Dancing with Gravity Read online

  A little something to help start your day. See the center section of today’s paper as you enjoy your breakfast. You’re wonderful!

  —Sarah

  When Whiting peered inside the sack he was surprised and delighted to find a thick wedge of peanut coffee cake—his favorite. He thumbed through the paper until he found its magazine insert, and then set it aside as he prepared tea at his electric kettle. He was eager to know what the article said, but he also wanted to prolong his anticipation. Certainly the news will be positive, given Sarah’s note. After his weeks of worry about the blessing, he wanted to savor the experience.

  He retrieved his coffee cake from the bag and took a bite, then turned his attention to the article. The magazine featured the circus blessing in its two-page centerfold, complete with a series of color photographs: Whiting sprinkling holy water over the beribboned animals, two of the Missionary Sisters praying during the blessing, Childs Littleton in conversation with several other board members, Sarah and the Schirmers laughing, and two of the circus children sitting side-by-side, eating cake.

  Whiting was at first relieved, then bewildered at its brevity. He turned the page to see whether the article was continued on another page. It wasn’t. Coverage of the blessing hardly differed from the articles about charity auctions, galas, and horse shows—down to the detailed listing of all the VIPs who attended. He set the paper aside and took another bite of cake, eating it from the top so that each bite was mostly sticky white icing and peanuts. He wished he had a glass of cold milk.

  As he studied the photographs, he considered the sense of urgency that had suffused the previous weeks. Whiting had expected that Father Devereaux or Childs Littleton would try to dissuade him from performing the blessing and had, in recent weeks, rehearsed his response to the confrontation he was sure would come. And yet, it hadn’t happened.

  Littleton had been rude at the blessing, but the more he thought about it, the more he wondered whether he had attached too much meaning to their interaction. Perhaps his behavior was simply a show of irritation from an arrogant man. It occurred to Whiting that he had overestimated his own importance. His throat constricted as he considered this possibility. He studied Littleton’s face in the photograph—looking for some detail that might help him decide the matter.

  Think about the quarrel in the boardroom, how Littleton rushed into the corridor. Remember the meeting with Sarah in the tent at the motherhouse. The excitement on her face when she saw me. He pictured her sitting beside him and could still hear the emotion in her voice when she had asked for his help. I have never seen her so unguarded. He considered her warnings about Father Deveraux. She was worried about me. Told me to be careful. In one of the photos, Sarah’s head was thrown back in laughter. He traced her profile with his index finger.

  After reading the article a second time, he picked up the phone and dialed her office. But then quickly put the phone back in its cradle. What did he want to say to her? What should he say to her? Whiting often reviewed their conversations after the fact, and had, in recent weeks, gotten into the habit of rehearsing what he might say beforehand. He had even begun editing and recopying notes he attached to interoffice memos so that his handwriting was neat and his sentences clever.

  I’ll thank her for the cake and congratulate her on the article. No. I’ll say something specific. He stared at Littleton’s image again.

  “Littleton was only a small hindrance after all.” He said the sentence twice, changing the inflection on specific words with each repetition. That’s how I’ll begin my call. He dialed Sarah’s extension again, imagining how she would laugh at his play on words, and identified himself to the department secretary. As he waited for Sarah to come on the line, his expression suddenly clouded. “‘Littleton was only a small hindrance after all’ isn’t funny. Why would she laugh at that?” As soon as he realized that he wasn’t properly prepared for the call a wave of desperation passed over him. Why didn’t I wait until I was ready? When he heard Sarah say hello, he blushed.

  “Hello?” she repeated. He thought she sounded rushed, and he wished he hadn’t called. “Anyone there?”

  Should I hang up? No. Her secretary probably told her who was on the line. “Sarah, it’s Sam. Is this a bad time?” His smile stretched to a rictus as he waited for her reply.

  “I’m never too busy for you.” Her answer flustered him; he hoped that she would say more so he might have time to consider his response. After several moments, she broke the silence.

  “Well … what did you think of the article? And don’t tell me you don’t like your photograph. You look positively dashing.”

  Since his return from Italy, Sarah’s behavior toward him had changed, grown warmer and, at times, shocked him in sudden and surprisingly pleasant ways. She definitely laughed more. And often touched his sleeve when they talked. Even when their meetings had not gone well—when she’d been preoccupied or he had failed to say anything that was interesting—he still held them close—sometimes revising them so that with each repetition his part of the interaction grew more daring, heartfelt, or clever. In these re-imagined scenes, Sarah was always deeply affected by what he said. Sometimes, he would become so absorbed in these thoughts that ten, twenty minutes would slip by unnoticed. He wondered whether Sarah ever daydreamed about what he said to her. The idea excited—and terrified him.

  “How could I possibly complain? I arrived to find breakfast and the morning paper. I think gratitude is in order, not criticism.” I need to say something clever—not sound so stiff. He was angry with himself for calling.

  “Was the cake good? It looked wonderful.”

  “Delicious. And, coincidentally, it’s my favorite.”

  “Is that what you think it was—just coincidence?” Her question completely disarmed him and he stammered a nonsensical reply.

  “Oh, Sam, don’t you remember? About three weeks ago we met for coffee in the cafeteria after your rounds. You got the last piece of peanut cake and told me then it was your favorite.”

  “It’s incredible that you’d remember something so minor.” He couldn’t stop smiling.

  “If it’s important to you, it matters to me.”

  “I see ….” His thoughts were a jumble. His voice, he realized, had gone softer, seemingly beyond his control.

  “Truth be told, I watch every move you make. You choose the peanut cake every time it’s offered.”

  “So, it’s not that you’re a good spy, it’s just that I’m so predictable.”

  “I assure you, Sam, you’re not at all predictable.” He felt a surge of energy when she said his name. It seemed that no one said it quite the way that she did.

  “As for spies,” she continued, “some of the greatest spies in history were women. And in case you haven’t noticed, I am a woman.”

  “How could I not notice?” How could I say that? When Sarah didn’t answer, he struggled to redirect their conversation. “So, has there been any reaction to the article yet?”

  “Mimi Schirmer called to offer her approval, but that’s no surprise, she’s always been a terrific supporter of Mother Frances.”

  He was relieved that there was no apparent change in Sarah’s tone. “Anything from our friend Childs?”

  “Nada … but I didn’t expect it either.”

  “You don’t find that odd?”

  “How so?”

  “After all these weeks of high alert, didn’t it surprise you that yesterday came off without incident?”

  “Did I overreact or over-plan?” Whiting could not read her mood and worried that he had upset her.

  “I’m not criticizing you, I just ….”

  Sarah interrupted him. “Don’t be so serious. Of course I know what you meant. But to answer your question, he acted exactly as I supposed he would. With everything in motion, he’s going to lie low—if only temporarily.”

  “So you don’t think he’s conceding defeat?”

  She gave a sharp laugh. “That
’s what’s so wonderful about you. No one else would even give this guy the benefit of the doubt.”

  He winced at her comment, but he had, in fact, wondered whether Littleton had changed his mind. “You always make me sound naïve.”

  “Oh Sam.” He thought she sounded exasperated. “Of course you’re not naïve.” He waited, unsure of how to answer. “Say something, please.” Her sincerity flustered him.

  “Now you’re the one who sounds serious.”

  “I am serious. Sometimes I think I’m being funny, and I’m not. You’re very important—to me and to the circus. I’d never want you to think otherwise.”

  Lost in her words, he didn’t realize she was waiting for a reply.

  “So … do you accept my apology?”

  “There’s never any need for that, not between us.” He spoke slowly, his voice little more than a whisper. Silence grew on the line between them. After a few moments, Sarah spoke again.

  “The blessing was beautiful, wasn’t it?” Her voice had also gone softer.

  “Yes, yes it was.” He thought of how she looked when she twirled for him in the parking lot, when she thrust out her ankle and showed off her red shoes.

  “Did you have much of an opportunity to speak with the performers? I was so busy at the reception that I couldn’t keep track.”

  “I’m afraid I spent most of my time talking with people from the hospital. But I did have a nice conversation with a young couple that has a baby. Oh … and I spoke with the elephant handler.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “A few pleasantries here and there … nothing to compare with the way you interacted with them.”

  She laughed and he could tell that she was pleased.

  “I mean it. It was wonderful to see how comfortable you are with everyone, and it’s obvious how much they like you.”

  “What makes you say that? What did you notice?” There was undisguised interest in her voice. He was delighted to have so completely captured her attention.

  “I notice a great deal about you, Sarah.” He held his breath as he waited for her reaction.

  “But what did you see at the blessing? Details, I want details!”

  He didn’t want to talk about the other people at the blessing. A gnawing irritation rose up within him.

  “I thought you couldn’t trust my opinions.”

  “Don’t torture me! Tell me everything!” Her reaction made him laugh.

  “There’s really nothing more to tell. You’re important to them. I could see that.”

  As he spoke, he realized the truth of what he had at first only intended as a compliment. Sarah stood out at the blessing. She exuded energy—and something else, something he could not quite put into words.

  “Oh Sam, if only you knew how much ….” Her voice broke with emotion and Whiting’s train of thought dissipated.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” She cleared her throat. “It’s just that I hadn’t expected this conversation.”

  Sarah’s sudden show of emotion surprised him. “Well then,” he said, “I hope you’ll simply accept what I say as true and heartfelt.”

  “I do. And it means more than you know.”

  He smiled so broadly that his face ached. It hardly seemed possible that he and Sarah were talking this way. He was losing his balance, but without fear—like a performer on a tether relaxing into a fall.

  When he hung up, he was exhausted and exhilarated. He closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair. Only then did he become aware of the discomfort in his chest. He placed his fingertips to his sternum and wondered whether the burning had been caused by the peanut coffee cake or the conversation.

  After the call with Sarah, Whiting tried to work. But his thoughts kept returning to Sarah and the blessing. He picked up the newspaper and studied the images again. I’ll take a copy of the paper to Mama—a small surprise for our visit tomorrow night. I’ll also give one to Jerry when I take him for his treatment this afternoon. He wanted an unopened one for himself—perhaps two. And we’ll need extras for our department archives.

  He didn’t want to buy the newspapers at the hospital gift shop and carry them past Carla. Instead, he decided that he would buy them on his way to St. Benedict House. Once he’d seized on the idea, he became so eager to get the extra copies that he left thirty minutes earlier than usual for his appointment with Jerry.

  Whiting stopped in at a gas station and convenience mart a few blocks from St. Theresa’s. An Asian man behind the counter looked up when he entered, then went back to watching a small television above the register. Whiting found six copies of the morning paper in a wire rack near the door, counted out five, checked to see that they all included the insert, and then crossed to the counter.

  “How many?” asked the clerk, his attention still on the television.

  “Wait, I’ll be right back.” Whiting stepped quickly to the rack, took the last paper, checked it, and added it to his stack.

  “How many?” The clerk stepped over to the register, his hand poised above its keys. Whiting had counted the papers twice, but made a show of counting them again.

  “Six.”

  “Three dollars.” The clerk slid a register tape across the counter. Whiting took out his wallet.

  “I’m afraid I’ve just cleared out your whole supply.” He smiled, hoping to encourage conversation. The clerk waited. “I hated to take the last paper, but there’s an article I need to keep.”

  “Good news, I hope. Three dollars.” Whiting handed the clerk a five-dollar bill.

  “Oh yes, definitely good news. A blessing at a circus yesterday. I officiated.” While still looking at the clerk, he slipped his hand into the top newspaper on his stack and felt for the slick cover of the insert. I’ll show it to him if he asks.

  “Reporter there?” The clerk’s eyes flitted between Whiting and the TV screen.

  “Indeed.” Whiting stopped fingering the insert. Had there been a reporter? No. The pictures must have come from the photographer Sarah hired for the event. It was all just PR. She had orchestrated the coverage as carefully as she had handled the articles about the Finch bequest. He pulled his hand from the between the pages, took his change and left.

  After he put the newspapers in his trunk, Whiting got behind the wheel and was fastening his seatbelt when he stopped, mid-gesture, and got out to retrieve one of the papers. Back in the car, he folded it in half and placed it on the passenger’s seat where Jerry would see it. He stared at the folded paper, opened it, and then folded it in half again. He arranged it so that the edge of the magazine jutted out from the rest of the paper.

  When Whiting opened the car door, Jerry reached in, picked up the newspaper and tossed it into the back seat.

  “No, wait! That’s for you.”

  Jerry glanced at the paper in the back seat, then back to his friend. Whiting opened the back door and retrieved the paper. He straightened it and handed it back.

  “Thank you.” Jerry took the paper but didn’t look at it.

  “There’s an article I want you to see.”

  Jerry gave him a questioning look.

  “It’s about the circus, the blessing yesterday.”

  Jerry snorted. “A blessing as a media event? Who says St. Louis isn’t run by Catholics?”

  Whiting waited for Jerry to examine the paper and tried to urge him on. “It’s the insert in the center. The article is short, but you can look at the photographs.”

  Jerry did not take the suggestion.

  “You can take a quick peek while I drive.”

  Jerry gave an impatient look, opened the paper, and found the photographs. Whiting cast frequent glances at him as he drove. Jerry closed the paper and faced forward. When, after several moments, he said nothing else, Whiting opened the conversation.

  “I kept thinking that Devereaux was going to show up. I’m half surprised he didn’t.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t. He’s persona non
grata. Besides, there was no reason for him to show up, no statement to make.”

  Whiting didn’t fully understand the point but he let it pass. What he wanted, really, was to talk about Sarah. “You say that now. But just a week ago, you suggested that he might.” Jerry cocked his head in question. “In fact … let me think … yes … now I remember. You said that Sarah and I were acting like star-crossed lovers.” He blushed deeply at the sentence. “And that the villain always makes an appearance.”

  “‘Star-crossed lovers?’ I said that?” Jerry cast him an appraising look.

  “Your phrase, not mine.” Whiting tried to force a casual tone but his face felt hot. He made a great show of focusing on the traffic.

  “I don’t remember using that term, ‘star-crossed lovers,’ but if did, I said it in relation to your crush.”

  Whiting’s heart squeezed. “My crush? What are you saying?” He fought to suppress an involuntary smile.

  “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s only a problem when you don’t recognize what’s going on and are caught off guard.”

  A sour burn rose up from Whiting’s chest to the back of his throat. He thought back to the coffee cake.

  “Sarah is my colleague, a friend. I don’t have a crush and neither does she.” He felt a surge of excitement in saying these words. “There’s no basis for that. You don’t even know her. Where’d you get such an idea?”

  “Your emphatic denials aside, I’m not accusing anyone of anything. ‘Special friendships’ are not uncommon. The same with crushes. As for not knowing Sarah James, that’s true. But I don’t need to. I know you.”

  “And I am … what? Vulnerable? Predictable? Or simply a man with a crush?” Whiting’s chest felt raw; his jaw clenched.

  Jerry turned in his seat to face him. “We’re human, Sam. And human relationships are a gift from God. You seem to think that I’m judging you. Nothing could be further from the truth.” Whiting gave him a doleful look. “When I look at you, I do not see ‘a man with a crush’ as you put it.”