The circle of willis, p.5
The Circle of Willis, page 5
“Hey, brother? Are you alive in there?” He turned off the water. There was a protracted pause. “You’re hogging the bathroom, and I need to put on my party face.” As he grabbed a thin, coarse, sun-dried towel and began to wipe himself down, her footsteps diminished.
The party looked like a high school reunion, no, more like a lifetime reunion. Hope invited everyone who had been part of his life since they were young. Sunday school teachers, little league coaches, teammates, family, and friends mingled, vibrant in the autumnal light, with a backdrop of 80s music piped in from loaned speakers. The grills Hope borrowed were full of barbecue magic, chicken thighs, sizzling beef, black bean, and turkey burgers. The feast his sister and her long-time friend, now housemate Gabrielle, had prepared was impressive, spread over three tables of varying heights decorated with red, white, and blue plastic coverings from Dollar General. As Ray stood in the doorway, his hair still wet from the shower, his dark navy T-shirt slightly damp from the heat his body was still generating from his run, he felt a deep sensation of abeyance.
He was standing between two lifetimes. His collective past was on a patch of green before him. His uncharted future was around the corner. Not a part of him would presume to be above another’s experience. But here, in this still moment, the dividing line in his life was clear. After May walked out on him, there had been no reason to keep the apartment. The possessions he truly cared about were packed into a few boxes and stacked in the closet of Hope’s rented 800-square-foot home. If his sister moved, she promised she would take them with her.
“Hey, Ray-Ban, get the hell out here!” Miguel, Ray’s best friend from high school, spotted the reluctant guest of honor and made a beeline for him. Ray stepped outside and into a hug that lifted him an inch off the ground. Hope called him beefy. What could Ray say? Miguel loved the weights and carb-loading with beer. Already a little unsteady, Miguel slung an arm around Ray’s shoulder. “Trying to get out of your own party?” He steered him into the gathering.
“There he is the man of the hour who also happens to have a voice like an angel.”
Ray turned around. “Mrs. Robertson.” He flashed one of his easy, broad smiles at the tiny choir director. She stood before him with a curved spine and tightly rolled silver hair that framed a face with more wrinkles than a catcher’s mitt.
“We sure have missed your voice and your perfect pitch. The choir hasn’t been the same since you left.” Her compliment was sincere. In her hands was a paper plate piled high with food, and on top perched a piece of garlic bread.
When he was ten, he remembered asking his mother at the weekly potluck held after church services, “If Mrs. Robertson eats so much at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, why isn’t she fat?” His voice had not been quiet.
“Shh, Ray.” His mother pulled him into the prep kitchen and stooped to look him in the eyes. “That’s probably her only food for the day. That’s why these lunches are so important. Many people in our congregation live alone. They have limited resources and no one to share a meal with, so they just don’t eat.” Acts of service were concepts he grew up with and appreciated. Perhaps the most authentic part of his father’s ministry was this. Though he stopped attending church on Sundays, Ray showed up when possible for community work events: food or clothing giveaways or when a parishioner needed help fixing a leaking roof or repairing a rotting foundation.
“Your teeth are white enough for a toothpaste commercial. With your thick dark hair and electric blue eyes, you look more like a movie star than a soldier. Are you sure you’re heading in the right direction?”
“Ah, the million-dollar question.” He paused and took a swig of Sprite. “No turning back now. Uncle Sam has my social security number and address.” His smile was strained, out of politeness and respect for his elder. He understood the undercurrent of this exchange. Like many adults of his parents’ congregation, Mrs. Robertson believed war resulted from man’s fundamental evil, an inability to live up to God’s exacting standards.
She placed a weathered hand on his arm and gave him a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be praying for you.” The paper plate in her remaining hand wobbled, and her garlic bread toppled to the ground.
“Thank you, I need all the help I can get.” He knew Mrs. Robertson had accomplished her mission. In her sweet, fundamental way, she performed a duty to tell him that although his actions went against the teachings of the church he was raised in, and he was considered lost, he was still worthy of prayer.
****
“It’s your party. Get something to eat.” Hope brushed past him on her way to the table with a new bowl of potato salad. “The crowds went through Gabrielle’s batch like lightning. Time to bring out the reserves—my latest creative endeavor in the kitchen.”
Ray looked at her askance. Hope’s futile attempts to create culinary delights were legendary. Friends and family continued to find ingenious ways to avoid consumption. He was foraging for an excuse when she gently pushed him toward the food table.
“Come on, Ray, no FHB tonight.”
His chortle was spontaneous. The acronym for Family Hold Back was whispered when unexpected guests appeared at their home for a meal or when the attendance of worshipers exceeded the amount of nourishment prepared. His mother would murmur FHB smiling, a mutual conspiracy; his father would say the words with seriousness, a strict mandate. Once the Shipworth family had served everyone else, they ate. As adults, when Hope and Ray went to a mutual friend’s home for dinner, they always found themselves waiting, being the last to put food on their plates. This concept was so ingrained they usually did not notice, but occasionally, they would catch each other’s eye and nod, an understanding of a shared upbringing. Hope gave her brother another playful nudge.
“Will we ever be able to go in for food right away and not hold back?” Ray asked as he picked up an empty paper plate.
“Probably not.” She took a large spoonful of the chunky medley. “But tonight, eat for me.” She dropped the potato salad on his plate. “I don’t want to have to worry about the mayo spoiling my delicacy.”
****
“We almost didn’t come.” Straightforward speaking, there was only one person he knew who always cut to the chase. He looked up from his plate of food. She stood in front of him, and his breath caught. She looked so much like a young woman, with rangy jean-clad legs, a white T-shirt hugging narrow hips, long black hair swept back into a high ponytail that accentuated her wide-set eyes, perfectly centered aquiline nose, rose petal lips. She was not the same twelve-year-old child last seen during his senior year of track; this was not the same lifeless girl he found, a discarded afterthought, five weeks ago.
“Nice to see you too, Squirt.” He stood, put his untouched food down, and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Squirt?” She tried to act annoyed, but her smile gave her away. “Time to ditch that nickname. I’m almost as tall as you now.” She pulled herself higher and, for a moment, stood on her toes, her eyes dark cinnamon, alive, flecked with gold, seeking his. “The last time you saw me, I was just a kid.”
Ray laughed loudly. “I still have six inches on you, but you're right. You’ve done some growing.” As Leo talked, it became apparent she didn't know he had found her in the factory. Bringing up something which held possible embarrassment and pain was pointless now. After all, he rationalized, chances are, after tonight, I will never see her again.
“The invitation fell off our refrigerator, and if I hadn’t dropped my water bottle, we wouldn’t be here.”
“I’ll have to thank gravity for that one.” Ray noticed the blue horseshoes in her hands and gleefully rubbed his hands together. “A glutton for punishment, are you? Don’t tell me you want to lose to me one last time.”
Her laugh was soft and floated with the air. “Fat chance! You’re on.” They headed to the horseshoe pit, side by side, their steps light, unencumbered.
The first time Ray met Leo, she was eight years old. After Coach Lightfoot recruited him for the cross-country team, he was extra early for the first practice. Leo had marched up to him, wearing bright red shorts and an oversized Tiger shirt. “What’s your name?” she demanded. He told her. Band-Aids were on both knees. “Coach is my dad,” she continued. Her hair looked like a discarded bird’s nest because, he found out, she had just rolled down a hill.
“I bet I can beat you in a race.” Fist-clenched hands were hanging by her side, and her young eyes sparkled.
Ray did everything to keep from laughing out loud because he could tell this was serious business. He looked around. No one else was there; Coach was talking to his assistant a football field away. “Sure. See that tree near the base of the hill? Let’s go.”
And she was off, skinny legs pumping as fast as they could, her Sandy sidekick flying by her side. With four strides, Ray was next to her, huffing and puffing. He pretended he was exerting himself as much as possible. She looked over at him as he kept pace with her and laughed. When they reached the elm tree, he slowed. Leo’s small hand slapped the laced bark, and a triumphant voice yelled, “I won!”
“Good job, Squirt.” He high-fived her, and she beamed.
“I know you let me win.” Her honesty had surprised him: “You better not do that again. One day I’ll beat you for real.” Ray's teammates were starting to gather and do stretches. As he jogged off to join them, he called, “I don’t doubt that, Squirt, not one bit.”
When Coach Lightfoot held cross country practices in the fall, and track and field in the spring, she was always there, on the edges, doing cartwheels, making clover chain crowns, climbing trees, lying flat on her back, looking at cloud animals in the sky or making grass angels, sitting in the stands chatting with a runner’s girlfriend or their parents. Leo lived in her own biosphere, enfolded by a larger world, constantly with her dog.
Before the freshman season ended, Leo gave him a nickname. “You call me Squirt, and I’m calling you Blink.” When he asked why, she simply said, “Because a Ray of sunshine is so bright, it makes you Blink.”
****
Sometime during the prolonged festivities, after the food was consumed, and the corn hole games died down, the bonfire was lit. People with young children headed home, and those without reached for another drink as they pulled chairs around the flame and placed blankets on their knees. Ray caught his sister’s eye. She was unusually quiet. Hope came over, her arms full of plastic cups and disposable plates. Ray offered her the trash can.
“I am so mad at them. I sent an invitation, you know.” Her voice trembled. “I can’t believe they didn’t show. Dad, I guess I understand. He sees your enlistment as a personal attack on him, a hostile affront to everything he stands for. But Mom? What’s she thinking? You’re her baby.”
“Only by ten minutes.”
“You’re her only son.” Hope’s eyes filled, and Ray gave her an all-encompassing hug.
“Come on, Hope. You know the situation. She’s supposed to be a supportive, obedient wife and follow the head of the household. Nothing has changed since we were little. Why expect a reversal now.”
“I don’t know, maybe because her son is going to boot camp and then to war.” Hope continued to make the rounds, picking up and shoving trash into the receptacle Ray carried behind her. “You would think that maternal instinct we learned about in school would kick in, and nothing could keep her from saying goodbye.”
Her anger was fierce. Though Ray understood, he didn’t feel animosity toward his parents. Hope was grieving their separation. He felt the same. They’d always been close. The longest they’d gone without seeing each other, even as young adults, was a few days. Growing up, people said, “There’s no special connection between you, except that you share the same birthday, the same parents, oh, and the same cake.” But they were wrong. Unlike most siblings, the only time they sparred was over who got to drive. And, even then, that was short-lived, for they quickly devised a system: first one ready for school drives, and work takes precedence over pleasure. Though never spoken, they appreciated that their singularly unique childhood would not have been the same experience without the other. They did not feel physical pain when the other suffered, like identical twins often reported, but on an emotional level, they understood. They could read each other with a glance.
****
“Hey, it’s all cleaned up inside. I think I’m heading to bed.” Gabrielle stood behind the siblings seated around the fire and put a hand on each of their shoulders.
Hope leaned back and smiled gratefully. “Thanks for all your help tonight. Don’t wait up.”
Gabrielle bent to graze Hope’s forehead. She then squeezed Ray’s upper arm. “Take care of yourself, please. I don't want her to fall apart.”
As Gabrielle walked away, Ray raised a single eyebrow.
Hope gave a quick, self-conscious laugh and shrugged. “I’m trying to figure this stuff out. As adolescents we didn’t have the chance to explore our inner yearnings, let alone to test relationships and see what feels right. I like her.”
Ray sized up his sister and replied, “Then that’s all that matters.”
They stayed up long after the last guest left. Sitting by the dying fire, they talked, reflected, and laughed, siblings that had shared a reluctant womb and drawn their first breaths within minutes of each other. They intuitively knew this time would come—a point of separation, of diverging experience. As the horizon began to lighten and the last embers cooled, Ray and Hope looked at each other, eyes tired but gratified. There was nothing left to say except a single word they uttered simultaneously, “Coffee!”
Hours later, Ray would be far removed from this moment, his sister, and life as he knew it, on a plane hurdling through the sky.
Tract Three:
Fall 2005-Spring 2006
The Preacher’s Kid
Outside the airplane window, dark clouds churned. In thirty minutes, they would begin their descent. Ray carried with him memories of last night's farewell cookout. So many people had shown up to wish him well.
Leo and Coach Lightfoot’s attendance touched him. Without question, Joseph Lightfoot had altered the course of Ray’s life. Coach probably didn't even realize this, but then he was like that, unassuming but present, always doing the right thing, trying to help the students he taught.
The aircraft suddenly dropped. Ray’s stomach lurched as the middle-aged woman beside him white-knuckled her armrest. Tinny strands of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” emanated from her headphones.
As the rain slashed across his window and the visibility closed in, the aircraft's wings struggled to stay level against strong headwinds. Across the aisle, a man in a crisp business suit threw back a jack and coke.
Ray closed his eyes and reached back to a time in his past when he questioned what he was doing. He remembered tearing across a parking lot, and thinking how did I get myself into this situation? Under his T-shirt, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, was a pack of cigarettes. And he didn’t even smoke. High School had not gotten off to a good start.
It began the first morning on the first day of his freshman year.
“Preacher’s Kid.” A pair of bushy hands sporting black leather wrist cuffs shoved him into his open metal locker. “Are you a softie, or do you have the guts to be a man?”
The voice belonged to a senior they called Bear, pumped up and burly with more facial hair than a grizzly. His reputation preceded him.
Ray wanted to turn and walk away, to let Bear toy with him and be done, but something inside of him couldn’t let go. “Just because my dad’s a pastor doesn’t mean that I’m weak.”
Bear grinned as if this was precisely the reaction he wanted. His yellow nicotine-stained teeth, crammed into a mouth too small for his body, leaned into each other like overcrowded tombstones. “We’ll see about that. But you’re gonna have to prove yourself.” He gave Ray another poke in the chest. “We meet behind the school when the fifth-period bell goes off.” Ray started to point out that school wasn’t over then but was stopped short by the look in Bear’s eyes of malevolent amusement.
The gang smoked and tore each other apart with words. They slapped one another forcefully on the shoulders and shoved tight fists into unsuspecting abdomens. They told raunchy jokes at the expense of others. Ray struggled not to let his disquietude show. Expectations escalated quickly. Bear pulled Ray before him.
“It’s your turn, Babyface.” Smoke-filled, fetid breath slammed into Ray. He reflexively stepped back, flinching. Bear laughed. “This’s the easy one. They ain’t gonna do nothing but git harder. Then we’ll see if you're a little boy or a man.”
All new initiates were required to steal a pack of cigarettes and give them to Bear. For the first time in his young life, Ray fully understood his father’s preaching about the hazards of straying from a virtuous path.
Already Ray could see the perils of this direction. A single pack of cigarettes would lead to activities other members bragged about, like breaking into and robbing stores and unoccupied homes at night. This wasn’t what he understood being a man to be. He struggled to find a way out.
On the day Bear lured him in, Ray witnessed what would happen if he refused to participate. Another freshman, a boy Ray didn’t know, balked at the initiation task.
“I’m not going to steal.” The short, solid-framed adolescent’s voice wavered, but he stood resolute. Within seconds, four of Bear’s accomplices surrounded him and hauled him over the hill. When Miguel returned with a swollen right eye, split lip, and blood on his face, he compliantly completed his assignment. He threw the stolen pack at Bear’s feet and was rewarded with a sharp shove. Ray’s turn was up. Trapped against a wall, an ultimatum faced him: prove yourself or else.
