Dancing with Gravity Read online

  Blank Slate Press

  1006 Olive, Suite 300

  Saint Louis, MO 63101

  Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 Anene Tressler

  All rights reserved.

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  Blank Slate Press at 1006 Olive, Suite 300 Saint Louis, MO 63101

  For information about special discounts or bulk purchases, please contact us at [email protected].

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Set in Adobe Garamond Pro

  Cover Design by Jane Colvin

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9828806-5-4

  For Jim,

  who believed in me.

  Acknowledgment

  With special gratitude to Kristina Blank Makansi of Blank Slate Press without whom Father Whiting’s story would never have been told.

  What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination, will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning, what you will do with your evenings, how you will spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude. Fall in love, stay in love and it will decide everything.

  - Pedro Arrupe, S.J.

  October 1, 1981*

  La Jadaha, Central America

  Blessed Saint Thérèse,

  I turn to you tonight, Little Flower, as I have so many times before—with gratitude and in need.

  The Missionary Sisters trust me. But how often have I stumbled? How many nights have I wept from my own failures?

  You have been here always. You have heard my pleas. And only you, holy child-saint, would have answered my prayers with a circus! How did you manage it? By what great love did you bring these people safely here?

  I believe that you rejoiced as I did, Little Flower, when the families came down from the hills at dusk to see the circus. My heart and mind were opened then, and I saw, once again, your outstretched hand.

  I realize now that this circus is the bridge to hope and trust with these desperate people. And I know that I must find a way to keep it in service to our Lord. And yet, I fear that the Missionary Sisters will not understand. My dearest saint, forgive me, but I have decided to tell them nothing. I do not know where this decision leads, but I believe that only my silence can guarantee the safety of these people … and perhaps, of the sisters themselves.

  If one day the sisters should learn of my actions, I pray that you will intercede on my behalf. Show them that I tried only to follow your little way. And with God’s grace, I pray that they will forgive my secrecy.

  I go within the hour to make my proposal to the circus people. And I beseech you, blessed saint, on this your feast day, to remain at my side and guide your faithful servant once again.

  *Excerpt from the diary of Loretto Piersoll Finch

  Whether we love—or fail to love—there is always a cost. - Nikolai

  MARCH 1984

  Father Samuel R. Whiting stood at the foot of the hospital bed. He towered over the child beneath the blanket. She is so small, so still. He ran his fingertips lightly across the nap of the blanket, tipping his head and smiling. The girl’s mother held her hand; her father lay across the bed and rubbed her feet. Crescents of blue, dark as bruises, ringed the child’s half-closed eyes—proof that love cannot always tip the scales toward life. Still, she managed a tired smile.

  “Father, it means so much that you’re here.” The man’s voice rode an adolescent quaver. His trembling chin betrayed his resolve to be strong.

  Whiting offered a solemn nod and bit the inside of his mouth. This family needs a miracle. “I pray that God gives you solace and strength.” What can I offer besides hope?

  A Catholic priest and ordained member of The Sacred Wounds of Christ, Whiting was the director of the hospital’s Pastoral Care Program. The ill and dying relied upon him to be their witness and their comfort. In the past eight years, he had observed many scenes like the one before him. Still, he never felt ready. And this morning, his first day back at St. Theresa’s after a six-week absence, he felt especially unprepared for the heartbreak of this family.

  He recognized their pain, understood their desperation and hope. Yet, he could do nothing to change what was happening. I will bless this child, bless her parents. Ask that God care for them, as I cannot. The fact of his powerlessness was a burden he experienced as personal failure. Like many who face the unbearable, he turned inward, stood silently before all that was unfolding, and waited until he could leave.

  Shortly after nine a.m., Father Whiting concluded his rounds with a familiar sense of relief. Taking the back stairs to his office, he passed through one of the oldest parts of the hospital. The wing had originally been the residence for the Missionary Sisters of the Little Flower, the religious order that administered St. Theresa’s Medical Center. Now it housed the hospital’s executive offices and meeting rooms.

  As he passed before the boardroom, Whiting heard shouts from behind its closed double doors. He stopped. He knew he should continue on, but this circumstance was so extraordinary that he felt compelled to listen.

  “I absolutely forbid it!” A man’s voice, clotted with anger, penetrated the walls.

  Another voice, this one a woman’s, offered a sharp retort. Whiting stepped closer to the door and lowered his head.

  “You may not impose your will on the governing body of this hospital! I will not allow it!” It was the man again, but other voices rose in support.

  “You will not allow it?” It was the woman’s voice again, outnumbered by the opposition, but rising above the others. “Let me clarify our relationship: I am Chair.” Whiting’s eyes widened as he realized that this voice belonged to Mother Frances, President of St. Theresa’s. He heard a slam on the table. A book? A fist?

  “Then you’ll continue without me.” Every word from the man was a shouted exclamation point.

  Whiting gasped. He turned quickly away. He had gone only a few feet when the doors of the boardroom were thrown open behind him. He stopped, and turned to face the approaching footsteps. Childs Littleton, president of the hospital’s board of directors, rushed toward him. Mortified that he had been discovered eavesdropping, Whiting braced himself for a confrontation. Littleton, his face an angry crimson, charged past him to the stairs. It took Whiting several seconds to register Littleton’s abrupt departure. When he turned back toward the boardroom, he saw only the corner of a pale blue dress and cream-colored scapular, the habit of the Missionary Sisters, as the doors were again closed.

  Whiting stood alone in the corridor, sure that Littleton and at least one of the sisters must realize he’d been eavesdropping. How will I explain my presence?

  “I’ll simply tell the truth,” he said aloud. “I’ll say I was on my way back to my office after rounds. That’s certainly the case. They don’t have to know that I heard anything.” He glanced over his shoulder as he hurried down the hall.

  Whiting entered the office of Pastoral Care still shaken by his experience. Carla, the department’s secretary, looked up as he entered. Two empty paper coffee cups, stained by day-old residue, sat beside her telephone. Her expression registered an interest that was notable, if only for its rarity.

  “You’re flushed.”

  “It must be the stairs.” She can’t even offer a ‘good morning.’

  “You made rounds.” Each sentence registered as an accusation.

  Carla spoke in a carefully modulated voice whose little girl lilt annoye
d him each time he heard it. Others found her tone cheery, but Whiting knew from personal experience how quickly her voice slid into something more arrogant—even strident—if she felt challenged.

  “Of course I made rounds. It’s my routine.”

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. She turned back to her computer. Her fingers tapped mercilessly at the plastic keyboard.

  Carla had been hired by Whiting’s predecessor, Father Baricevic, and had served as the department secretary for the past fifteen years. She had adored the gregarious Lithuanian priest and guarded him from outside interruptions—even from his own staff—at every turn. Six months earlier, when the elderly priest retired and Whiting had been named director, he hoped Carla would also retire, or at least move on. To his dismay, she stayed: entrenched, omnipresent, and devoted to upholding Father Baricevic’s policies against any changes Whiting might entertain.

  Soon after he assumed the directorship, Whiting tried to “clear the air” with Carla. Their meeting had gone badly. She twisted his words, explained away his observations, and even challenged his recollection of events. Since then, he interacted with her only within the narrowest parameters of their work.

  But Carla had an insidious sixth sense. When Whiting was upset about something—a fact that he could never quite conceal—she seemed to focus all of her attention on where he went, whom he called, or how he passed his time until she knew the cause and extent of his turmoil. He was sure she sensed his anxiety now.

  “I’ll be in my office. Please hold my calls.”

  She didn’t look up. “You haven’t said anything about what happened.”

  He froze. How could she already know about the altercation in the boardroom? Hadn’t it just happened? He placed the tips of his fingers on the corner of a filing cabinet to steady himself as he struggled to gather his thoughts.

  “Perhaps I should ask what it is you think you know.” Surely she can tell I’m stalling for time. She stopped typing and swiveled in her chair to face him. He wasn’t sure whether he read anger or surprise on her face.

  “I know you were in Italy for six weeks at some sort of spiritual care conference and that today is your first day back. But you’re not even going to mention it?”

  “Italy?” His mind went blank. “Italy,” he repeated. “Yes, it was … ah … very busy. I need some time to sort it out. We’ll have a department meeting soon.” She expected a report? But his relief was so great that he didn’t care.

  Carla got up from her desk without speaking and crossed to the filing cabinet beside him. She turned her back to him and gave her attention to the files.

  Whiting always thought of her as being slightly overweight and was mildly confused when he saw her now. She was not overweight at all, but rather of an average, almost slender build. Carla was in her late fifties. Her hair had gone silver more than a decade earlier. But now, in the mid-morning light of the office windows, it appeared blonde. She wore it shoulder length and turned under at the ends. It was a hairstyle that—when viewed from the back—made Whiting think that she was a much younger woman. The sweater sets and matching skirts she wore reinforced the youthful impression. He imagined that she had been very pretty in her youth. Certainly there was that about her—that she might be someone who would draw attention. When he saw her in this way, he wondered whether he was glimpsing traces of her earlier good looks, or if she was one of those women who had grown better looking as she aged. As he watched her now, he decided that she must have always believed herself to be attractive. It explained the sweaters.

  He stood in silence with his arms limp at his sides. Am I supposed to say something more? Is she supposed to say something? After a few moments, he turned again toward his office. Carla addressed him over her shoulder.

  “Your mail is on your credenza. Priority items—things you need to answer today—are on your desk.”

  His six weeks in Italy fell away and the tensions so familiar in his interactions with Carla descended upon him. He crossed to his office and closed the door behind him.

  Whiting filled his electric kettle. A cup of tea will help. He studied his reflection in the mirror above his sink. He was forty-eight years old, but his appearance evoked an earlier generation, just as tweed evokes mustiness. He wore his dark, finely textured hair combed straight back in a style that accentuated his receding hairline and the strands of silver at his temples. His eyes were hazel and solemn with a moistness that suggested sorrow or apology, and his skin, which was always pale, was nearly ashen after the incident outside the boardroom. As he replayed the events, he could not escape the idea that the argument was remarkable—even unprecedented. And now, because he had eavesdropped, he was also involved.

  He wanted to talk to someone—needed some sort of reassurance, although he couldn’t say exactly what that might be. He decided to call Sarah James, director of the hospital’s Public Relations department. Whiting’s promotion had coincided with Sarah’s arrival at St. Theresa’s the previous fall. It was also the tenth anniversary of the hospital’s support group for parents of chronically ill children. Sarah had been charged with publicity surrounding the milestone. As director of Pastoral Care, and thus, facilitator of the program, Whiting had worked closely with her on the project. She had tackled each detail of the event with enthusiasm and helped make it a success. She also made it great fun.

  During their work together, he often found himself shocked and enthralled by her stories of hospital intrigue, which she always seemed to know before anyone else. Although their relationship was confined to work, he couldn’t see her often enough. She counterbalanced the work of God and the demands of healthcare. Or so he told himself.

  Whiting phoned Sarah twice in the next hour, but she was out of the office. After leaving a second message with her secretary, he decided there was nothing to do but wait for her to call back. He turned his attention to the stacks of mail piled on his credenza. Carla had opened most of it and arranged it in three stacks. Magazines and workshop announcements dominated one pile. Department correspondence was in another. Interoffice memoranda and minutes from meetings made up the third and largest grouping. He sighed slowly and deeply. The teakettle whistled, and he rose to prepare his tea.

  The accumulation of mail overwhelmed him. Instead of feeling refreshed and ready to return to work, he couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the task. Leaving the stacks largely untouched, he turned back to his desk.

  As he flipped though a folder containing purchase orders and vacation requests, he caught sight of an envelope marked Personal. It was from Jerome Stemple, headmaster at a Catholic boys’ boarding school in New Hampshire, and Whiting’s closest friend from seminary.

  Why did Jerry write to me at work instead of home? He fingered the onionskin of the envelope and wondered whether the letter had been mailed from overseas. Surely he’s in the middle of a school term. He checked the postmark to verify that it had come from New Hampshire.

  Whiting slid his letter opener slowly along the top of the envelope. He unfolded the pale blue pages and leaned forward, as for a conversation. He took a sip of tea.

  Dear Sam,

  When I called your office, I was told that you were still away at your conference. Six weeks in Italy—Congratulations! I remember that you mentioned you were going, but with all the events taking place here, I somehow scrambled the dates in my brain and had convinced myself that you’d be home by now. No matter—the time will pass quickly enough. Then, when we meet, I’ll quiz you on all the intrigue that is Rome. But, knowing you, my friend, I suspect that most of it went on without your knowledge. Still, it will be wonderful to hear about your experiences, and more wonderful still to see you.

  And see you I will. I have been granted a leave of absence from school for health reasons and will be returning to St. Louis for treatment. I’ve been officially named a cancer patient, and evidently, the physicians at St. Theresa’s are getting fine results with a new type of therapy. The doctors here think I’m a goo
d candidate for this treatment, and your specialists in St. Louis apparently agree. I’ve already made arrangements to stay at St. Benedict House. I understand that one of our other classmates from seminary, John Devinsky, will also be living there—so perhaps we could plan a class reunion of sorts and all catch up. I’ll call you when I’m settled in. It will be good to see you again, my friend. I hope you are well and happy and enjoying every precious day.

  God Bless You,

  Jerry

  Whiting put his cup down. He was breathing fast. Jerry … ill? I can’t believe it! He checked the date on the envelope. The letter had arrived four weeks earlier. Panic seized him, and he rummaged through his Rolodex for the number of St. Benedict House. When he finished dialing, his hands were shaking.

  “Hello?” A man’s voice came from the other end of the line. Whiting could not understand how the speaker could be so calm.

  “Hello. This is Father Samuel Whiting at St. Theresa’s Hospital, and I …”

  “Hello, Sam,” the other man interrupted. “This is John Devinsky.” Whiting found it surreal to be speaking with Devinsky only moments after reading Stemple’s reference to him. He pinched his wrist in an effort to reassure himself that he was not dreaming. “It’s been quite a while hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been very busy here at the hospital. Pastoral Care is a challenge.”

  “Oh that’s right. I heard that you’d been named director. How’s that going?” Listening to Devinsky, Whiting remembered that he had often felt set up in their conversations. Could he have heard anything negative about me?

  “Fine.” He waited for a reaction—he was having trouble sorting out his morning. Devinsky remained silent. “It’s fine … really.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Whiting couldn’t tell whether he was being sincere. “You know that I’m still teaching religious studies at Loyola?”