Dancing with Gravity Read online

  “Good evening, Father.” The greeting came from Sister Mary Alice, a social worker at St. Theresa’s. The lenses of her glasses glistened in the low light of the tent. “We have a seat reserved especially for you. Just follow me.” Whiting smiled with what he hoped was enough appreciation.

  The nun escorted him to a ringside box. He felt among the chosen as she removed a paper sash that read RESERVED from a front row seat. Whiting settled on the wooden folding chair and glanced at the reserved and empty seat beside him; he kept his eyes trained for Sarah. She had told him that the tent could hold a thousand people. As he looked around, it seemed that every seat was taken.

  The lights dimmed, held for a moment, and then went out. The crowd fell silent, their movements on the metal stands stilled. Out of the darkness, a trumpet fanfare pierced the air. Two spotlights burst to life and came to rest on the red velvet curtains at the rear entrance. The curtains swept apart and the ringmaster strode forward, accenting the music. He wore a brilliant red sequined jacket and black breeches stuffed into the tops of his knee-high boots. Whiting leaned forward in his seat. Only last Sunday at Mass, he had invited this man and his wife to bring the bread and wine to the altar during the presentation of the gifts. He recalled their pleased and shy response, their solemn faces as they handed him the offerings. Watching him now, he could hardly believe the transformation. The man’s hair was combed back, shiny with pomade, and grey at the temples. He supposed that he must be in his late forties or early fifties. This realization—that he and this man were nearly the same age—seemed impossible as he watched him in the spotlight.

  The ringmaster raised his arms in a wide and sudden gesture as the trumpets rose to a crescendo. Four triplets and then a final double forté.

  “Welcome! Welcome to the Little Flower Circus!” The audience offered up enthusiastic applause. Before it trailed away, he continued, “Tonight we present our very first performance in the United States of America!” The crowd cheered. Some stomped and whistled. The ringmaster waited before he resumed. “Our circus family comes to you from many countries. Even our animals were born in distant lands. And tonight we bring you performances of great skill that will amaze and delight you.”

  His voice was deep and resonant, and his words were clear, but his Spanish accent was unmistakable. “Our latest journey has taken us from the middle of the jungle to the middle of America. And we are grateful to be here with you this evening in this place of beauty and peace.” The ringmaster’s eyes were bright as he surveyed the crowd.

  “We also come from a place of beauty. But not of peace. The land of my childhood has become a country where a man or woman … even a child can become one of the disappeared. Where once there were families—even whole villages—today there is nothing. This is not an act of circus magic, but something evil.”

  Whiting felt a surge of alarm. He was sure that the ringmaster was revealing too much. He searched the stands for Sarah, but in the darkened tent, it was impossible see beyond the people who sat closest to him.

  “I am one of the lucky ones. My family survived. Others also found safety. For this we must give thanks to God.” The man crossed himself. The audience was silent. Whiting cast quick glances at the people sitting nearby. He could not discern their mood.

  “Darkness is a shadow in my homeland, and I weep for those who remain,” the ringmaster continued. “But that darkness cannot reach us now. For this, we thank God and his son, Jesus Christ, our savior.” Again he crossed himself. “And we thank our dear friend, a brave and loving woman, Señora Finch. Through her, God took our hands and led us through the darkness. We followed blindly. And we were saved.” He lowered his head.

  Whiting decided he must find someone—Sarah or Mother Frances were the only ones who came to mind—who might stop this dangerous confession. Just then, the ringmaster raised his head and smiled broadly; he seemed to recapture the energy of his entrance.

  “We are honored to perform for you. We hope you will find enchantment here, and that you will leave this place happier than when you arrived. We also pray that you will return again with friends and loved ones. So now, I will take up the task that is my duty and my pleasure.” He threw his arms open wide. “Let the circus begin!

  The band struck up a frenzied march so loud it almost sounded like two different compositions at once. The curtains opened wide and four dark horses thundered from the passageway. Four pair of riders in shimmering blue leotards and tights stood in formation on the undulating backs of the animals. The center acrobat wrestled the reins and shouted commands. Whiting drew back in his chair as the horses hurtled past, muscles rippling, their hooves and hot breaths drowning out the music. One horse moved to bite another on its neck. Whiting gasped as the horse pulled back its lips, exposing great yellow teeth and pink gums. The second horse rolled its eyes and whinnied.

  The acrobats flashed broad smiles as they circled the ring. Three of the women climbed onto the men’s shoulders. A fourth woman climbed higher still and stood on the shoulders of the women in the second tier. Applause exploded from the stands. The troupe circled the ring twice and then broke formation. At a command from the horses’ handler, the men locked arms and stepped sideways to lean at an angle over the flanks of the galloping animals. Next, two of the women took up positions on the outside of the four men. As if unaffected by gravity or motion, the two remaining women climbed still further and leaned into a modified arabesque—human scaffolding that extended horizontally above the cantering steeds. The acrobats broke their formation and rode once more around the ring to deafening applause before they disappeared into the darkened passageway. The curtains closed with a rush behind them.

  Before the crowd could let the moment go, music burst like bottles falling down a stair, all jangle and rattles. The curtains flew open as men—dressed as Cossacks—rushed from the darkness, leaping, twisting, and spilling into the ring, slicing the air with sabers. Two of them broke into a dance. Arms crossed at their chests, knees bent, they kicked in time with the music’s accelerating tempo. A third Cossack leapt to the center of the ring, held his sword high above his head, then extended his neck and slid the blade down his throat up to the hilt. Whiting realized with a start that this was the juggler he had seen just before he entered the tent.

  The sword swallower ignited several rings and tossed them high into the air. At this, other performers did the same. They laughed and called commands as they fanned out across the ring, all the time tossing the flaming rings back and forth. Whiting could hardly believe that the confident showmen he saw before him now had any connection to the refugees who attended Mass with downcast eyes. This is their church—their cathedral.

  The tent plunged into darkness. Gasps rose from the stands. The rings moved—ghostlike—through the air as the band kept up its furious, Klezmer-like melody. Whiting, too, was swept up in the spectacle and applauded enthusiastically when, with a burst of energy, the lights returned and the jugglers extinguished their props.

  The acts continued in rapid succession, but Whiting’s attention wandered. The people sitting behind him twice bumped his chair as they rose from their places and returned with food from the concession carts. At both interruptions, he looked up, thinking that Sarah had arrived. He repeatedly glanced at her empty seat and was alternately angry or wounded by her absence. When the performers moved into the audience to recruit children for a magic act, he leaned forward and tried to take in every face as the spotlight swept through the stands. He considered going to look for her, but he felt awkward leaving his front row seat. Anticipating intermission, he checked his program. Only one more act remained in the first half of the show.

  The drummer committed to a waltz, then changed to heavy accent on every other beat. The clarinet snaked its notes through the steady percussion. The curtains opened, and Millefleurs the elephant entered the ring at a full gallop. Whiting drew back as the elephant lumbered past. It wore a red harness and a blanket adorned with sequined images
of monkeys amid deep green foliage. A fleshy blonde woman rode sidesaddle on the elephant’s back. She smiled and swiveled to face the crowd as Millefleurs completed the circle. The woman kept the fingertips of her right hand on the brim of her pith helmet in a jaunty salute and carried a silver tipped cane in her left hand. Her fingernails were the same deep red of her lips. She wore a sequined off-the-shoulder red blouse and an ample navy blue skirt, flared with numerous white petticoats. Whiting was sure he hadn’t seen her before. He leaned forward to get a better look when the elephant made its second pass and realized with a start that the woman was not young as he first thought, but middle aged, perhaps older. Her rouged cheeks and heavy false eyelashes took on a ghastly appearance on her lined and jowly face. Her hair, done up in brassy, yellow ringlets, cascaded over her thick shoulders.

  As Millefleurs continued around the ring, the woman thrust her pelvis forward in rhythm with the elephant’s gait. After another pass, she grabbed the animal’s harness and pulled herself with surprising agility into a standing position on its head.

  She prodded the elephant with her cane, and brought it to a stop in the center of the ring. The animal knelt. The woman, her head held high, stepped down from the animal’s back to its bent knee and onto the sawdust. Her broad gestures seemed intended for a stadium with tens of thousands in attendance. Whiting wondered whether she imagined herself in grander surroundings with louder music.

  Two men rolled thick cylinders the size of tractor tires into the ring, dropped them onto their sides, and then sprinted back through the curtain. The music grew softer, and then with a surprising suddenness, stopped. The woman marched to the side of the elephant and slapped its leg with her stick. Her commands were audible. Her movements were exaggerated, her smile unfailing. The animal circled the ring at a quick clip and returned to the center. She backed the elephant into a sitting position on one of the tubs and called out a louder command. It raised its front legs and pawed the air. The audience rewarded the effort. She moved to the animal’s left flank. Her hands brushed her skirt and rustled her petticoats with every step as though she might break into a can-can routine at any moment.

  The woman slapped her stick across the elephant’s knee, this time shouting her command. Millefleurs rose from the tub, circled the ring, then returned and placed its front legs on the tub. The woman opened her arms wide in presentation and offered a triumphant smile. A smattering of applause followed. The woman turned toward the elephant, and her smile vanished.

  “Up! Up!” she commanded. The elephant flapped its ears. The audience laughed. The woman struck Millefleurs on its left knee. The elephant did not move. She struck it again. A murmur passed through the tent. The woman barked a command, and then struck the elephant once more. The tension in the tent was palpable. The woman struck the elephant again. A few grumbled protests rose from the stands. The elephant dropped from the tub and rushed around the ring, head rocking side to side. It trumpeted and passed so close to the woman that Whiting flinched. The woman shouted something toward the back of the tent. The curtains opened just as the elephant thundered into the passageway. She offered a deep and hasty bow and followed the elephant into the darkness. A voice over the loudspeaker announced a twenty-minute intermission. Rock music flooded the tent. Three men rushed into the ring to remove the elephant’s props and groom the sawdust.

  Whiting hurried from his box, but he hadn’t even made it to the aisle before the crowd came to a complete standstill. It seemed that everyone in the audience began speaking at once—and most conversations concerned the elephant. Two couples just ahead of him expressed their collective sense of relief of some near-danger having passed. Yet, even moments after the incident, few could agree on what had taken place. One man laughed nervously as he admitted he’d been afraid, but the woman beside him insisted that the elephant’s misbehavior had been an act. A female cardiologist that Whiting knew slightly from St. Theresa’s made rude comments about the elephant handler’s appearance. He wanted to hear what she was saying, but two couples pushed in front of him, talking loudly about their recent vacation in Cancun.

  The crush reached the opening of the tent. Once outside, their voices dissipated like the last rain of a summer storm. Whiting stepped out of the way to let people pass. The cool night air carried the sweet aroma of distant wood smoke. He breathed deeply and had to remind himself that it was not autumn, but spring. His neck and shoulders ached. The elephant had upset him. But it was more than that. He had never seen a circus at such close proximity. The music was too loud, the lights too bright. The performers too unfamiliar—even though he had met many of them. He could not remember their names. And there were at least two who he could not recall having seen before tonight. He took another deep breath and forced himself to exhale slowly. Where was Sarah?

  Further down the midway the supper pavilion had gone dark. The vendors were now closer to the tent. Guests milled around the carts, tickets in hand. Women pulled shawls over their shoulders or took their husbands’ jackets against the chill. A few lit their cigarettes and stood at a distance from the tent. The scene reassured. Whiting threaded his way through the crowd that congregated along the promenade, looking for Sarah. He circled to the far side of the tent, to the performers’ trailers. As he approached, he heard muffled voices. Even though he could not yet make out the words, their angry tone was unmistakable. He followed the sound.

  “Danger … irresponsible ….” rose amid the cascade of words. He waited to hear more. In the light outside a camper, he made out four shapes. As he moved closer he saw Sarah, Mother Frances, and two men. Childs Littleton hissed his rebuke about the elephant’s performance as Father Devereaux looked on. Heart galloping, Whiting rushed toward them.

  “Oh there you are.” His voice sounded high and unnatural to his ear. He offered a nod to Littleton and the priest. Even in the low light, he could see that Mother Frances’s face was drained of color. Sarah was also pale, but there was a frantic quality about her as well.

  “What a show!” He realized his hands were shaking and he slipped them into his pockets. “But nothing topped that last act. And you were right: some people did believe the elephant might charge.” He shook his head to underscore how absurd he found their gullibility. Both women looked at him as though he were mad.

  Whiting turned to Littleton and forced himself to smile. He felt bold, confident, even courageous. His dry lips pulled as they exposed his teeth. Does Sarah know I’m doing this for her?

  Near the entrance to the tent, two sisters took Mother Frances aside while Whiting guided Sarah to the reserved seat beside him. Just as the lights dimmed, she leaned toward him, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “I can never thank you enough for what you did out there.”

  “I would do anything for you.” Did I just say that? Who am I? He wasn’t sure he was breathing; he didn’t know what to say or do next. The music started and Sarah turned back toward the ring.

  Whiting could hardly concentrate on the second act and seized every opportunity to glance toward Sarah. The animals and performers became a blur of color in the background as he drank in her presence and matched his reactions to her own. He joined his laughter with hers at an orangutan act, and the two of them leaned forward in their seats—all tension and expectation—during the snake handler’s performance. When the tightrope walker placed his young son on his shoulders, then rode a bicycle across the wire, Sarah held tightly to Whiting’s wrist, and he found it impossible to focus on anything but the heat and weight of her hand. It was then that he decided he would invite her out after the show—for coffee or maybe even a cocktail.

  The idea thrilled him. He rehearsed his approach amid the cacophony of the tent. I’ll turn to Sarah when the lights come up, and make my suggestion casually. His mind raced as he considered where they might go. He shifted in his seat, impatient for the circus to end.

  Dogs and clowns rushed from the ring. Whiting checked his program. The trapeze act was all that
remained before the grand finale. He could hardly believe its title—”The Lovers’ Awakening.”

  The overhead lights dimmed, held a few seconds, and then went out. Sarah leaned forward and placed her hands on the wooden ring curb. Her perfume filled his senses—he could feel her without touching her. He leaned closer. Spotlights pierced the darkness. Rings of colored light converged on the closed curtains, and pre-recorded music, an operatic aria, flooded through the speakers. The curtains opened, and two performers, splendid in blue capes adorned with sequins and peacock feathers, strode into the ring. Their capes trailed in the sawdust behind them, and the sequins shot sparks of light through the darkened tent. Alyiana. That was the woman’s name. Whiting had spoken with her on several occasions after Sunday Mass. He also recognized the man, although he had seen him only once. He had been the last person to arrive at the blessing and had never come to Mass. Whiting checked his program again. Nikolai. The man’s name was Nikolai.

  The aerialists walked to the center of the ring. A rope lowered from the scaffolding. Nikolai took a bag from his waistband and powdered his hands, then clapped them together. A small cloud of white dust rose from his palms. He dropped the bag to the ground and took the rope. Hand over hand, he pulled himself toward the ceiling of the tent. When he reached the trapeze, he loosened his cape and let it fall. It swooned to the ground—a magnificent, slain bird. Nikolai’s calf and thigh muscles bulged beneath his dark blue tights. His chest was bare. His arms, shoulders, and abdomen looked carved—Michelangelo’s perfect male torso come to life. The other performers had been completely covered from their ankles to their necks, and the aerialist’s sensuous half-nakedness caught Whiting unaware.

  Nikolai arched his back and pumped his legs to set his swing in motion. Whiting suddenly remembered Alyiana. She had moved to the far side of the ring and had ascended the ladder that rose to a height near the top of the tent. She stepped out onto a small metal platform and unfastened her cape, revealing a costume in shades of blue, sequined at the neck and wrists. She uncoupled a trapeze chained to a cable above her head, took the bar with both hands, then stepped forward into the air. The music transcended the recording and came to life as her swing traversed the ceiling of the tent, higher and higher with each sweep. Nikolai locked the backs of his knees on the trapeze and dropped beneath the bar. He and Alyiana made two more arcs above the ring. On her next pass, she lifted her body, thrust into a forward somersault over the bar, catapulted through the air, and grabbed Nikolai’s outstretched arms. The audience reacted as a single person, bursting into applause. Whiting imagined them all—hands clasped, eyes wide, in love with the moment. He looked over at Sarah. She was radiant.