The Squared Circle

by JAMES W. BENNETT

  “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.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever resolved winning and losing,” she said to him. “Is that something we’re supposed to do?”

  “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” he said wearily.

  “Doing what? In sports there has to be a loser for every winner. Does that have anything to do with reality? Maybe that’s what’s perverse.”

  “You are doing it again.”

  She pulled the hair on the back of his neck. It hurt. “I’m just asking some pertinent questions. You want to be contemplative, so I’m getting on board. We rescued the fresco from the brink of destruction, and who was the loser?”

  “That’s different,” he said.

  “Exactly. It’s different because there can be winners without losers. Maybe the resolution to winning and losing is to think of succeeding.”

  “We can succeed, but no one has to fail. That’s what you’re saying.”

  “Yes.”

  “You say winners without losers. You can have one without the other.” He could see her point but couldn’t think of a response. “What do you think of my idea?”

  “Which idea?”

  “Turning the haymow door into a window. We’d have to take out some of the upper floor.”

  “It sounds terrific. Let me know what materials you need.” She pulled his hair again.

  “Ow! Would you knock it off?”

  She stopped pulling, but she asked him another question. “Guess what I did?”

  “I’m afraid to guess; tell me what you did.”

  “I made you another appointment.”

  Sonny was shaking his head. “No more sportswriters. It was different with Warner, because he’s more like an old friend.”

  “This is not a sportswriter, this is different.”

  “When did you decide to start making appointments for me?”

  “About the time I got tired of being your press secretary.”

  Turning to look into her eyes, he saw how serious she was. “Okay, who is it this time?”

  “It’s Barbara Bonds, your old flame. She wants to visit you.”

  “Barby Boobs,” said Sonny hypnotically. “My old flame.”

  By using his little finger and the heel of his hand in a kind of pincer movement, Sonny was making his right hand functional and stronger. For example, he could easily pick up a cup or glass, or he could use the hand to steady lumber in a building project. It was also true, though, that his left-handed capabilities improved every day; when he needed to rely exclusively on that hand, he discovered ever more possibilities.

  He could shift easily through the gears, as he was doing now, without clumsiness, so it posed no logistical problem when she took his right hand and placed it in her lap. Her fingers caressed the fresh but toughening stumps. She seemed in no hurry; her fingers traveled slowly like a blind person reading in Braille, trying to come to terms with a particularly difficult passage.

  “Willie Joe thinks I could still be a basketball star,” Sonny said. “Even this way, with one good hand.”

  “What do you think?” asked Barbara.

  “I think maybe I could be a lot of things,” he answered. “But the only basketball I plan to play will be for fun, at Makanda Square Garden. That’s what we call that court we passed back by the railroad tracks.”

  They were sailing down the highway. “Sonny, how are you?”

  It seemed like an odd question. Didn’t she already ask him that back at Sissy’s? Besides which, the way she cradled his truncated hand in both of her own, made him feel embarrassed and edgy. “Aren’t you Teague’s woman now?” he asked her.

  She responded by lifting the back of his hand to press it against her cheek. “I told you I was dating Teague, I didn’t say I was married to him.”

  Sonny wished he was at the point where he could be secure while someone was holding his ruined hand, but he wasn’t. He needed to make conversation: “You left the gym that night they retired my number. You were there at first, but then your seat was empty.”

  “You saw that?”

  “I saw. I was looking for you.”

  Barb was working her chin on the fold where an index finger had once been. “I had to leave or I was going to cry,” she said. “I knew what you were trying to say.”

  “Lucky for you, you could leave when you felt like it. I felt like I was going to cry, and I didn’t even know what I was trying to say.”

  “Yes, you did. Tell me how you are now.”

  “I’m better.”

  “I don’t mean just your hand. I’ve thought about you so much.”

  “You’ve thought about me so much?”

  “All the time. Whenever I watched you play on television or read the newspapers. I wondered if you were happy.”

  “I think I have to learn what it means to be happy,” he replied. “It doesn’t mean being a star; that has more to do with fear.”

  Barb made her eyes round. “Sonny, you’re so deep now.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You know how deep I am. It’s my cousin Sissy who’s the intellectual. A lot of the time, she reminds me of you.”

  “How is that?”

  “She wants to improve my mind.”

  “Oh, how awful.”

  Sonny ignored her sarcasm. He took back his hand to steady the wheel, while using his left hand to fetch the gold team medallion from his shirt pocket. He handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “Hold this.” He watched the way the tiny gold links of the chain spilled into her waiting palm like liquid drops.

  “What is it, Sonny?”

  “It’s a team memento. All the players got one. I figure my mother needs it more than I do.”

  “You’re giving it to her?”

  “Might as well.”

  Barb turned the medallion over in her hand to inspect it. “It’s very nice,” she declared. Then she added, “Will they let her have this in the hospital?”

  “No way,
she can’t have anything with a chain. She’ll only be able to have it under supervision.”

  “Will she know what it is?”

  Sonny shrugged. “Who knows?”

  When they reached the street where his old fraternity sat, he downshifted to bring the Mazda to a stop next to the curb. They were sitting in front of the house with the Greek letters.

  “Why are we stopping here?” she wanted to know.

  “It’s just for a minute. I have to drop something off.” He got out of the car.

  “Don’t be long, Sonny.”

  “This is just for a minute,” he repeated.

  The tulip tree in the front yard was glorious, and there was a row of red-hot sally in bloom along the foundation, but Sonny was focused on the front door. Just stay cool, he cautioned himself.

  He found Harris in the house basement, shuffling fraternity records in manila folders. It was clearly end-of-the year housekeeping, no doubt one of the thankless, low-profile duties of a fraternity president. Nothing colorful like leading a lineup, for sure. Pinky was there as well, sipping at a Bud Light.

  Sonny handed the pledge pin to Harris while apologizing for not returning it sooner. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know I still had it.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Harris with a smile. “Better late than never.” Sonny watched Harris and Pinky staring at his right hand. He fought the urge to hide it in the pocket of his jeans.

  Both fraternity men expressed their regrets about his accident, and asked him how he was doing.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I hope so,” said Harris. “You know, Sonny, a fraternity is a support system; that’s the kind of brotherhood it is.”

  Sonny knew he could leave now, if he wanted; he didn’t have to listen to this. “Terrific. I hope you get all the brotherhood you can handle.”

  Pinky stared at his beer can. Harris paused before he went on. “What I’m trying to say is that brothers in a fraternity form a bond that helps them through the rough times.”

  “Wonderful. I’m just bringin’ the pin back; I wouldn’t want to interrupt your bonding.” In spite of his good intentions, he found himself getting pissed. He doubted if Harris would ever understand what real bonding was all about, the kind of connection he knew with Sissy, where the freedom to be yourself was the spine of a relationship.