Dancing with Gravity Page 14

  “Then what do you see?”

  “I see a priest.”

  He had no idea how to respond, nor could he explain why Jerry’s answer made him so miserable. He sank into a gloomy silence, which lasted for the remainder of their visit.

  Whiting went over his conversation with Jerry more than once after returning to his office that afternoon. Everything about their interaction upset him. But the more he considered their exchange, the more confused he became. He could not explain his own sense of embarrassment and offense. He had never had such a conversation with Jerry—or with anyone for that matter—and his feelings were wounded. Maybe our friendship isn’t what I imagined. The friend I remember would never have spoken to me like that—would never have offered such a blithe judgment of my life. Jerry’s insistence that he wasn’t judging Whiting didn’t really matter. It was obvious that Jerry didn’t know him. His cool reaction when Whiting grew upset was an added insult. Jerry is wrong about me, and wrong about Sarah. He’s judged her without knowing her—without ever having met her. Whiting was suddenly glad that Jerry had never met Sarah. And I’ll certainly never introduce them. But he couldn’t sustain his sense of indignation. The solace he received in discrediting Jerry’s insights was overshadowed by his fear that they were not, after all, the close friends he had imagined them to be.

  Then, just as quickly, Whiting reconsidered. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe he really wasn’t judging her. The world beyond intellect and observation was foreign territory. He wished he had someone he could talk to—someone whose reasoning he trusted. In the past, Jerry had always served as that person. It pained him deeply to realize he could not go to him now.

  Whiting thought of Sarah and tried to imagine telling her what Jerry said. How would she react? Would she be offended? Amused? Either reaction would be unbearable. And what if she distanced herself from him? What if Jerry took it upon himself to speak with Sarah about me? The idea was excruciating. Jerry would have no reason to be in Sarah’s presence, certainly no reason to call. Then he thought about the daily radiation treatments. What if Jerry stopped by to see her on one of his other days? I wouldn’t be there to stop him. He forced himself to let go of the idea and his panicked reaction. Instead, he thought about Jerry’s cancer. Why didn’t he mention it earlier? Even after coming back to St. Louis for therapy, he’s given me very few details. Jerry’s silence and reserve were a personal affront. Whiting couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before, but now that he had, he was so upset he was, once again, unable to work.

  That evening, on his way home from the hospital, Whiting stopped by the discount store near his apartment to pick up the slides and photographs he had taken in Italy. He planned to wait until Saturday, but after his meeting with Jerry, he wanted something—anything—to lighten his mood.

  He arranged the envelopes on his dining room table—slides in one stack, photographs in another—and went to his bedroom for the light box and magnifying loupe, then opened the photographs and arranged their heavy paper envelopes in chronological order. The first pack served as little more than documentation of the meeting and its participants. The other two rolls of film were taken during a daylong bus tour of Rome that was offered as part of the conference. He studied the glossy prints with growing impatience. His photographs of monuments and street scenes offered no central point of reference. Although they were, on the whole, well exposed, they had not captured the often too vibrant colors or the grandeur of his surroundings.

  Whiting pushed the photographs aside and gave his attention to his slides. These images—all taken during his trip to Florence—were what interested him more. He opened the first box and arranged the contents on the light box, then leaned closer to examine the images. To his horror, there were small spots on every slide. He rushed to his bedroom and retrieved his camera bag, then tried—without success—to remove the spots with bursts from a can of compressed air. He shoved his hands into white cotton gloves and tried wiping the surface of one of the slides with a lens cloth. He was breathing fast as he leaned over the magnifier. The spots were unchanged. Tearing open the next two boxes of slides, he hastily arranged them across the light box glass. Red spots covered these as well. He sifted through the images, searching for one in particular. When he found it, he hunched over it, his eye pressed hard against the magnifying loupe. A line of pilgrims, many on their knees, prayed at the rear of the Duomo. The lighting and composition were as flawless as he had remembered. Even when he had taken the picture, he had suspected that it would be good, and had promised himself that he would have it printed and framed if it turned out as well as he hoped. He forced himself to look at the image again. A young woman with a book bag lay face down on the marble floor among the kneeling pilgrims. The moment had been perfect. But the image was ruined.

  He studied the slide of the prostrate young woman and tried to imagine ways he might crop the image to save it. The spots were everywhere. It’s useless.

  His mind went back to the scene that had taken place outside the church just moments after he had taken the photograph. Even through deep sobs, the woman had managed to speak to him in English.

  “So unexpected,” she said as if to apologize. He remembered the dog, it’s teeth still bared. The blood soaking through her pant leg. The wound, already bruised and swelling, as she lifted the fabric. He didn’t know what to do, how to help her. In the hospital, his collar was enough. People brought their own histories and expectations to their interactions with him. They drew comfort from his words, his touch—his mere presence—for reasons he often didn’t understand. But in a country of priests, his uniform offered no special comfort, no reprieve from the assault. He was simply another onlooker, too late to protect her, useless in his platitudes. Others rushed to her aid, but I didn’t even offer my hand.

  Whiting pressed his face so hard against the magnifier that his vision blurred. He sat up suddenly, gathered a fistful of slides and let them drop. They scattered across the light box, the table and the floor. He closed his eyes and held his head. He felt defeated.

  On Sunday morning, Whiting woke before dawn. “Today you will say your first Mass at the motherhouse,” he whispered. “You are prepared.” He had spent much of the weekend re-reading and editing the homily he had written over the previous week. He crossed himself as he lay in bed and began to pray aloud, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Whiting closed his eyes. “Heavenly Father. Help me to face this day. Forgive me my many failings. And help me to serve the sisters and the performers in Your name.” He fell silent and listened to the sounds around him. A few birds chirped in the darkness outside his window. He pushed back his covers and rose for his morning office.

  He coughed as he emerged from his apartment building. Mist hung heavily in the air and dampness coated everything. The wrought iron handrail was clammy to his touch as he descended the concrete stairs. He missed winter’s cleansing clarity.

  He rehearsed his homily as he drove to the motherhouse, the windshield wipers providing the cadence. The fog rolled along the empty fields on either side of the four-lane road. The floodplain on his left boasted yet another new strip mall full of restaurants and shops—this development replacing its twice-flooded predecessor. Opaque fog tumbled across his windshield and briefly masked his view of the road ahead.

  When at last he entered the grounds, he was surprised at how different they seemed. The undulating vapor through the trees drained the scene of color. He ascended the hill slowly and scanned the horizon. The circus tent, its stripes pallid in the dim light, seemed to float above the grass. The smaller blue tent had disappeared entirely.

  Whiting parked his car on the gravel drive, and, instead of going right in, lingered for a moment. The ground sloped down to a small pond that was nearly invisible beneath a shroud of roiling mist. It looked prehistoric. He could have been the first—or the last—man alive. He shuddered, overwhelmed by his sense of isolation. He thought of Jerry as he pulled his jacket s
nug around his neck and ascended the stairs.

  The door to the motherhouse opened as he reached the landing.

  “Good morning, Father.” It was the nun who had escorted him to his meeting with Mother Frances.

  “It’s Sister Mary Claire, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Father.” She offered a quick, pleasant smile. “Follow me.”

  Whiting fell in behind the nun, the footfalls of their crepe soles the only sounds in the half-lit corridor. She walked swiftly and he had to force a brisk pace to keep up. The doors that he had passed on his previous visit—revealing library, gardens, and offices—were now closed. They stopped before a set of high, wide doors at the end of a long corridor. The nun pushed the right door open with some effort.

  He stepped inside and murmured his surprise. The chapel, which had been added after the Missionary Sisters took ownership of the property, ascended to the height of the motherhouse. Simply constructed pews stretched its length on either side of a center aisle. Tall casement windows of diamond-shaped panes pierced the far wall. The shape of the window panes was duplicated in the dark wood of the deeply coffered ceiling. White marble tablets—depicting the stations of the cross in bas-relief—hung high upon the white stucco walls at intervals between the windows.

  As he followed the nun to the rear of the chapel, the opened windows admitted a heavy perfume of flowers and damp earth. A life-sized crucifix, hung with black chains, was suspended above the altar. The altar itself was a wide, unadorned wood table covered with a white cloth. Vases of white tulips stood before statues of the Holy Family and St. Thérèse of Lisieux at either side of apse.

  After showing Whiting the locations of the vestments, Sister Mary Claire turned to leave.

  “I believe you will find everything in order, Father. But I will be in the chapel if there’s anything you need.” She took up a tray with the Communion patens and left him to dress for Mass.

  Whiting stood alone in the silence of the sacristy, taking in the view of the grounds through a bank of windows above the cabinets. The circus tent, he knew, lay just beyond the line of tall evergreens. He leaned forward in hopes of seeing some of the performers. The grounds were deserted.

  He placed his jacket on a hanger at the coat rack and crossed to the vestments and basin the nun had prepared. Whiting rolled up his sleeves and placed his hands in the water. He thought about Christ at the last supper as the time of his suffering grew near. As he washed his hands, he began to pray.

  “Give virtue to my hands, O Lord, that being cleansed from all stain I might serve You with purity of mind and body.” Christ’s sacrifice. He took up the amice, kissed the cross embroidered upon it and said, “Place upon me, O Lord, the helmet of salvation, that I may overcome the assaults of the devil.”

  As a young man, he had despaired that he would never be able to love Christ as deeply as His sacrifice deserved. Doubt was not encouraged. After draping the amice across his shoulders and tying it, he took up the alb and continued, “Purify me, O Lord, and cleanse my heart, that being made white in the Blood of the Lamb, I may come to eternal joy.” He slipped the white robe over his head, then took up the cincture and tied it at his waist, saying, “Gird me, O Lord, with the girdle of purity, and extinguish in me all evil desires, that the virtue of chastity may abide in me.” All through seminary, he had begun and ended his daily office with the same entreaty: ‘Help me to love with all my heart and with all my soul.’ He thought of Sarah and quickly took up the stole and kissed the cross sewn into the fabric, placing it around his neck, then draping it to form an x-shape across his chest. For years, he had questioned his capacity for love in his daily meditations—as if in doing so, he could somehow measure his struggle toward holiness. “Restore unto me, O Lord, the stole of immortality, which was lost through the guilt of our first parents, and, although I am unworthy to approach Your sacred mysteries, nevertheless, grant unto me eternal joy.” The exercise—the question itself—had tormented him. He took up the chasuble and pulled it over his head. “O Lord, Who said: ‘My yoke is easy and My burden light’ grant that I may bear it well and follow after You with thanksgiving. Amen.” Quietly, imperceptibly, he had stopped questioning. Dressed, he stepped before the full-length mirror inside of the closet door and stood wordlessly before his own reflection.

  “Are you ready, Father?” Sister Mary Claire had returned and stood at the doorway of the sacristy. The organ music began. He nodded and followed the nun to the back of the chapel for the processional.

  Whiting arrived at work earlier than usual and made his cup of tea before going to the Admissions office for his list of current inpatients. The department’s staff would arrive shortly, but at this moment, the office was quiet, peaceful. The door to Pastoral Care was ajar, and just as he rose to close it, he heard Sarah’s voice in the hallway, followed quickly by Dr. Andrei Lesstein, a plastic surgeon at St. Theresa’s. Whiting rose from his desk to stand near his file cabinet, so that he could hear them unobserved.

  “I really must insist on more publicity, Sarah. My department deserves it. The hospital deserves it.”

  Since joining the hospital staff three years earlier, Lesstein had developed a reputation playing the role of the charming and humble immigrant. A diminutive man, he always wore the same uniform: heavily starched white coats and half glasses hung from a chain around his neck. He often insinuated himself on physicians and hospital personnel to share stories about his village, now unrecognizable for the hardships it endured after the breakup of the Soviet Union. Lesstein’s accent and the limp he sometimes adopted were fluid, depending on his audience. If he felt that an immigrant was called for, he searched for words and touched the arm of the person he addressed. He often stammered, in order to emphasize his chagrin at having so poor a command of a language as wonderful and complex as English. In the absence of an appreciative audience, his limp disappeared, and his accent became barely discernible.

  Each year since his arrival, Lesstein escorted hundreds of pounds of medical supplies—donated by drug companies or vendors to his department—to his native Russia. He insisted on public relations coverage for every humanitarian trip.

  Sarah had arranged a flurry of publicity on local television and radio shows including a special Sunday feature in the St. Louis Daily Telegraph. Lesstein had even been featured in two issues of the employee newsletter and was the cover story on the hospital’s quarterly magazine to the community. But the media attention, though significant, had waned as the event receded into the past. Dr. Lesstein wanted more.

  “You don’t know, Sarah, what it was like,” he said, touching her arm. “If only you could have accompanied us … to see the gratitude of these people.”

  “Yes, Dr. Lesstein. It was a wonderful humanitarian effort. We all agree that your work there was magnificent.” Whiting couldn’t see Sarah’s face, but he thought her words were said sarcastically, even if her tone was neutral. The idea made him smile.

  “You say that, Sarah, but I still don’t have any interviews.”

  “Interviews?”

  “Interviews, Sarah. You remember them.” Now it was Lesstein’s turn to be sarcastic. “It is the only way I can let the world know the plight of my village—the work of my department.” Whiting frowned as he heard Lesstein’s words, delivered without a trace of his accent.

  “As much as I appreciate your insights into media relations, doctor, I think we both know what an interview is. As a matter of fact, I believe I arranged eleven of them for you.”

  “Ten. There were only ten interviews.”

  “Only ten?” Sarah gave a short laugh. Whiting couldn’t be sure whether she was doing it for effect. He wished he could see her face.

  “Yes, Sarah … only ten. Because a story such as this has universal appeal. When I was in my village, camera crews swarmed the area. We were covered on national television. National. Am I to believe that my own adopted country”—his accent suddenly emerged—”the United States of America, cares le
ss about this suffering than the rest of the world?” Sarah sighed deeply. Whiting could tell that she was tired of the conversation. Perhaps the doctor sensed it too, because he changed his approach.

  “We both know that you are very good at your job, Sarah, but this is an important story. It deserves more attention that you’ve given it.”

  “Dr. Lesstein, I appreciate how worthwhile your mission was. No one questions its impact.” Her tone was strained. She was struggling to remain patient. “But as we’ve discussed before, the media wants new information all the time. You returned four months ago. The story is no longer news.”

  “It’s news if there are new developments. Here … look at this.” Whiting leaned to the right so that he could watch what was happening. The doctor stood next to Sarah and fanned a handful of photographs. “Here … look.” He pulled one out. “The people lined the roadways to greet me. Here you see a school girl giving me flowers.” Lesstein chuckled. He was sliding deeper into his Russian routine. “Everywhere we went, people kissed my hands, gave us presents. See? See this one with the old woman giving me bread? They had two banquets in my honor. Here I am with the head of our village and the director of the hospital that received the supplies.”

  “Dr. Lesstein, these are all wonderful photographs—of you.” Sarah spoke each word carefully, but Whiting could hear her irritation. “However, as I already told you countless times, the story was covered—before your mission and after your return. There is really nothing more to tell.”

  “I disagree!”

  Sarah quickly interrupted him. “Let me finish please. If you want additional coverage, and can help me identify a human interest angle, then we might get some attention in the Sunday magazine or even the national Catholic Hospital Magazine. Other than that ….”

  “Good! Good! That’s excellent! I can provide interviews any time.”