No one spoke.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said, is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes,” the players mumbled.
Then Rice laughed, but it was still the savage laugh, the one without humor. “I presume,” he said, “that our little Chico will want to wear his shoes and socks the next time we practice.”
It was supposed to be funny but no one laughed.
“We’re going to take all twelve of you to Dongola tomorrow. The bus will leave at five-thirty sharp. I expect a big lead at halftime because I want to get some more playing time for the reserves. Are there any questions?”
When no questions were forthcoming, Rice dismissed them.
It was a very subdued locker room. Butch Cross spoke softly, but in the quiet moment his voice was clearly audible: “I’m quittin’.”
“You’re quittin’, Butch? Come on.”
“Buc-buc,” said Lynch.
“Kiss off.”
Could you just quit? It was a shocking idea to Sonny, who was slowly peeling off. Did Butch really mean it? Could you just quit and that would be that? Why not, though, maybe it was that simple.
“Come on, Butch, you can’t quit,” said Mickey Stanley.
Butch looked up at him. “Who’s going to stop me? Not even Brother Rice can force you to stay on the team. It’s my decision, right?”
Sonny wondered again if he really meant it, then turned to look at Julio, sitting in his jockstrap. Head bowed down, elbows resting on the thin but sinewy legs. Even with his face lowered, the swelling around his left eye was still visible.
Sonny asked him quietly, “You’re not quittin’, are you Julio?”
Julio answered without looking up. “Are you kidding? The fucker’s not scaring me off the team.”
Uneasy, Sonny pulled his car off the road. He left the engine running and the wipers wiping. Are you kiddin? The fucker’s not scaring me off the team.
If he was going to sit in his car and think, he decided he should turn his hazard lights on Was that what Brother wanted all along? Was that what made him a genius?
It was a curiosity to him how his flashbacks assumed a pattern. They weren’t random phenomena, they had focus. Rice might be dead, but this latest memory conformed to the pattern. Almost exclusively, it seemed, the events of his past that came a-calling were ribbed into a spine of events that occurred during March of his ninth-grade year.
That meant Brother Rice and Barb, basketball, and his mother’s slow but sure slide into final madness. The vividness of this cluster of memories convinced Sonny they must be important. Was Sissy like Barb? He had to wonder if his current malaise of floats and shakes and disorientation was somehow the flip side of wiring it up over and over, turning the switch ever one notch higher and then higher still? But if he felt disposed to look for parallels, where would he find one between Brother Rice and Coach Gentry?
When the rain stopped, Sonny turned the wipers off. It was his plan to drive clear to Carbondale, but the Makanda turnoff was just ahead. It would be more convenient to spend the night at Sissy’s.
8
In March of the ninth grade, by which time Sonny was the established star of the Abydos freshman team, by which time his mother had been in and out of the hospital twice, and by which time Seth was in the habit of introducing him to coaches and businessmen, he took Barb to the Ides of March dance at the YMCA. It was sponsored by the English classes to coincide with the Julius Caesar portion of the curriculum.
Sonny had little interest in Shakespeare, but he would use any opportunity to be with Barb. On the walk to her house, his fingers nearly froze from holding the flower, a long-stemmed rose still in the paper sleeve from the florist shop. A message in scripted letters embossed the wrapping: A single rose means I love you.
He felt clumsy with the flower when he gave it to her on the front porch, but she didn’t notice: “Oh, Sonny, thank you.”
“My mother picked it out,” he said. “She’s good at stuff like that.”
“I’m going to put this in water right away.” While she and her mother looked for a vase in kitchen cupboards, Sonny talked to her dad in the living room.
“You played a hell of a game against Anna-Jonesboro. I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet.”
Sonny felt a mild embarrassment, but basketball players were held in such high esteem in Abydos that after a while you more or less got used to the attention. “Thanks a lot,” he said.
When Barb was ready to go, Sonny helped her on with her coat. She thrust her chest to access the coat sleeves, and tossed her hair to clear the collar. They walked along the sidewalk, holding hands. It was cold, but clear and still; a canopy of stars glittered the moonless sky. She asked him how his mother was.
“She’s okay, I guess.” He could have added that she was drinking again and missing work, but he didn’t. Instead, he stopped her under a corner streetlight and kissed her, a long, wet kiss with teeth and tongues.
As soon as they started walking again, she said, “I heard about Julio.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard how Brother Rice beat him up in practice.”
“That’s not what happened, it’s not like he beat him up. How did you find out about it anyway?”
“Silly, you can’t keep a thing like that secret. It was Andrea who told me about it and I’m like, no way.”
Sonny didn’t understand the trace of impatience he felt. “I was there. It’s not like he beat him up. It’s old news anyway.”
“Did he hit him?”
“Well, yeah, he did hit him a couple of times.”
“Don’t you think something should be done about that?”
“Done? Like what?”
“He can’t just get away with it, he’s a teacher.” Then she added, “I think Julio should turn Brother Rice in or quit the team. Maybe both. I just can’t believe he can get away with it.”
Quit the team? Butch Cross did it, but it wasn’t something you even thought about. “Turn Rice in?” Sonny asked. “Why?”
She looked at him before she answered. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“For you, maybe, but it’s up to Julio, right?” He was thinking that if your dad was out of work and your mom went for handouts, it might give everything a different slant. He didn’t want to go into that, though. He suggested, “Maybe he wants to be somebody.”
“Julio?”
“Yeah, Julio. Maybe he wants to be somebody.”
“That’s not how you get to be somebody, silly, not by being a big star so you can impress lots of other people. It’s what you are on the inside that makes you somebody.”
Sonny was sure she believed it. He had a point to make, but how would he get it across? He could see the YMCA in the next block; they wouldn’t have to talk about it anymore. The last thing he wanted was to have an argument with her; he was hoping this was the night she would let him handle her breasts.
Like most other old buildings in downtown Abydos, the YMCA was advanced in its deterioration. The crooked sign attached to its second-story brick-and-concrete facade was torn loose from two of its bolts. There were some guys hanging out in front of the corner entrance. Up the street, several hoods were clustered around a Camaro with lots of chrome.
It cost two dollars each to get in. It was with pride that Sonny paid the four dollars to cover both admissions. Mrs. Fowler, one of the chaperones, stamped the back of their hands with a purple ring and told them where refreshments were located.
The dance floor of the dark community room was already crowded when they went in. When people spoke, it wasn’t just to her anymore, it was to them. A Michael Bolton tape blasted through the stereo speakers. Barb liked the fast songs, but Sonny liked the slow ones, even though slow dancing always brought with it the ongoing dilemma of holding her body close without sprouting the public hard-on.
Julio Bates was there without a date, and without a trace of damage to his face, that you could s
ee. He was mimicking Brother Rice by sticking out his stomach as far as he could and getting lots of laughs. When Sonny took a bathroom break, One Gram was using the next urinal. It didn’t take Warren long to repeat his speech about the need to be aggressive if you wanted to score.
“Girls want the same thing we want,” he assured Sonny. “Only they’re supposed to act like they don’t.”
Sonny thought about Warren’s date, Joan Mason, who had an easy reputation. Then he thought of Barb and her plum sweater. He said, “I’m hoping for the best.”
“Not good enough,” declared One Gram. He was shaking off the last drops while making a face. “You don’t get anywhere by hoping, you have to make it happen.”
It usually felt safe to be honest with Warren. Sonny said, “I guess I just don’t have enough confidence.”
“You didn’t have basketball confidence before this year, but did that slow you down?”
Sonny looked into his eyes. It was One Gram who had lost his position when Sonny made the starting five. But there was no malice in the eyes, he was still a good friend. “Basketball is different,” Sonny observed.
“It’s not different.” They both washed their hands, checking their hair in the mirror. Sonny was taller now. “A girl wants the same thing you want, so if you’re aggressive, you give her the excuse she needs. It’s like she can tell herself she’s just givin’ in to pressure. You see what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, I get the point.” He wasn’t sure he believed it, though, at least not enough to act on it.
After ten, they went downstairs for a Pepsi. Since Barb was talking to Andrea, Sonny decided to step outside for some air. Dick Lynch was there, laughing loudly with several guys including Skoog Weems, a hood who was smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, look, guys, it’s Tampax!” exclaimed Lynch. Everyone laughed.
“Why don’t you shut up?” said Sonny.
“Oooooo, you’re a superstar now, ain’t you, Tampax?”
Sonny didn’t answer. He didn’t want anything to do with this. But when he turned to go back inside, Lynch reached out from behind and grabbed his neck chain, the one with Barb’s ring. He jerked it hard. Sonny was so unprepared, he lost his balance and stumbled backward, the thin chain cutting into his throat like piano wire.
“What’s the big hurry, Tampax, you afraid Barby Boobs might get horny when you’re not around?”
Lynch tightened his grip so the chain cut even tighter into Sonny’s flesh. He couldn’t breathe. He tried desperately to dig his fingers in under the chain, but he couldn’t. As much as he tried to force his chin down he couldn’t do that, either. Then there must have been someone else behind him, because he felt himself being tripped over backwards. He fell so hard the curb rose up to smash him beneath the shoulder blades.
Pain, and shock, and no breath. Sonny heard Lynch say, “I forgot, he doesn’t like to be called Tampax.” That got the biggest laugh of all.
On his side and doubled up, Sonny groped around his collar but the chain was gone. It must be broken, the chain and the ring were both gone. His fingers searched momentarily in the cold concrete of the gutter, but his rage was suddenly so total he was oblivious to the pain and shock. He twisted himself violently to get on his feet.
Inflamed as he was, and out of control, he didn’t wonder when two of the guys helped him to his feet. It turned out they were framing him up so Lynch could deliver any blow he wanted. The punch to the stomach doubled Sonny over like a rag doll; then Lynch said, “This is for blockin’ my shot in practice, motherfucker.” Lights exploded in Sonny’s head the moment the fist drove into his face.
On the sidewalk, he was so groggy his contact with reality was purely elliptical; he faded in and out. The lights kept flashing. Eventually, he was able to roll onto his side and prop himself with his right elbow. Out of eyes that didn’t focus, he watched the blood dribble from his mouth to spot the sidewalk.
There was no way to gauge the passing time, but there was a crowd of hushed people looking on. Sonny felt ridiculous. He could hear Mrs. Fowler saying something, but that was just before he passed out.
When he came to, they were helping him stumble into the conference room. In addition to Mrs. Fowler, Mr. Tuttle, the YMCA director, was propping him up. Thank God the door was closed; the humiliation seemed even worse than the pain.
“We’ve been trying to call your mother, Sonny,” explained Mrs. Fowler. “But we keep getting a recording.”
His headache sliced in his brain like a cleaver. If he told them their phone was cut off, what good would that do? His mother couldn’t handle this anyway. “What about the ring?” he asked.
Mr. Tuttle looked dumbly at Mrs. Fowler, but she said, “Barbara found the ring; you don’t need to worry about that.”
“Where’s Barb?” he asked thickly. His mouth didn’t want to work.
“She called her dad; he’s coming to get her. He’ll be glad to take you home, too, or to the doctor.” She was dabbing gently at his mouth with the corner of a wet towel, while Mr. Tuttle had gone to find some ice.
“I don’t want to see her. No doctor, either.” It hurt to talk, but he didn’t want to see anybody. Or be seen. His tongue tested two upper teeth; a bicuspid and an eye-tooth were loose. He swallowed down the blood that ran in his mouth.
Mr. Tuttle was there with a freezepack, wrapped in a soft cloth. As soon as he delivered it to Mrs. Fowler, he left. Through the closing door, Sonny had a glimpse of Barb standing by the water fountain.
Still inspecting his face, Mrs. Fowler said, “Sonny, I’m going to call a doctor. Who’s your family doctor?”
“No, don’t need to.”
“No matter how tough you think you are, I’m going to have to overrule you. These aren’t just bumps and bruises, these are injuries. I want you to hold this cold pack in place while I use the phone in Mr. Turtle’s office. Keep your head tilted back and hold still.”
She left. The cold pack ached his throbbing face while he swallowed more blood. He saw the other door, which he knew led out the back way and into the alley. He could go down the alley to the Daily Leader building, turn left, and no one would see him.
The main thing was, he had to be alone. He stood up slowly, gripping the cold pack to hold it tight against his cheekbone. The throbbing intensified and he felt dizzy, but he steadied himself against the table. He was miserable, but he was pretty sure he could make it. He ducked out the door quickly without looking back. Since he didn’t have his coat, he tried to jog but he was too dizzy; he walked fast. He knew his mother would be in bed, so he wouldn’t have to face her. By the time he turned the corner at the newspaper building, his fingers were freezing. He dropped the ice pack in a trash barrel.
The unexpected part was how resourceful his mother proved to be during the days subsequent to the beating. Late afternoon before the Carbondale game, he counted 22 bowls of pudding forming rows on the bottom two shelves of the refrigerator. In the mirror made by the chrome lid on the dairy compartment, he got a distorted glimpse of his swollen, disfigured face.
His mother was at the stove mincing hard-boiled eggs and adding butter in a saucepan. “There is protein in pudding and protein in eggs,” she said simply.
“Mom, I can chew.” But if she heard him, she made no sign. It wouldn’t surprise him if she was up all night making the pudding; it was for sure she didn’t go to work. Some of her hair was out of place and her wrinkled clothes looked like she’d slept in them.
“What will become of the thug who hurt you?”
“Lynch is kicked off the team. There’s a rumor he’s suspended from school, but I don’t know if it’s true. He wasn’t there today.”
Then she had the far-off look. Staring out the window while she stirred the pan mechanically. “None of these problems would have happened,” she began. “When your father left us he passed a sentence. He condemned us.”
Who could tell if she meant the fight with Lynch or some other problem? Sonny finger
ed the wide tape that tightened down on the smooth terrain of his swollen, broken nose. She was going to talk about his father, but his mind was on the Carbondale game.
“We’ll never know why he abandoned us.” Setting a bowl of the mashed eggs in front of him, she added salt and pepper vigorously.
“Mom, I can chew.”
She didn’t hear, or didn’t acknowledge. “You have no idea how often I’ve prayed about it. The Lord wants us to find room in our hearts for forgiveness, but I don’t know if I ever can.”
She was close enough that he could smell the booze on her breath. Sonny wanted to leave. Carbondale is eighteen and four, he thought to himself. Using a tablespoon, he began devouring the buttered egg bits.
Back at the stove, she said, “Please tell me about your coach, Norman. See if you can give me some reassurance. I’ve heard such awful stories.”
She’s heard the stories about Rice. “I’d say the stories are mostly exaggerated. The guys call him Brother.”
“They call him Brother? But that’s such a term of endearment. Surely he’s not a monk. Do the members of the team have affection for him?”
Sonny had to think a minute. “I wouldn’t say that. To be honest, I’d say they hate him, but they also have respect for him.”
She was speaking into her small circle of pan. “But how can it be that you hate someone and respect him at the same time? It seems confusing.”
“I didn’t say I hate him.”
“I’m so happy for your success, but it would cause me such grief to think of you as a member of a team with a cruel coach.”
“I don’t know about cruel. He’s real strict a lot of the time.”
“I’m so glad you’re playing basketball and not football. Basketball seems like an elegant game of finesse and grace. Still, there’s a proliferation of cruelty in the world beyond our comprehension. Practically everywhere you look. Sometimes I pray to the Lord that he might put a mark on you so that the world’s cruelty might always pass you by, just as the chosen were marked to be spared in the original Passover.” His mother wasn’t looking at him as she spoke. Instead, she was staring across the room at nothing in particular, as far as Sonny could tell. A semitransparent film seemed to glaze her eyes.
The Squared Circle Page 16
