The Circle

Leaves in October

October 1988

         The change of seasons from summer to fall brings the most extraordinary effect on the world around us. At least that is how I always felt when strolling in the clean, crisp Autumn air. There was never a time of year when the wind felt more vibrant, the daylight more precious. The entire landscape of our little mountain community was dotted with the twisted trunks and bare limbs of the trees that had previously stood lush and green with all manner foliage. And yet, despite the aura of death and the skeletal limbs that tangled the landscape and seemed to reach for our windows at night, existence never seemed more real. The rains and aromas of spring had been burned away by summer's heat, leaving a thick haze that filled in all the empty spaces under the blinding sun. But then autumn swept that all away, leaving the air empty, save for the faint smells of leaves and smoke, smells that did not saturate the air, but rode the soft wind in pockets. It all seemed to happen so quickly. The summer, as usual, did not like to let go of its strangle hold on our patience and comfort. As the weeks of September wore on and the heat persisted, it seemed as if relief would never come. But then there was always that one day when everything simply changed. The temperature plummeted and the rain hardened to snow throughout a bleak and gray afternoon. A few days of this shocking chill would pass and then the warmth would return, but not entirely. The air became crisp and color quickly faded from sight.

         The week following this sudden change would find our group under the wilted bronze canopy of an apple tree near a patch of dirt we called home plate. Our bats and mitts were thrown carelessly at the base of the trunk. Some sat on the grass surrounding the dirt circle, while others stood. Nick paced the pitcher's mound, lightly tossing the ball above his head and catching it with his bare hands.

         “Nick, you pitchin' today or somethin?” Bill called up to him while he grabbed a bat and began his practice swings. Nick never pitched, preferring the field where he could snag fly balls and pretend he was a superstar. He always put a little extra spin on the easy catches, attempting to make them look more spectacular. Jordan and Mark were the only ones that would fall for the show and their excited jabber over one of his great catches only served to make the next play he could grab all the more elaborate.

         “You kidding? If I pitched, there'd be no game. You couldn't get a hit on me to save your life.”

         Bill shook his head and continued his practice swings.

         “Sure, skippy. We're all impressed with your hero catches out there.”

         This elicited a riot of laughter from Terry and Andy, who began to mimic a few of Nick's more ridiculous plays. Nick caught the ball again and fired a bullet at Bill. The ball zipped just behind him, missing by only a few inches, and smashed into the fence behind him, scaring the neighbors dog with a loud rattle of wire. The little white beast immediately began its annoyingly rhythmic barking on the other side, pulling tight on the thin little leash that bound it to the porch.

         “Ahh...now you got that little mutt yapping away over there, stupid!” Rachel shouted,  throwing her own mitt at Nick to add injury to insult. For a moment I thought she would throw her hat and then possibly start on the bats lying on the grass at her feet, but her hand only went up to straighten her Yankees cap. For all our talk, Rachel was the only member of the circle that acted on her anger most of the time. I had participated in two fights and more arguments than I could count that she had started in the past year and wasn't in the mood to mediate another of her tussles with Nick. I threw her a sideways smile and grabbed my bat.

         “Are we playin' or bullshittin' today?”

         The others began moving at this, realizing the day was growing darker. The sun just didn't last as long as the weeks drew into November and our games would always end much quicker.

         The teams were never the same, but the positions almost never changed. Bill always pitched, as did I, which normally put us on opposing sides. The few times we played on the same team, we would alternate. Today we both pitched. Nick resumed his spot in the field as Bill took the mound. Andy stood at the fence pole that marked first base while Mark and Rachel floated in the field behind Bill, ready to take short stop or one of the remaining bases if need be. Josh crouched behind home plate, with no protective gear of course, only the thick catcher's mitt. Until last year, the catcher had to use a regular mitt, but then Andy had gotten money from cutting grass and bought the catcher's mitt that everyone used when their turn came behind the plate. Roger, Jordan, Terry, and Benny were sprawled in the grass at the trunk of the tree awaiting their turns at bat. I was up first and nailed Bill's first pitch into a line drive that skewed to the right and struck the fence pole just above Andy's head. The fact that the ball was well above him didn't stop the stunned kid from hitting the dirt. Nick cried out from the field and threw his glove at Andy as he spun and made a quick break for the ball which had bounced far out to left field and into the weeds near the creek.

         “You stupid fucker Andy! Why didn't you catch it?!” Nick cried out at the top of his lungs as he desperately fished around in the weeds. I rounded first and past Andy with a smirk as he got up and brushed the dirt off the front of his shirt. Trotting through second, I raised an eyebrow and waved at Mark before shooting a glance back at Nick who was now on his hands and knees pulling weeds as if possessed. I had not yet turned my head around on the way to third when the mocking expression I wore was wiped from my face. I was tackled cleanly to the ground before I understood my mistake. I heard Jordan and Benny crack up with laughter as I stared up into Rachel's face.

         “That's a double, buddy. The ball's in the weeds and idiot out there isn't gonna find it.”

         She got up quickly and ran out to Nick who was still furiously rooting through the weeds. I stood up slowly and brushed my jeans absently as I looked over at Bill.

         “I guess it's a double.” He said with a shrug and turned back to the mound with a snicker.

         I was making my way back to second when Andy threw in his two cents two minutes too late.

         “Yeah, come on Shriver, you can't take a score on that!”

         I threw him the finger and motioned towards second where Mark stood gazing back at Nick and Rachel in the weeds.

         “Where d'ya think I'm headin'?”

         I turned and put my back against the tree that served as second base just as Rachel called out that she had found the ball. She quickly came sprinting back to the field, leaving Nick to saunter over and pick up his mitt. He punched Andy in the shoulder before turning back to the field.

         “What'd I do?!” Andy whined, furiously rubbing his bruised shoulder. Nick seemed more serious in the field now, giving his mitt short hard jabs every few moments.

         The next hit came from Terry, who lined one far to the left, too far for Nick to grab it before it hit the rear fence and rolled back into the outfield. Terry made first and I thought about pushing past third, but Rachel caught the quick throw from Nick and erased that possibility. Roger was up to the plate next and Nick moved closer infield while Rachel moved closer to third. Roger was the smallest of the group and usually struck out. On the rare occasion he made contact, the ball never went further than second. The first two pitches were balls, the next a strike. I stretched a bit off the apple tree that marked third, keeping the side of my foot rooted to the base of the trunk. The next pitch found Roger swinging wildly and missing.

         “Come one, Roger. Just let'em go if they aren't down the middle.”

         I tried to sound reassuring, but I was already positive he would swing at the next one. I could only hope for a miracle.  Before Bill could even prepare for the next pitch, I felt a small foot quickly and neatly nudge me off of third.

         “Bill!”

         Rachel stood with mitt ready and the base of her own foot on the trunk of the tree. Bill fired quickly, but I was already back to the safety of the trunk.

         “You are such a bad cheater..”. It was all I could manage. Near second, Nick was shaking his head.

         “You better hug that tree, boay!” She replied with a raise of eyebrows and two quick chews on her gum.

         In the course of the next ten minutes, Roger struck out and Rachel tried twice more to throw me out at third. Terry finally sent me home with a fly ball that cleared the fence by at least ten feet. As I touched home plate, I turned to the lady at third.

         “Is it my imagination, or am I at home plate?”

         Rachel reacted in an instant, throwing her glove to the ground.

         “That's it! Jack's gettin' wacked!”

         She tore off third and leaped the last few feet onto my back. The force and weight drove me to the ground. Benny and Roger both leapt back and began howling.

         “Oh shit, Shriver's gonna die!” Benny chuckled. Roger had latched onto him and was jumping up and down with mad glee. I managed to stand while she had me in a headlock. I turned to Terry who had just come home and threw up my arms. He gave a quick smile and grabbed his bat.

         “Shriver, I think you got somethin' on your back.”

         Nick did not share in the group's amusement. The others had broken into laughter, either dropping where they stood or moving closer to home plate to get a better look. Nick had remained where he stood.

         “Come one guys....!” He was clearly irritated of these breaks in play. “We only got an hour left before it gets dark!”

         We resumed the game with no further interruptions, though I threw a few wild pitches to Rachel. To everyone's amusement, I blamed the pitches on an injury sustained from her attack. It was only quarter past five in the afternoon when we finished for the day. The sun had set half an hour ago and the light was rapidly draining away on the western horizon. I told Nick to wait at Mayer's swing while I walked Rachel home. He kicked gravel from the lot entrance out onto the road and didn't respond. Without waiting, he quickly turned and ran toward Mayer's yard, disappearing behind the house. I said goodbye to Terry who made his way slowly between Breene's and the giant red wood fence on his way back home. Rachel skipped up to me with her cap pulled low and her bat slung over her shoulder. Her mitt was hooked on the end and slid back and forth as she turned.

         “What's Nick's problem?” She only looked back once before turning to me. I could only shrug.

         “You've got me. I think his mother's gettin' on his case again about somethin'.”

         The truth was that I had a good idea as to what was bothering Nick, but did not have a clue as to why. His mother had not been around all that often over the past few weeks, so I ruled her out as a cause, though there may very well have been something between the two in the moments she was at home. Nick's animosity seemed to be focused on Rachel. The two had argued on an almost daily basis for the past month and when they were not arguing, they were simply not speaking at all. When we were alone, he grew agitated if I mentioned Rachel or even moved toward a subject that may have involved her. The previous year when Rachel had been a new face to most of the circle, Nick had shown no sign that he disapproved of her presence. The reasons for this change in his behavior toward her were lost to me. I had avoided asking him when the two of us were together simply because anytime I mentioned her, the mood changed for the rest of the day and our time together was shortened. Nick either ended up going home to eat supper or he simply disappeared around a corner when I was preoccupied. In either case, I did not see him for the rest of the day. At times, I would later catch him running around Cunningham's hill or the downtown streets with Terry or Andy.

         Rachel and I walked in silence until we reached the schoolhouse. I did not dare confide to her my suspicions about Nick. The circle had become somewhat fragmented for the first time. Terry, Nick, and Andy had developed a closer knit clique, while Jordan had become fast friends with Rick and had taken to spending nights at the Hiller's with Bill and his little brother. The rest had strange arrangements at which I could only guess. I would see Roger and Mark riding bikes with Jordan at times and with Terry or Andy at others. That left me and Rachel. I still hung with Nick when I could, but I always preferred Rachel's company. Most of the neighborhood assumed we were dating, however neither one of us brought up the subject. These were the years when my particular flavor of neurosis had not yet taken hold and the rumors of our courtship did not affect me.

         Rachel's usual vibrancy seemed to drain away as she stared at the run down shack she returned to each night. “You aren't coming back out after you eat?” Her face was almost pleading and I wanted badly at that moment to say what she wanted me to say. “Sorry, I have to go out with my mom and dad. It's payday. We're going out for dinner.”

         Rachel dropped her head and nodded. “I understand. I just wish I didn't have to go home so soon. I wanted to try the woods again like last night.”

         “You know, when I first took you up there, you were scared to death. And that was in the morning too!”

         Rachel began to perk up again after I mentioned our first trip through the front pass. That early spring day almost two years prior had been quite different from the late autumn night in which we currently found ourselves. The morning fog was always quite thick in the spring and even early summer, shrouding the entire town in a damp chill. The fog would be lifted by midday, burned away by the cresting sun, but would return late in the evening as the last rays vanished in the far west amidst a scattering of red and violet clouds. The fog still made an appearance now and then in the months thereafter, but the nights would remain untouched by its hazy fingers. That particular autumn evening was as clear as the others and the stars shown brightly on the dizzying and endless night sky. The absence of any fog, however, did not make the entrance awaiting at the peak of Center avenue any more inviting. Even without the lush green canopies of summer, the golden boughs and twisted arms of the trees brought an even deeper darkness to the rising lands beyond. Without a light, it was very easy to get lost, even if you knew the path well.

         The unpleasant thought of being lost in those woods ran through my mind as Rachel stared at the dark windows of her home. I tried to read her eyes, but they were vacant as she anchored her gaze on her father's house. I was about to bid her goodnight and walk back when she turned to me.

         “I hate my dad.”

         She immediately dropped her head as if she wished she hadn't spoken. I was not sure how to respond, so I remained silent, staring at my shoes. I felt something that I could not understand, something that welled up inside and caught hard in my throat. I had heard this story so often. Like the others in town, I had passed the Statler residence at times late in the night when Rachel's father had returned home, only to hear the familiar sounds of shouts and cursing. One night, in anger, I had picked up a stone from the schoolhouse lot and was prepared to throw it at the house. I then remembered how worse that had made the situation in the past, when Nick would throw a stone or two at the Farier's small and rundown home during one of their heated arguments. Nick always got a kick out of making a situation worse as long as he was not directly involved. I understood all too well what Rachel was feeling. She lifted her head to look once more at the house she had come to hate as much as her father.

         “It's just...He's just mean all the time... I mean, I don't even do anything... You know?” She began trailing off and I could hear a quiver in her voice. I was never sure if she looked at me again.

         My eyes remained on my shoes. There lump in my throat prevented me from saying anything to console her. When she passed through the dark door of the Statler residence, I could not follow. I felt helpless at times. But that was our fate. The circle could not follow us home at night, for home was beyond our means as children to change. The circle was the shell of the outside world, the world of the sun, the seasons, and the absence of worry.

         “I gotta go...”

         I was not sure if she heard me, it was still so hard to speak. I simply turned and started back toward home. I didn't look back, but I heard her shoes shuffling in the gravel as she made her own way to the shack at the end of Center. I spent the rest of the night without saying much. I stared at the world on our way home from our family night out. The black sky outside the rear window of the car was littered with thin black clouds that remained motionless on the abyss. The world seemed to expand forever on the eastern horizon, the flat and empty lands running away from the mountains and foothills in the west, running forever it seemed. I looked at my father, his face flat and empty like the lands outside that window. My mind drifted again to Rachel. I wondered if we would ever escape this place. I wondered if we would find something out there where the land met the sky. A circle for our entire lives, a circle for home.