Free The Squared Circle by JAMES W. BENNETT Page B

the last to be plowed, and that’s when we’re lucky. You didn’t tell me you have a car.”
    â€œUncle Seth gave it to me.”
    â€œMmm. Before we get any equipment loaded, I wonder if you could help me move some studio materials?”
    Sonny shrugged. “Sure.”
    Her property was a farm once upon a time, but looking at the steep, wooded terrain, Sonny couldn’t see where there was much suitable space for growing crops. The house was a tired-looking two story with faded yellow paint. The barn, which looked solid enough, was closer to the house than the dilapidated tractor shed. Outside the shed was an old, gray Ford tractor, and behind it, an uneven pile of barn siding that must have come from a torn-down building. There were only three of them, the bags of clay that Sissy wanted him to carry from the Bronco to the barn, but they were the 80 pounders. It took Sonny three trips.
    Most of the lower barn, which she used for a studio, had evidence of recent remodeling. “But there’s a lot more that needs to be done,” she told him, “to make it an adequate studio. It needs a skylight for one thing—how about it, Carpenter?”
    Sonny laughed. “I think that would be a little over my head.” There were three large worktables that looked like shop benches, galvanized garbage cans with tight lids, a roomy sink area, and an assortment of sculptor’s tools, which Sonny knew nothing about. The heat came from a Franklin wood stove. She asked him if he would store the clay in the floor-level cabinets.
    â€œI do appreciate this, Cousin. Since it’s not in the syllabus, we’ll call it extra credit.”
    Remembering about her surgery, he said, “You’re probably not supposed to do any heavy lifting.”
    For the most part, this was going to be an equipment run. With a load of tools familiar and unfamiliar, Sonny drove the Bronco down toward Makanda slowly while Sissy made notes on a clipboard.
    The village was so tiny, a church on a slope and a small stretch of quaint storefronts, that you could take it all in at a glance even without a high-ground advantage. An abandoned, ramshackle building with peace-sign graffiti spray painted on its weathered siding slouched next to the defunct railroad tracks. And on the right, where Sonny pulled the Bronco to a pause, a basketball court: incongruous and central, a young slab of concrete, maybe 20 by 20. An erect basketball goal with fan-shaped metal backboard and orange rim in good condition.
    â€œWhy are we stopping?” Sissy looked up from her notes.
    â€œWhy is this here?”
    â€œI have no idea.”
    â€œBut who plays here? It looks like nobody even lives here.”
    â€œThere are a few people who live here, although no basketball players that I know of. Maybe it’s a shrine,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe the gospel according to Little Egypt dictates that even Makanda must have its own fieldhouse.”
    â€œVery funny.” The storefront where they got out sold wood carvings by local artisans. In the back was a huge shop with modern power tools for woodworking. A black man with no legs was sitting in a swivel chair and sweeping sawdust from beneath a band saw. Sissy was starting the introductions when the man said, “Shit. You’re Sonny Youngblood.”
    Sissy said, “Oh Lord.” On her face she wore the pained expression that begs for patience. “Sonny, this is Willie Joe.”
    Willie Joe’s rolled-up overalls covered his stumps, above or below the knees, Sonny couldn’t tell. “Sonny Youngblood, give me five. Man, did you kick some ass in the NIT!” Sonny gave him five.
    â€œWillie Joe,” demanded Sissy, “if I showed you a picture of Paul Klee, would you recognize him as quickly?”
    â€œDepends who he played for, Baby! Ha!”
    Sonny laughed.
    â€œDrumroll, Baby!”
    Sissy simply shook her head before she