Circles
Ruth Rotkowitz
With the velvety softness of the couch caressing the back of my neck, and the late afternoon sun streaming into the room from the large west-facing bay window, it’s no wonder I was lulled into a half-sleep as I listened to my daughter Amy practice the piano. Part of it must have been that spinning song she was playing, the notes going round and round in repetition, with only slight variations each round so that while I became mesmerized, I also grew dizzy listening, for I felt myself standing in the middle of some wide meadow, arms outstretched as I spun round and round to the music.
It wasn’t long before an image materialized, forming from a speck of dirt on the beige carpet. It grew and grew until it stood, looming before me. A giant wheel, rising out of the earth, slowly yet distinctly, as if called forth by a supernatural being from some murky depth. I noticed how sturdy the wheel seemed, its hardy wood strong and solid, as if it had survived for centuries, only to come to life in my living room, arising in the sands of my mind.
As Amy continued playing, the wheel, to my amazement, continued rising. I stared and blinked, but it simply persisted in growing, and did not stop until it had reached the ceiling. Its proportions were gargantuan; it must have belonged to a race of giants long gone. I had to crane my neck in order to glimpse the rusted top. And just as suddenly as it had appeared, it began turning, like a huge Ferris wheel set into motion. Turning and turning. Creaking too.
Instinctively, as if propelled by an inner force beyond my comprehension, my arm reached out and squirted some oil into the wheel from a can that miraculously appeared at my side, just like the oilcan with the little spout that Dorothy used for oiling the tin man in The Wizard of Oz, which Amy and I had just watched on TV over the weekend.
I also found I had to administer little pushes to the wheel to keep it going. Oiling and pushing, oiling and pushing. Eventually, I had to push harder and harder, for the wheel was getting so heavy and my poor back was starting to ache. With each revolution of the wheel, I found it necessary to squirt more oil, until I had it running pretty smoothly. I felt some pride in that. But I couldn’t stop or else the whole thing would…who knows?
How had this become my job? I wanted to cry out. I must have uttered some kind of noise, for Amy glanced over her shoulder at me questioningly, as if wondering if she’d hit a wrong note, so I made sure to smile reassuringly at my sweet daughter to indicate that nothing was amiss. The music so absorbed her, thank goodness, that she took no notice of the giant wheel in the center of the room.
Amy played on, her little back erect, her pert face set in concentration. She even leaned in to play certain sections softly, as the music instructed, and then sat back when it was appropriate to play louder and faster.
And still, this wheel that had taken form in the living room of my mind kept on turning, and I groaned a bit as I pushed and oiled it, over and over again. Suddenly, to my horror – how could this be? – I saw my children on the wheel, holding on with their arms while their legs flailed behind them! Amy and Bobby were positioned on opposite sides of the monstrous thing, so they passed me one at a time. Sometimes, they yelled across the wheel at each other, shouts I could not decipher. I hoped they were not arguing but comforting each other. As a matter of fact, they seemed to be frolicking as if they were enjoying a ride at an amusement park, and a few times, they waved jovially to me as they passed.
Panic seized me, constricting my chest – how could they consider this a game? At one point, Bobby displayed a piece of paper, but he passed by too quickly for me to get even a glimpse of it. He’d been smiling so it must have been a good grade he was showing off. Amy held out a difficult puzzle she’d assembled, and I waved back, making the attempt to appear happy for them so that they would not become alarmed, and I even took both hands off the wheel for a brief moment to applaud.
And then they began passing without even a glance in my direction. I fretted; what was wrong? If they needed my help, what could I do? How could I get to them and save them? Then their expressions changed and they appeared to be scowling and brooding. I wanted to grab them and find out what was the matter, but the wheel kept turning, faster and faster, and there was no way. Why did I have no control? Fear beat in my temples; perhaps my children realized where they were and sensed the danger. I could barely move my hands fast enough to keep up with the turning.
Abruptly, without warning, things began flying off the wheel! When had they gotten there in the first place? I could not have missed something so important! In fascinated terror, I watched as my children’s possessions – books and toys, mostly – lifted gently off the wheel and floated gracefully away, as if participating in a lyrical dance. The movements were so smooth that I would hardly have noticed had I not happened to glance up and catch the first few escaping objects out of the corner of my eye as they disappeared without a trace into the void beyond. Some old coloring books, their edges ripped. Little Matchbox trucks, followed by larger Tonka ones, the big blue dump truck clattering as it went. A few Barbie dolls, in various stages of dress. One, a blonde, flew off with one tiny white breast exposed, as if she had to leave before getting her second arm into the sparkly black top she was wearing.
It took me a while to realize that not only small things were leaving the wheel, but larger ones as well. The piano – my God, Amy’s piano – actually flew off that damn wheel and vanished into the vastness of space. My heart pounding, I searched desperately for a glimpse of my daughter’s face in order to gauge her reaction.
But at the next revolution of the monstrous, creaking thing, just as I was about to call out to Amy, I saw my little daughter, my baby, extending her arms out toward the spot where the piano had drifted away. Before I could utter a sound, she let go of the wheel and simply floated after it. My little girl, where was she going? How will she handle the blackness of space? Through my tears, I saw the ruffle on the bottom of her favorite nightgown, the one with the tiny pink and green flowers, when my sweet Amy kicked her little feet as if swimming, and then was gone from view.
I gasped, nearly choking, crying and grasping at the air with one hand, but my voice drowned in the surrounding emptiness and in the scratchy grinding of the old wheel. Still searching the skies, I reached, robot-like, for the oilcan and oiled the wheel without looking at it. I continued turning it, my blurry eyes fixed on the horizon, no longer seeing my daughter.
Other things floated off after that, but through my tears, I could barely tell what they were. My eyes looked only for Bobby at each revolution, ready at any moment to lose him as well. I recognized my son’s track shoes as they glided away. With a sob, I remembered how he’d asked his little sister to help him screw the spikes in when the shoes were new. Then off flew his beloved baseball mitt, which he’d oiled faithfully at the beginning of every Little League season, just as I am sitting here oiling this cursed wheel now. Some of those model rockets he was always building actually blasted off – Bobby must be happy they’re working, I thought woodenly, wondering if he’d even noticed that his sister had gone.
My hands, numb now, moved faster and faster, keeping up with the increasing tempo. I knew that Bobby would fly off soon and I could no longer stand the waiting. So it seemed the most natural thing when he lifted off without a backward glance, though I thought I saw him wave casually as he took off. He coasted along, not even kicking, as if welcoming whatever surprises his adventure would bring.
I sighed, waving to his back, as a tear rolled down my cheek and neck and landed in the can of oil beside me. Water and oil. Was there something I was supposed to remember about that?
I sat on the couch, breathing heavily, my face flushed with heat and my fists clenching. Amy no longer sat at the piano. I gripped the arm of the sofa. Where was she? Then her voice came drifting down the stairs from her room, where she commanded and consoled her collection of troll-dolls in that squeaky voice reserved for play. Closing my eyes in relief, I pictured the child holding her favorite – the one with the wild fuchsia hair and blue overalls, the one I had carefully washed in the sink after Amy had dropped it in a puddle at the school bus stop.
Turning and turning, oiling and oiling. The gruesome image would not leave me. Sweat broke out in cold little beads on my forehead. I swallowed, then took several deep breaths. How would I rid my head, and my home, of the ugliness of that huge old wheel despoiling the calm, beige living room, not to mention the pale pretty blue of the sky and the soft cotton puffiness of the clouds? And what of the terror of that unknown world beyond the wheel? Would that haunt my children forever?
The sun still slashed its way into the room, trying to help me rout out the evil demon, and one round ball of light landed directly on the spot of carpet near my feet. A peace offering. Sunshine ricocheted off the bowls and plants and wormed through the Venetian blinds at the windows, reflecting the odd shapes of the slats that attempted to thwart the path of the glare. But even the bold sun could not wash over the presence of that grisly wheel. Convulsed with shudders, I huddled, shivering in the light.
It wasn’t long before an image materialized, forming from a speck of dirt on the beige carpet. It grew and grew until it stood, looming before me. A giant wheel, rising out of the earth, slowly yet distinctly, as if called forth by a supernatural being from some murky depth. I noticed how sturdy the wheel seemed, its hardy wood strong and solid, as if it had survived for centuries, only to come to life in my living room, arising in the sands of my mind.
As Amy continued playing, the wheel, to my amazement, continued rising. I stared and blinked, but it simply persisted in growing, and did not stop until it had reached the ceiling. Its proportions were gargantuan; it must have belonged to a race of giants long gone. I had to crane my neck in order to glimpse the rusted top. And just as suddenly as it had appeared, it began turning, like a huge Ferris wheel set into motion. Turning and turning. Creaking too.
Instinctively, as if propelled by an inner force beyond my comprehension, my arm reached out and squirted some oil into the wheel from a can that miraculously appeared at my side, just like the oilcan with the little spout that Dorothy used for oiling the tin man in The Wizard of Oz, which Amy and I had just watched on TV over the weekend.
I also found I had to administer little pushes to the wheel to keep it going. Oiling and pushing, oiling and pushing. Eventually, I had to push harder and harder, for the wheel was getting so heavy and my poor back was starting to ache. With each revolution of the wheel, I found it necessary to squirt more oil, until I had it running pretty smoothly. I felt some pride in that. But I couldn’t stop or else the whole thing would…who knows?
How had this become my job? I wanted to cry out. I must have uttered some kind of noise, for Amy glanced over her shoulder at me questioningly, as if wondering if she’d hit a wrong note, so I made sure to smile reassuringly at my sweet daughter to indicate that nothing was amiss. The music so absorbed her, thank goodness, that she took no notice of the giant wheel in the center of the room.
Amy played on, her little back erect, her pert face set in concentration. She even leaned in to play certain sections softly, as the music instructed, and then sat back when it was appropriate to play louder and faster.
And still, this wheel that had taken form in the living room of my mind kept on turning, and I groaned a bit as I pushed and oiled it, over and over again. Suddenly, to my horror – how could this be? – I saw my children on the wheel, holding on with their arms while their legs flailed behind them! Amy and Bobby were positioned on opposite sides of the monstrous thing, so they passed me one at a time. Sometimes, they yelled across the wheel at each other, shouts I could not decipher. I hoped they were not arguing but comforting each other. As a matter of fact, they seemed to be frolicking as if they were enjoying a ride at an amusement park, and a few times, they waved jovially to me as they passed.
Panic seized me, constricting my chest – how could they consider this a game? At one point, Bobby displayed a piece of paper, but he passed by too quickly for me to get even a glimpse of it. He’d been smiling so it must have been a good grade he was showing off. Amy held out a difficult puzzle she’d assembled, and I waved back, making the attempt to appear happy for them so that they would not become alarmed, and I even took both hands off the wheel for a brief moment to applaud.
And then they began passing without even a glance in my direction. I fretted; what was wrong? If they needed my help, what could I do? How could I get to them and save them? Then their expressions changed and they appeared to be scowling and brooding. I wanted to grab them and find out what was the matter, but the wheel kept turning, faster and faster, and there was no way. Why did I have no control? Fear beat in my temples; perhaps my children realized where they were and sensed the danger. I could barely move my hands fast enough to keep up with the turning.
Abruptly, without warning, things began flying off the wheel! When had they gotten there in the first place? I could not have missed something so important! In fascinated terror, I watched as my children’s possessions – books and toys, mostly – lifted gently off the wheel and floated gracefully away, as if participating in a lyrical dance. The movements were so smooth that I would hardly have noticed had I not happened to glance up and catch the first few escaping objects out of the corner of my eye as they disappeared without a trace into the void beyond. Some old coloring books, their edges ripped. Little Matchbox trucks, followed by larger Tonka ones, the big blue dump truck clattering as it went. A few Barbie dolls, in various stages of dress. One, a blonde, flew off with one tiny white breast exposed, as if she had to leave before getting her second arm into the sparkly black top she was wearing.
It took me a while to realize that not only small things were leaving the wheel, but larger ones as well. The piano – my God, Amy’s piano – actually flew off that damn wheel and vanished into the vastness of space. My heart pounding, I searched desperately for a glimpse of my daughter’s face in order to gauge her reaction.
But at the next revolution of the monstrous, creaking thing, just as I was about to call out to Amy, I saw my little daughter, my baby, extending her arms out toward the spot where the piano had drifted away. Before I could utter a sound, she let go of the wheel and simply floated after it. My little girl, where was she going? How will she handle the blackness of space? Through my tears, I saw the ruffle on the bottom of her favorite nightgown, the one with the tiny pink and green flowers, when my sweet Amy kicked her little feet as if swimming, and then was gone from view.
I gasped, nearly choking, crying and grasping at the air with one hand, but my voice drowned in the surrounding emptiness and in the scratchy grinding of the old wheel. Still searching the skies, I reached, robot-like, for the oilcan and oiled the wheel without looking at it. I continued turning it, my blurry eyes fixed on the horizon, no longer seeing my daughter.
Other things floated off after that, but through my tears, I could barely tell what they were. My eyes looked only for Bobby at each revolution, ready at any moment to lose him as well. I recognized my son’s track shoes as they glided away. With a sob, I remembered how he’d asked his little sister to help him screw the spikes in when the shoes were new. Then off flew his beloved baseball mitt, which he’d oiled faithfully at the beginning of every Little League season, just as I am sitting here oiling this cursed wheel now. Some of those model rockets he was always building actually blasted off – Bobby must be happy they’re working, I thought woodenly, wondering if he’d even noticed that his sister had gone.
My hands, numb now, moved faster and faster, keeping up with the increasing tempo. I knew that Bobby would fly off soon and I could no longer stand the waiting. So it seemed the most natural thing when he lifted off without a backward glance, though I thought I saw him wave casually as he took off. He coasted along, not even kicking, as if welcoming whatever surprises his adventure would bring.
I sighed, waving to his back, as a tear rolled down my cheek and neck and landed in the can of oil beside me. Water and oil. Was there something I was supposed to remember about that?
I sat on the couch, breathing heavily, my face flushed with heat and my fists clenching. Amy no longer sat at the piano. I gripped the arm of the sofa. Where was she? Then her voice came drifting down the stairs from her room, where she commanded and consoled her collection of troll-dolls in that squeaky voice reserved for play. Closing my eyes in relief, I pictured the child holding her favorite – the one with the wild fuchsia hair and blue overalls, the one I had carefully washed in the sink after Amy had dropped it in a puddle at the school bus stop.
Turning and turning, oiling and oiling. The gruesome image would not leave me. Sweat broke out in cold little beads on my forehead. I swallowed, then took several deep breaths. How would I rid my head, and my home, of the ugliness of that huge old wheel despoiling the calm, beige living room, not to mention the pale pretty blue of the sky and the soft cotton puffiness of the clouds? And what of the terror of that unknown world beyond the wheel? Would that haunt my children forever?
The sun still slashed its way into the room, trying to help me rout out the evil demon, and one round ball of light landed directly on the spot of carpet near my feet. A peace offering. Sunshine ricocheted off the bowls and plants and wormed through the Venetian blinds at the windows, reflecting the odd shapes of the slats that attempted to thwart the path of the glare. But even the bold sun could not wash over the presence of that grisly wheel. Convulsed with shudders, I huddled, shivering in the light.
* * *
The door slammed, shattering my reverie. With a thud, Bobby’s pile of books landed on the kitchen table. The next sound was the cabinet door opening, followed by the ripping of the plastic on a new box of chocolate chip cookies. I was sure I could even hear a few crumbs falling onto the top of the coffee maker.
“I only have a little homework, Ma!” he called out. “So I’m gonna work out at the gym tonight. Okay?”
“Okay, Mr. Muscles,” I answered from the kitchen doorway, and he turned in surprise to see me so close. He always yelled out his announcements when he came home, as if assuming that everyone else was either far away or hard of hearing. “Leave a few for the rest of us,” I added as he shoved another cookie, in its entirety, into his mouth. “No problem,” he mumbled as crumbs and chips flew from his mouth, scattering in all directions.
The kitchen seemed a safer environment than the living room. Grateful to Bobby for coming home and providing the impetus for me to change rooms, I moved easily between refrigerator and countertop, thankful to be performing familiar actions with my hands, actions that did not involve an oilcan. Could that horrid wheel be some kind of punishment? For everything within these walls being too predictable?
With trembling fingers, I retrieved the meat for dinner from the fridge while observing my son as he bent his curly head over the geometry book. Sprinkling seasoning over the lamb chops, I noted with pride the swiftness and intensity with which he tackled the problems therein. His dark brow furrowed as his pencil sped across the lines on the page, scribbling something like a secret code or obscure foreign tongue. I let out a deep breath; my hand had steadied.
“Where’s…? Oh, here.” He scrounged around amidst a collection of items spread out on the table and located the compass, checking to see that the little pencil in it bore a point. Within minutes, several pages were filled with perfect circles, circles of all sizes united in the preciseness of their formation.
Craning to see across the counter and over his shoulder, I blinked hard as the whiteness of Bobby’s papers swirled before my eyes and finally blushed into color. Some of the circles deepened to blood red apples, the type used by the wicked stepmother to poison Snow White. Other circles morphed into spongy pink Spalding balls, the kind with which I once played “A-my-name-is-Alice” on the sidewalk outside my childhood apartment building. Other circles transformed themselves into huge lumpy oranges, the ones that squirt sticky, sweet juice and are sold at roadside farms in the summer. The colors burst from the page, radiating dazzling fireworks, which showered over Bobby’s shoulders as he, oblivious, plodded on.
My son’s fingers, not yet formed into manhood but straining ambitiously toward that goal, darted across the circles before him, imposing marks and numbers and lines on the perfect roundnesses, tapping impatiently when they weren’t recording.
“Done!” he declared, slamming the textbook shut and shooting up from the chair, nearly knocking it over. Lost in my musings, I nearly jumped as well. But I am not done, I wanted to protest, wondering how I can explain to my son that things are happening just a bit too quickly for me. If I can’t speak of that, how can I ever warn him of the looming wheel? But the pages with the beautiful, perfect circles he’d created had already disappeared into his notebook, and the compass had apparently been spirited away somewhere as well – probably to that little pocket on the inside of the notebook where all those newfangled gadgets get stored.
“I only have a little homework, Ma!” he called out. “So I’m gonna work out at the gym tonight. Okay?”
“Okay, Mr. Muscles,” I answered from the kitchen doorway, and he turned in surprise to see me so close. He always yelled out his announcements when he came home, as if assuming that everyone else was either far away or hard of hearing. “Leave a few for the rest of us,” I added as he shoved another cookie, in its entirety, into his mouth. “No problem,” he mumbled as crumbs and chips flew from his mouth, scattering in all directions.
The kitchen seemed a safer environment than the living room. Grateful to Bobby for coming home and providing the impetus for me to change rooms, I moved easily between refrigerator and countertop, thankful to be performing familiar actions with my hands, actions that did not involve an oilcan. Could that horrid wheel be some kind of punishment? For everything within these walls being too predictable?
With trembling fingers, I retrieved the meat for dinner from the fridge while observing my son as he bent his curly head over the geometry book. Sprinkling seasoning over the lamb chops, I noted with pride the swiftness and intensity with which he tackled the problems therein. His dark brow furrowed as his pencil sped across the lines on the page, scribbling something like a secret code or obscure foreign tongue. I let out a deep breath; my hand had steadied.
“Where’s…? Oh, here.” He scrounged around amidst a collection of items spread out on the table and located the compass, checking to see that the little pencil in it bore a point. Within minutes, several pages were filled with perfect circles, circles of all sizes united in the preciseness of their formation.
Craning to see across the counter and over his shoulder, I blinked hard as the whiteness of Bobby’s papers swirled before my eyes and finally blushed into color. Some of the circles deepened to blood red apples, the type used by the wicked stepmother to poison Snow White. Other circles morphed into spongy pink Spalding balls, the kind with which I once played “A-my-name-is-Alice” on the sidewalk outside my childhood apartment building. Other circles transformed themselves into huge lumpy oranges, the ones that squirt sticky, sweet juice and are sold at roadside farms in the summer. The colors burst from the page, radiating dazzling fireworks, which showered over Bobby’s shoulders as he, oblivious, plodded on.
My son’s fingers, not yet formed into manhood but straining ambitiously toward that goal, darted across the circles before him, imposing marks and numbers and lines on the perfect roundnesses, tapping impatiently when they weren’t recording.
“Done!” he declared, slamming the textbook shut and shooting up from the chair, nearly knocking it over. Lost in my musings, I nearly jumped as well. But I am not done, I wanted to protest, wondering how I can explain to my son that things are happening just a bit too quickly for me. If I can’t speak of that, how can I ever warn him of the looming wheel? But the pages with the beautiful, perfect circles he’d created had already disappeared into his notebook, and the compass had apparently been spirited away somewhere as well – probably to that little pocket on the inside of the notebook where all those newfangled gadgets get stored.
* * *
Pi r squared. I suddenly remember this, and bristle with pride. Such a soothing-sounding phrase for such a comforting formula; after all, what can be more comforting than knowing that a circle has clear boundaries, and that its area can be measured? Pi, that mysterious Greek symbol that resembles the one English teachers use to indicate the start of a new paragraph. But this pi is on a slant, like the leaning tower of Pisa, and conjures up the warmth of apple pies baking in an oven, filling some kitchen – in Pisa, perhaps – with a cinnamony aroma. Then the letter “r” just rolling gently off the tongue. And the word “squared” neatly finishing it off, making it final.
Long ago, I had enjoyed that in school, I recall, tossing lettuce into the colander, my fingers automatically weeding out the brown-tinged leaves. I could calculate it all – the circle’s area, diameter, radius. All that stuff. The neatness and solidity of it had been strangely satisfying, providing answers to what that perfect shape is all about.
Of course, there really is no answer to that, but no one will ever admit it. And the truth of this fact appears suddenly, like a giant old wheel in the middle of a living room, years and years after the innocence of geometry class. I place a cucumber onto the center of the cutting board and take hold of my sharp knife.
I chop swiftly and efficiently, letting the cucumber slices fall evenly one upon the other, like dominoes in a row, as they slide off the board. What secrets and mysteries lie within a circle, outside of the range of what can be calculated by Pi r squared, or any other little formula? We keep measuring, seeking answers, but never facing the empty white spaces within those circles. No answers for that.
A smooth cucumber sliver, delicate in its pale greenness, rolls to the floor and I bend to retrieve it, popping it into my mouth with a shrug. My teeth close over the pulpy seeds and I smile, savoring the tangy, bittersweet taste oozing round and round, round and round, inside my mouth.
Long ago, I had enjoyed that in school, I recall, tossing lettuce into the colander, my fingers automatically weeding out the brown-tinged leaves. I could calculate it all – the circle’s area, diameter, radius. All that stuff. The neatness and solidity of it had been strangely satisfying, providing answers to what that perfect shape is all about.
Of course, there really is no answer to that, but no one will ever admit it. And the truth of this fact appears suddenly, like a giant old wheel in the middle of a living room, years and years after the innocence of geometry class. I place a cucumber onto the center of the cutting board and take hold of my sharp knife.
I chop swiftly and efficiently, letting the cucumber slices fall evenly one upon the other, like dominoes in a row, as they slide off the board. What secrets and mysteries lie within a circle, outside of the range of what can be calculated by Pi r squared, or any other little formula? We keep measuring, seeking answers, but never facing the empty white spaces within those circles. No answers for that.
A smooth cucumber sliver, delicate in its pale greenness, rolls to the floor and I bend to retrieve it, popping it into my mouth with a shrug. My teeth close over the pulpy seeds and I smile, savoring the tangy, bittersweet taste oozing round and round, round and round, inside my mouth.
Ruth Rotkowitz is the author of two novels, Escaping the Whale and The Whale Surfaces, and has published fiction, nonfiction, and poetry in various literary journals. As a staff writer and member of the editorial board of the (now defunct) Woman's Newspaper of Princeton, she garnered awards from National Federation of Press Women and New Jersey Press Women. In addition, she has taught English on both the college and high school levels.