Dancing with Gravity Page 10

  Lillian kept two full-sized dining tables in her kitchen, which rendered the small, square room a catwalk at one end. She took her meals at a gray and red Formica table with heavy chrome legs. The table was wedged against a wall so that, although it could easily seat six even without its extension, it now only seated three. She kept three chrome and vinyl chairs at the table for guests. Lillian would often drag a fourth chair from room to room for use as a makeshift table. An overstuffed chair—the missing piece to a once-pink sectional—sat at the head of the table facing out. Lines of coarse gold thread accented its tired, faded fabric. This was Lillian’s chair.

  The other table—once the centerpiece of a fruitwood dining room set—had been ruined and then abandoned by a previous tenant. Lillian, however, considered it a find. She moved the too-wide oval table to an adjacent wall, covered its blistered veneer with a lace-trimmed tablecloth, and kept it exclusively for her holiday displays.

  At first, the themed displays commemorated only Christmas, Easter, Halloween, and Thanksgiving. But over time she had added other observances: Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Independence Day, the equinoxes. Each holiday she retrieved the decorations from her closet, and then, over the course of a day, she would wash or dust them and arrange them in intricate, if often-jumbled scenes.

  Throughout the year, Lillian ordered items from specialty catalogs. She often placed these orders under fictitious names. It was, as she saw it, a way of stretching her income. She always used variations of her own name, so that Whiting became Wheating, Whitling, Whitson, or Whenting. These aliases, combined with her frequent moves, proved a source of ongoing confusion for her many mail-order suppliers. Often, bills from catalog companies could not keep pace and went missing.

  Lillian also found that her multiple names, even at the same address, allowed for multiple orders. She joined music and book clubs again and again, thus taking advantage of the free introductory offers, and paying only pennies for her selections. Other times, either through her own forgetfulness and duplication or a catalog company’s error, she would receive the same order more than once. When one supplier sent two sets of bakers’ clay gingerbread men for her tabletop Christmas tree, she was delighted to have the extras. Usually, however, these duplicate orders meant gifts for others. This had been the case when Lillian received two Thanksgiving cornucopias filled with fruit and nuts, then a third one when she wrote to the supplier that two of the apples in the first shipment had been bruised.

  In the course of her catalog experiences, she had also discovered that once on a mailing list, it was nearly impossible to get off. And, as the companies sold or traded the names of their subscribers, she found that she, and the names that she invented, regularly received catalogs from an ever-widening circle of companies. To her delight—and secret pride—these new companies seemed of greater quality. She had, for example, gone from Lillian Vernon to Hammacher Schlemmer, from Swiss Colony to Harry and David.

  With the exception of adding to her holiday displays, however, Lillian rarely ordered anything for herself. Most of the items were gifts—for her son or for acquaintances: the husband and wife who owned Frankie’s Market and delivered groceries to her door, a neighbor, or landlord—however transient the relationship—so that they would not complain about her poodles. Sometimes when she bought a present for her son, especially from one of the nicer catalog suppliers, she made a special effort to actually pay for it in full. This became a second, secret gift she could give.

  Neither her deteriorating neighborhood nor her own decline concerned Lillian as she turned her attention to her Easter display. Alone in her kitchen with only her poodles watching, she arranged multicolored Easter grass in a white glass basket, then filled it with pastel Easter eggs she had purchased—already boiled and dyed—from Frankie’s Market. She straightened the gingham dress of a bespectacled plush rabbit and retied its rabbit-husband’s tie. The fluffy white pair—nearly three feet high—had come from Hammacher Schlemmer. Lillian thought fondly of the store as she stroked the rabbits’ hard, painted faces and adjusted their arms so that they intertwined.

  She turned her attention to a ten-piece farm scene—complete with barn and silo. She placed the farmer inside a partial fence beside a cow and a mother duck, whose four small ducklings were joined with a yellow metal chain. She added four fuzzy chicks from Lillian Vernon to the painted wood pieces. The yellow chicks, each wearing a paisley bonnet, towered over the plastic silo. She frowned at the discrepancy and moved the chicks nearer to a glazed bisque crucifix. A suffering Christ, done all in pearlized paint, looked down onto a yellow wicker basket filled with Hershey’s foil-wrapped eggs. Lillian studied the scene, then moved the chicks to the far side of the basket, their backs to the crucifixion. When she had finished placing the last of the Easter figures, she opened a bag of jellybeans and scattered the candies amidst the display. She ate a few of the remaining pieces and then addressed her pups.

  “Well, babies, what do you think?” Her dogs cocked their heads. Pumpkin, her white toy poodle, sat up and begged. Lillian tossed a jellybean, which the dog caught in mid-air. “Sammy’s coming for dinner tonight. Do you think he’ll like the display?” Pumpkin sat up again. Lillian smiled and tossed another jellybean. “I think so, too,” she said.

  Whiting sat with his mother at her old Formica table, eating sandwiches. The table was strewn with white paper packages of cold cuts—all of them opened. Tomatoes and iceberg lettuce garnished a plate that boasted four kinds of cheese. Loaves of rye and white sandwich bread, a squeeze bottle of mustard, and jars containing mayonnaise, olives, and bread-and-butter pickles stood among the packages. Resting before his own plate were a large bag of barbecue potato chips, a small bottle of Coca-Cola, and a turquoise Tupperware container filled with Lillian’s homemade tuna salad. The potato chips were fresh, and Whiting thought they seemed unusually large. He selected a single oversized chip from the bag and placed it in his mouth. It dissolved slowly, releasing its combination of salt and sweet.

  He studied his mother’s Easter display, which now included the tumbling angels. A faint smile passed over his face as he replayed Lillian’s pleasure with his gift. She had insisted on arranging the angels before they sat down to supper.

  “What are you smiling about Sammy?”

  “I was just thinking how nice your display looks.”

  “Do you see how the angels match my egg basket? Anybody would think they were part of a set.”

  His smile deepened.

  “And I’ll be able to use them for Valentine’s Day and Christmas too.” Lillian studied the table from her pink chair. “Did you notice the new hen dishes I added this year? I think they make a big difference.”

  Whiting leaned forward and considered the hens. The three covered dishes were made of pressed glass in shades of rose, cobalt blue, and lime green. Each hen sat above a matching glass nest. “Very nice.”

  “Guess how much they were, Sammy.”

  His smile faded. It always made him anxious when Lillian asked him to guess about her purchases. She only did this when she really liked an item and also thought it was a good bargain. It only added to her pleasure if he was surprised by the price. But Whiting had little idea what things should cost and would be hard pressed to recall what he paid for milk at the grocery store. This guessing game was complicated by the fact that Lillian was always hurt if he guessed too low. He had erred in his guesses a few times and still remembered her wounded response.

  “You know I never know the cost of things.”

  “But guess, Sammy. I want you to. Please.”

  Whiting studied the hens. A seam ran down each hen’s back where the glass had been molded, which he thought detracted from their appearance. He wondered whether his mother had found them at the variety store a few blocks away—or at a yard sale. If she had gone to the variety store, the hens might have cost three or four dollars each—he hoped she hadn’t paid more. If she had gone to a garage sale, perhaps they
had each cost a quarter. He stepped over to the table and picked up the rose colored hen; he couldn’t tell whether it was new or newly washed.

  “Come on, Sammy, I want you to guess.” She smiled expectantly.

  “Well, if I were buying them, I’d expect to pay ten dollars.” Lillian’s expression clouded and he realized that he had guessed too low. “Yes. Ten dollars apiece. Definitely.”

  “I’d never pay that much!”

  “Don’t tell me that you paid less than that.”

  “They were $5.99 each at Paul’s Variety,” she said. “The green one has a little chip on the rim of the nest—nothing you’d see—but I pointed it out to the man, and he gave it to me for half price.”

  “All three for fifteen dollars?” Whiting looked from his mother to the hens. He wished she would not waste her money in this way—wished, too, for her sake, that the third hen had not been damaged.

  He lifted the green hen from its base and examined its nest. The rim was chipped in two places. As he set it down, his fingertips brushed against a jagged edge on its right wing. The glass was chipped there as well. He was about to point this out to his mother, but decided against it. Maybe she hadn’t noticed. Even though her eyesight had declined in recent years, she rarely wore her glasses. Or, no, maybe, she just wouldn’t mention it because she wanted the hen to seem better than it was. Either explanation was probable. Both explanations made his heart clench.

  He returned to his chair and took up a handful of chips. He watched with dismay as Lillian pulled apart her sandwich and started feeding the meat and cheese to her poodles.

  “Mama, you should eat the sandwich yourself.”

  “I’ve eaten enough, Sammy.”

  “But it’s your supper. And look at how they’re begging. It’s not right.”

  “It’s their supper too.” Lillian smiled as she tore off another piece of braunschweiger and fed it to Taffy. Paris, a larger brown male, snarled and bit the smaller dog. Taffy howled.

  “Stop that! How could you behave that way?” Lillian tossed her sandwich onto her plate and pulled the wailing poodle onto her lap. “Now, now, baby, it’s okay.” She kissed the dog’s head and rubbed its back.

  “Mama, you should put the dog down and finish your supper.”

  She rocked the animal until it quieted, then fed it another piece of meat. “Now Sammy, don’t be jealous.”

  “Of course I’m not jealous. It’s just that you need to eat your supper, not give it to those dogs.”

  Lillian smiled as though he had stated some pleasantry. All at once, her expression changed to one of alarm.

  “Oh, Sammy, I forgot the Jell-O! Get it, please! Hurry! Before you fill up on anything else.” Whiting rose and crossed to the refrigerator.

  “It’s the blue and white Tupperware. On the top shelf, in the back.”

  He opened the refrigerator door and squinted. Half a dozen yellow and orange plastic bowls in graduated sizes gave off a garish glow. He found the Jell-O and brought it to the table.

  The lid made a loud sucking sound when he opened it. Lillian had filled the container so full that the diamond pattern of the lid had imprinted in the dessert. She always did this—pushed every limit—so that even Jell-O became excessive. Nuts, pieces of fruit cocktail, and canned peach slices were suspended in the red gelatin. Whiting sliced a wedge from the bowl, ruining the perfect sheen of its outer skin, and ladled gelatin onto their plates. He wasn’t opposed to Jell-O, but the fruit and nuts had gotten out of hand.

  “You went to too much trouble.” He balanced a walnut half on his spoon.

  “Don’t be silly.” She looked down at her plate, but he could see that she was smiling. “Besides, this way you can have something to take for lunch. That cafeteria food can’t be any good.”

  Whiting seized on his mother’s glancing reference to his work. “Things have gotten very interesting since I got back from my conference.”

  Lillian smiled and returned to feeding her poodles. It was enough encouragement for him to continue.

  “I’m going to work with a circus.”

  Lillian’s face was illuminated with interest. “A circus! How wonderful! But how did this happen? What will you do?”

  “It’s hard to believe, really.” Whiting had not told anyone about the circus until now, and he was seized by a sense of excitement as he relayed the news.

  “Mother Frances called me for a private meeting on Monday and asked me to take it on. I’ll say Mass for the sisters and the performers on Sundays—not every Sunday, but most. I’ll also bless the circus.” He looked up and saw that his mother’s expression had darkened. “I would have told you sooner, but it’s been really chaotic at work. Sarah James—she heads up the hospital’s public relations—you remember? I’ve mentioned her before. Well, Sarah and I have been spending every spare moment getting things in order. You’d be amazed at all the work it’s taking. You’re the first person I’ve told.” Whiting studied her reaction. “Is something wrong?”

  “So you’re still with the hospital?”

  “Yes.” He waited.

  “And you’re still a priest?”

  “Of course I am.” Did she really think he had quit the priesthood and joined the circus? What kind of person did she think he was? What kind of mother would wish for such a thing?

  “Then why do the sisters want you involved with this?”

  “Actually, it was Sarah who recommended me.” He could feel his face grow warm at the mention of her name. Lillian took in his reaction.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “We’ve served on a few committees together at the hospital. She seems to think we work well together.” He fought an involuntary smile.

  “What does the hospital have to do with a circus? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  How to answer? He didn’t think that he should tell his mother the whole story. She wouldn’t understand, and he was sure that she would worry. Also, he had to admit he couldn’t trust Lillian to keep his confidence, even if …. No. Especially if I told her it was a secret. And without this additional information, he knew that the story of the circus made little sense.

  “It was a bequest. I don’t know the details.” She knows I’m not telling her everything. “But the blessing, with the animals and performers, I thought that might interest you.”

  “They’re vagabonds,” she said. “People in the circus are often criminals or running from something.” Whiting flushed at this last sentence. Lillian turned back to feeding the dogs.

  “Do you think I should get this apartment blessed?” She petted Taffy as she spoke. “Not that I think there’s anything supernatural going on here. Nothing that worries me. But maybe as a kind of insurance.” Whiting struggled to conceal his disappointment.

  “Of course … if you’d like … I can ….”

  “Oh, never mind, it was just a thought.”

  “Mama, I’d be happy to do it.”

  “Just forget I said anything. Anyway, I know how busy you are.”

  “I’m a priest. I can bless your apartment if that’s what you want.” Whiting regretted his tone as soon as he’d spoken. Lillian placed the remnants of her sandwich onto her plate.

  “I know you’re a priest. But don’t forget that I’m your mother.” He waited to see where she was going with this last statement.

  She pulled a paper napkin from a tabletop dispenser and wiped her hands, which she seemed to study as she spoke. “Do you know how lonely I was when you left me and went away? To this day, I don’t know why you had to do it.”

  “It was the seminary, Mama.” His tone underscored his exasperation. Lillian gave him a sharp look.

  “I am not a stupid woman. And I won’t be treated as one. I know it was the seminary. I know you are a priest. What is it you think I don’t understand?” Her voice broke. He was afraid that she might cry.

  Lillian had been raised a Methodist, but turned to the Catholic Church when her husband abandoned her a
nd their three-year-old son—a conversion inspired almost entirely by the Church’s disapproval of divorce. She ignored the fact that her marriage, a civil ceremony conducted in a Maryland courthouse, would not have been recognized in the first place.

  Her interest in Catholicism did not last, but it made a lasting impression on her son. He had been moved by the Gothic architecture of the church they attended during a stay in Chicago: the diffuse light provided by wrought iron chandeliers, the glowing red lamp beside the altar, aromas of incense and candle wax. The church made him feel safe and cared about. His chest ached with anticipation when the priest sang the Communion rite and held the golden chalice and snowy wafer above his head. It was so large and powerful with hundreds of people standing, sitting, and kneeling in unison. The shuffling of the communicants’ feet as they made their way to the altar. Whiting wanted it, needed its protection and stability. In his longing, he immersed himself in the teachings of the Catholic Church. He sent away for a twenty-six-part home study course offered by the Knights of Columbus for converts to the faith. Working intensely, he completed two lessons at a time, then waited with pained anxiety for the next brown envelope—the fat packet that returned his mail-in quiz with its grade and a few comments from an anonymous reviewer—and contained the next lesson in the series. At the conclusion of his correspondence course, he traveled alone each Saturday morning—taking two buses each way—to the Catholic Education Center downtown to continue his instruction. He joined a Catholic book club and asked for a Catholic family Bible for Christmas. At sixteen, he made a formal profession of faith—delayed a week so that the priest could get clarification on whether his childhood baptism in the Methodist church needed repeating as a Catholic sacrament. He was awarded a scholarship to attend Loyola University, where he majored in philosophy. During his final semester, he decided to seek life as a priest. Lillian had wept openly at the news.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. Please forgive me.”