Dancing with Gravity Page 15

  “Actually, what I meant was that we need a more patient-focused story.” Lesstein fell silent. Whiting wondered whether he was angry or simply considering the situation.

  “But you have that already. Are you not paying attention? Here…” he shuffled through the photographs, chose one, and thrust it toward her. “Here’s your patient-centered story!”

  Sarah studied the photograph for a moment only. “This shows you in the operating room. The patient is unrecognizable. Do you have any other pictures we could use? Before and after shots? Something like that?”

  “Not here. Perhaps I ….” He was rifling through this photographs again.

  “Dr. Lesstein, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I came here to see Father Whiting about an important—and personal—matter. Please excuse me.”

  “But Sarah, we haven’t accomplished anything. I’m not happy with your behavior here.”

  Sarah had turned to enter the office, but turned back. She took a breath to answer him, but Whiting walked quickly into the outer office.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah. I was on the phone. Did I keep you waiting?” They had no appointment. Sarah smiled her appreciation at his collusion.

  “Actually, I just got here. Dr. Lesstein stopped by my office as I was leaving and was good enough to walk with me.” Lesstein made no attempt to greet Whiting.

  “Wait! I have it! A story about the free surgery I performed. A little girl was wounded in the accidental shelling of her village.”

  Sarah’s eyelids fluttered. “I didn’t see any photographs of children in that stack.”

  “Well … I … we could ….” Lesstein took a deep breath. “I was actually going to talk to you about this. I’m working on bringing a child over for surgery. Free surgery. I’d perform it myself.”

  “I didn’t know the hospital was planning anything like this.”

  “It’s new. A new idea. We can get some of the drug companies to cover my fee and the hospitalization. It would be free to the girl. And what a story, eh, Sarah? We could tape the operation. I could explain it while it’s going on, yes?”

  Her expression was flat.

  “We can talk about this again. But right now, please … I have an appointment.” She entered Whiting’s office.

  Whiting turned toward the doctor and smiled, then followed her inside and closed the door.

  Sarah sat heavily in the guest chair. “Dozens of photographs … and he’s in the center of every last one. God, I hate narcissists!” She scooted her chair forward and leaned her elbows on Whiting’s desk. “By the way, thanks for covering me.” She was casually taking in the papers on his desk as she spoke. “Hey! It just occurred to me. You were listening in. Really, Sam, I’m shocked!”

  “Call it self-preservation. He stopped in here last week. Wants to give an in-service to the Pastoral Care staff about his mission. It was forty minutes before I could get away.”

  “So what’s he looking for? To be canonized on top of everything else?” Sarah shook her head at the image. “I ducked in here to escape Lesstein, but I wanted to stop by this morning anyway.” She sat back in the chair, surveyed the room. “Tell me how things went for you yesterday.”

  “Very well, I think. As least that’s the impression I got from Mother Frances when I saw her after Mass.”

  “And was it well attended?”

  “I’d say so. Somewhere around eighty—with the sisters, of course.”

  Sarah smiled and nodded. She’s pleased. He had also thought the number of performers at Mass was good—had even allowed himself to believe the favorable attendance was in response to the blessing, which he thought had gone exceptionally well. “Sister Mary Claire reminded me several times that not all of the circus performers are Catholic. But it seemed to me that most of them were there—at least as I recall from the blessing.”

  “I hope you had a chance to talk to people afterwards.”

  She’s so engaged in what we’re doing for these people. He fought a smile as he remembered that she had been the one who recommended him to Mother Frances for this assignment.

  “Some. It’s always hard in the beginning. But there was one in particular … the tightrope walker … let me see ….” He pulled out some notes he had written to himself. “Wait a moment. Here it is. Anjo. He’s from Nicaragua. He introduced me to his wife, Rose, and their son. Hmm … looks like I didn’t write his name down. Anyway, I think Rose’s uncle is a Deacon of the church.”

  “I wish I had been there. The performers are pretty comfortable with me.”

  “I saw that for myself at the blessing. To tell the truth, it would have made me very happy to have you at Mass.”

  “Well, then, maybe I’ll surprise you some Sunday.” She opened one of her folders and pulled out a cream colored envelope decorated with a border of red elephants. Whiting’s name, written in ornate calligraphic script, took up most of the front of the envelope

  “Here. This is for you.”

  “And this is?”

  “Open it.”

  He slipped his index finger under the envelope’s flap, then decided to use a letter opener. Sarah moved to the edge of her chair.

  “Just open it! You’re taking too long!”

  He pulled out a card with the same elephant design. It was an invitation to a special performance of the circus, with proceeds to benefit the hospital’s new Pediatric Intensive Care unit. He had attended any number of hospital-sponsored events over the years, but he had never previously been included in St. Theresa’s VIP fundraisers. He warmed with pleasure as he read the invitation and wondered whether the idea had come from Sarah or Mother Frances.

  “So?” Sarah leaned forward, her elbows on his desk.

  “I’ll come if I can.”

  “Don’t tease me, Sam! This is—and I kid you not—one of the hottest invitations going! So even if you have something planned … I insist that you cancel it!”

  “What day is it?” He knew that, no matter what, he would attend the performance, but he was taking so much pleasure in this exchange that he wanted it to continue. As he reached for his date book Sarah rose and took it from him.

  “Doesn’t matter. The circus is the place to be!” She flipped his calendar to the date on the invitation, wrote the word CIRCUS in bold letters in red, and drew the outline of an elephant around it. “You’ll have a wonderful time, I promise. Besides, we’re sitting together and I refuse to let you stand me up!” She handed back his opened calendar and took up her folders.

  “Look, he’s waiting for me!” She pointed to a shadow that paced in front of Whiting’s door. “Christ, he’s just like a cockroach that you just can’t get rid of.” She crossed to the door, composed herself, and faced the waiting surgeon.

  “Sarah, what if I can get Gorbachev’s sister?” Their voices trailed off as Sarah and Lesstein left Pastoral Care. Whiting remained at his desk, grinning, as he traced the elephant’s outline with his finger.

  The Circus of the Little Flower opened the first of May with its special benefit performance. For reasons Whiting did not completely understand, Sarah had organized the evening around a 1904 World’s Fair theme, a theme it seemed native St. Louisans couldn’t get enough of.

  He disliked the time and effort that went into entertaining the rich and suspected that the hospital’s wealthy patrons actually required a certain level of amusement before they would part with their money—no matter how worthy the cause. Still, he had no intention of missing the event. And when he realized that the benefit performance was taking place on a Friday evening, he did not hesitate to cancel his regular supper with Lillian.

  Whiting arrived at the convent grounds more than an hour before the performance was scheduled to begin. The evening was mild and the air filled with sweet, newly mowed grass. In his anticipation, he wanted to run toward the tent, and his muscles tightened as he forced himself to keep a more dignified pace. When he reached the crest of the hill, he gasped.

  The sun was low on the horiz
on, and the white stripes of the circus tent shimmered, iridescent, in the last rays of daylight. Strands of candy-colored bulbs snaked along the poles and roof of the tent, painting rainbow arcs at intervals across its skin. Calliope music flowed from speakers attached to posts around the concourse. Hundreds of partygoers moved like a tinted river along the midway. Women in colorful pantsuits and flowing dresses and men in jackets of pale hues, some even wearing yellow straw boaters, mingled as children pulled at balloons, stretching the skins into squeaks, or chased one another through the crowd.

  Just ahead, dozens of well-dressed guests milled near a vinyl banner that advertised supper tickets. Women in yellow and white striped jackets greeted the new arrivals from an enclosure of tables and cardboard boxes. Elaborate ribbon rosettes identified them as volunteers. Whiting handed his invitation to a tall, unnaturally tanned woman in her fifties. The sleeves of her jacket were pushed up, revealing an assortment of gold bangles that slid up and down her arms as she worked.

  “Good evening, Father.” She took his invitation, crossed his name off the list on her clipboard, and retrieved an envelope from one of the boxes. Her bracelets cascaded with a glissando of clicks. She took out a cream-colored booklet bordered with red elephants and fanned it open in front of him. She smiled her instructions. “You’ll need to present the top ticket at the buffet pavilion down the hill. This one gets you into the performance. You can use the perforated tabs at any of the snack carts. But don’t have any cotton candy until you’ve had your meal—everything in the supper pavilion is just yummy.” Her smile creased her cheeks as she pulled a yellow straw boater from a box beneath the table. “Now, here’s your hat; it’s one size fits all, and absolutely all the gentlemen are wearing them.” She gave him a broad, taut smile, and then turned to address the next person in line.

  He put the tickets in his breast pocket and then fingered the brim of the hat nervously, putting it on and casting quick glances to either side to the test the reactions of the people around him. To his relief—and slight disappointment—no one took any notice.

  He looked for Sarah in the crowd, and secretly upbraided himself for not arranging a specific place and time where they might meet. He was hungry, but he didn’t want to eat without her. So he doubled back to the circus tent, hoping to find her there.

  The orange plastic fencing that cordoned off the performers’ trailers lay spooled on the grass. The interior of the blue entrance tent was also transformed: an arbor of tiny white lights shimmered across its ceiling. Brightly colored circus posters hung against the vinyl walls. Sister Ursula George, who managed the hospital’s gift shop, was the only other person in the tent. She sat behind a table covered with a white cloth and faced with red bunting. Rows of hand-made items were carefully arranged along the length of the table.

  “Good evening, Sister.”

  The nun looked up from her knitting and nodded emphatically. Her motion was so sudden and dramatic that Whiting thought she might be falling forward.

  “Has everyone left you this evening?”

  The nun raised her right arm and pointed diagonally beyond the entrance tent.

  “They’re all at the party, Father.” Her first syllables were little more than a growl, as though she had not spoken in a very long time.

  Whiting stood before the table and, bending awkwardly, took in the handicrafts: potpourri, small framed watercolors of generic circus scenes, and crocheted elephants in a rainbow of shades. “You’ve been busy, I see.”

  “The Ladies’ Auxiliary did most of the work. They’ve even started a quilt that we’ll raffle off later this summer.”

  Whiting smiled and nodded. “Have you seen Sarah James this evening?”

  The nun shook her head. “I believe she’s been here most of the day, but I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

  Whiting’s stomach growled. He decided he would go to dinner without her.

  “Would you like me to bring you something to eat?” It will be easier to go alone to supper if I have an errand.

  “They’re bringing me something, thank you, Father.”

  “And, if you see Sarah, will you please tell her that I’m looking for her?”

  The nun had gone back to her knitting. She nodded vigorously, but did not look up.

  The light had faded so quickly that when Whiting emerged from the tent, he viewed the scene as if for the first time. Hundreds of luminaries lined the grassy promenade to the supper pavilion. A few of the circus performers, wearing turn-of-the-century costumes, strolled among the partygoers. Some handed out suckers—oversized wheels of multi-colored candy wrapped in cellophane and tied with pale blue ribbon. One performer walked a piglet with a flowered harness. Another carried a spider monkey—wearing a ballerina’s tutu—on his shoulder. Two circus clowns twisted balloons into animal shapes and offered them to passing children.

  “Padre?” Whiting turned to see a young woman who he recognized from Sunday Mass. She held a basket of the wrapped candies. “May I offer you one of these beautiful suckers?”

  “I think I’m a bit too old, but thank you, Veronica. It is Veronica … am I right?”

  “Yes, I’m Veronica. Yes.” Her English had a wooden quality. “But no one is too old for the circus. See for yourself.” She held out a sucker, and he took it. Two boys raced past. The young woman turned in their direction and then disappeared into the crowd.

  Whiting was delighted with the sucker and inhaled its sweet aroma through the cellophane. He held it before him, admiring the way it glistened in the light as he turned toward the supper pavilion. Lighted carts on either side of the promenade offered soft drinks, ice cream, popcorn, and cotton candy. The vendors were dressed alike in straw hats, white shirts with bright red sleeve guards, red and black striped vests, and black trousers. They hawked their concessions with great enthusiasm and joked with passersby. Whiting wondered whether Sarah had hired actors for the occasion. A few feet away, the rapid report of popcorn spilling from a kettle overtook the music. The strong attraction of butter and salt filled the air and made him ravenous. He hurried to the supper tent.

  White-skirted chairs circled dozens of linen covered tables within the pavilion. Centerpieces made from tiers of votive candles in stained glass reflected in the bottles and glassware and multiplied in tabletop mirrors. Whiting was mesmerized. A volunteer in a yellow and white striped jacket stepped forward to take his ticket.

  “Good evening, Father. Please help yourself to the buffet.” She extended her arm toward the elaborate display. “Waiters will bring wine and other refreshments around once you’ve taken a seat.” She handed him a set of flatware wrapped in a white linen napkin and secured with multi-colored ribbons.

  Guests formed rows on both sides of the buffet table. A strikingly pretty young woman across from Whiting offered him a warm smile as she picked up her plate. She wore a powder blue linen shift; her blonde hair was pulled into a chignon. The overall effect—he thought of a young Grace Kelly—delighted him and enhanced his pleasure with everything around him. He glanced at her again and again as they moved along the table. She took something from every dish—never placing more than a teaspoon of any item onto her plate.

  After Whiting had chosen among the hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, cheeses, and salads, his plate was nearly full. He took in the row of gleaming chafing dishes just ahead—each identified with a hand-lettered sign. His mouth watered. The menu included buttermilk fried game hen, herb garlic leg of lamb, baked ham with marmalade-horseradish glaze, shrimp scampi over bowtie pasta and baby spinach, roasted pork loin stuffed with grilled asparagus, regianno and truffle sherry, and roasted leeks with fennel tomato concasse. He stole several of the hors d’oeuvres from his plate to stem his hunger and make room on his plate.

  Scanning the area one last time for Sarah, he sat at a half empty table near the rear of the supper tent. Two couples were already seated and offered an amiable welcome. The wives exchanged brief pleasantries. The husbands, he lear
ned, were pediatricians with privileges at St. Theresa’s. He was relieved that the four of them quickly returned to their previous topic of conversation—an upcoming auction at a Jesuit boys’ high school in the city—and left him to concentrate on his meal. He listened, contented with the company.

  Just as he finished his crème brulée, a volunteer sounding a gong passed his table.

  “The circus will begin in fifteen minutes. Please make your way to the tent and take your seats.” The woman sounded the gong twice, then moved a few feet away and repeated her announcement. Whiting waited as his tablemates rose to leave. Now that he had eaten, he turned all of his attention to finding Sarah. He ascended the hill to the tent, then stepped aside to let others pass. A juggler entertained a few feet to the left and, while most of the partygoers passed by with only a quick look, Whiting lingered.

  The performer took up five juggling pins and tossed them into the air with great concentration. The white sleeves of his shirt moved, piston-like, with each rotation. He slowed his rhythm and reversed the pins’ direction. They made wide arcs through the air, then slapped into his palms. Light applause filtered through the gathering.

  Next, the juggler took three torches, lit them one by one, and tossed them into the air. They hissed each time they passed before his face. Those who stood closest to the flames stepped back. He caught two of the torches in his left hand. He held a third one above his head, stared at it with great intensity, then tilted his head back and lowered it into his mouth. Moments later, he pulled the extinguished torch from his parted lips. Enthusiastic applause followed. He bowed deeply and thrust the other two torches into a pail of sand.

  The calliope music stopped. A rousing overture grew from inside the tent. The juggler tied his props into a blanket and made his way behind the tent. The last of the diners hurried up the path, their pumps and loafers crunching on the gravel. Whiting took one last look around, then sighed and proceeded into the tent alone.

  Several of the Missionary Sisters stood at the head of the ramp taking tickets, handing out programs and directing guests to their seats.