schedule.”
Sonny shrugged. “We’ve got a few practices, but we’ve got several days off, too.”
“Keep the twenty-eighth free, will you? I’m lining up a bash and there’s a couple of guys I’d like you to meet. Georgetown’s going to be on ESPN that night.”
“Yeah, sure, Uncle Seth.” Sonny had a soft drink and met a few people, but then he was tired. He left the party early to go to bed.
Even with a shiny new car, Sonny was sometimes bored and often restless with vacation’s absence of routines and familiars. Especially on the days with no practice. He spent most of one day, after a heavy snowfall, plowing Uncle Seth’s lane and parking area. He spent another day in Makanda, helping Sissy.
On the 24th, he rode with his aunt Jane to the state hospital in Anna, to visit his mother. Every time he saw her she seemed paler and thinner, but that probably wasn’t possible. Her hair was long, but it hung without shape like a mop made of sewing thread. Sonny asked her if she still had her favorite hairbrush, but she gave no indication she even heard the question. Her hands were clasped so tightly around a large mass of Kleenex it was as if all the blood was squeezed out; it was hard to tell which was whiter, the mangled tissues or the bloodless fingers.
But this configuration of hands and tissues did spark a memory. It recalled swiftly for Sonny the day the priest first came to visit them in their old apartment. It was a Saturday morning, he could remember that clearly, because he’d gone to bed after his paper route. When he got dressed and walked into the living room, he couldn’t be sure which came first, the smell of muffins baking, or the sight of the priest seated on their couch. He’d been so surprised there was no time to alter his course.
“Norman, I’d like you to meet Father Breen. He’s a priest at St. Mary’s Church.” His mother added, “It’s a Catholic church.”
Father Breen stood up, then came close to offer his hand. He was an old man, a little tacky around the edges, with blotchy skin and razor nicks. His eyes looked filmy. Sonny thought he smelled liquor on the old priest’s breath, but that wouldn’t be likely, not early on a Saturday morning.
As soon as the priest returned to his seat he said, “Your mother’s been telling me about the loss of your father. That would be a terrible thing indeed.”
Sonny wondered why a priest would be in their apartment, but then he remembered how Uncle Seth and Aunt Jane were Catholics. It must be that they were the contacts. Sonny finally said, “I don’t know if we lost him, but he went away someplace.”
“If there’s bitterness in your heart,” counseled the priest, “try and let it go. If you cherish it, it can destroy you.”
Sonny wondered what that was supposed to mean. Maybe he could go now. If his mother wanted to talk to a priest, why did it need to involve him?
Father Breen turned back to his mother. “Is there any likelihood that your husband will return home, Mrs. Youngblood?”
Instead of answering his question, she simply straightened up in her chair until she achieved a supremely erect posture. She was wearing her white ruffled blouse with the long sleeves and was crushing half a dozen Kleenex into a tight ball in her lap. Her hair was perfect. Her eyes were not focused on the priest anymore, but
somewhere off to the side. Sonny knew there wouldn’t be an answer to the priest’s question.
Father Breen must have known it, too. “Do you do lots of baking, Mrs. Youngblood?”
“I used to,” she replied. “Now that I’m working I don’t seem to find the time. I’m afraid we don’t know much about the Catholic church. We’ve always been Baptists.”
“Would you like to come to Mass sometime? Just to visit?”
“It’s difficult to say. We’re trying to start over, you see. There are better times coming, I feel certain.”
“We’d be happy to have you. I’d like to leave you this pamphlet that has our schedule of Masses and other parish activities.”
After Sonny’s mother looked at the pamphlet briefly, she clutched it tight among her tissues. She asked, “Does your church have an organ?”
“We do indeed. A lovely old pipe organ.”
“How many manuals does it have?”
“It’s a double manual pipe organ.”
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Sonny’s mother. She straightened herself in the chair again. “A double manual pipe organ!”
Sonny began to squirm. The priest asked, “Do you like to play, Mrs. Youngblood?”
“Oh, I do so love to play the organ, I might as well confess it. Do you think I could have permission to play it sometime? When it’s not inconvenient?”
A puzzled look passed briefly across Father Breen’s face before he took out his soiled handkerchief and blew his nose twice, with a loud honk. “There ought to be some way we could arrange for a thing like that.”
“It would be so kind of you. My brother Seth has the family pump organ; he says he may bring it here to our apartment sometime.” She still wasn’t looking directly at him.
The Squared Circle Page 9
