Dancing with Gravity Read online

  The aerialists climbed to a standing position on their shared trapeze and continued to swing high above the audience. The aria flowed through the tent, and Whiting gave himself over to it. Nikolai was now in a sitting position. His movements were fluid, confident. Alyiana stood above him on the swing they now shared, then turned and lowered herself onto his lap, facing him. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

  The music reacted to their intimacy, encircled the audience, and rose to the trapeze. Whiting imagined that the aria was an epic story of Nikolai’s passion for Alyiana—told by some unseen witness. Just as quickly, he decided the music was not about Nikolai, but coming from him. As he watched them on the swing, he imagined that Nikolai was simultaneously living the story and singing it … that the voice flowing through the speakers had to be his.

  The lovers expressed themselves with such passionate intensity that the audience below, even the tent itself, did not exist for them. Nikolai forced his swing higher and faster. He tapped his slippered feet together three times in quick succession, producing a muffled sound like gloved hands clapping. Alyiana let go of the ropes of the trapeze and arched backwards, then dropped from Nikolai’s lap, so that she hung from her knees. The trapeze made broad sweeps beneath the ceiling of the tent. Alyiana dropped further so that only her ankles and feet touched the ropes. Whiting hardly breathed. They traversed the tent three or four more times—or maybe more. Whiting lost count.

  At last, Alyiana pulled herself back onto Nikolai’s lap. He pressed her to him. Whiting flushed and looked away. He watched, instead, as their shadows, tripled by the spotlights, glided across the walls and ceiling of the tent. The music rose as the two lovers, draped in one another’s arms, moved forward and back. A mirrored ball lowered from the scaffolding. The spotlight changed from blue to green and trained on the revolving glass. Light danced through the tent as the aria took focus on the lovers.

  Whiting looked again at the performers. He could not resist the pull of what he saw and the longing it aroused. The scene lost all connection to the circus. This was not a performance for the public—certainly not for children. It was, instead, an intimacy observed. He wondered how it was that the Missionary Sisters had approved the performance. But the question dissipated as he glanced at Sarah and then followed her gaze back up to the performers. Captivated, he surrendered to the beauty of the moment. The music reached its crescendo. Nikolai pulled Alyiana to him. She resisted, then surrendered. He enfolded her in his arms. Whiting was afraid his heart might break.

  On the ground below, a circus hand entered the ring and took hold of the rope Nikolai had ascended, then pulled it taut. The lovers slowed their swing and seized the rope, then lowered themselves to the ring. Nikolai retrieved his cape and wrapped it around his partner. He held her close as they walked through the darkened passageway. The music, no longer insistent, became languid, resolved, then faded. The tent remained in darkness, but for the spotlight that still shone on the closed red curtain. At the last note of the aria, the spotlight went out. The audience remained silent, as though entranced by all that they had seen and heard. Then, as if on some signal, the crowd erupted. First, applause. Then vocal rewards, then whoops. They cheered and stomped on the metal stands. Tears streamed down Whiting’s cheeks—he hadn’t even realized that he was crying. He quickly wiped his face and turned toward Sarah. Her seat was empty.

  The band struck up a circus theme: triplets, crescendos, tootles on flutes. Yellow, pink, and white spotlights swept the tent. A dozen smaller mirrored balls lowered from painted boxes above the ring, splintering the spotlights as the performers and animals burst through the curtain. The crowd clapped and cheered as the troupe paraded past. Whiting clapped mechanically, as he searched the crowd, desperate to find Sarah.

  The scene was all confusion and excitement. The lights came up, and people rose from their seats—reluctant to leave. Breathless. Entertained. Chattering. Whiting watched dumbly as they shambled to the exit. Their laughter and conversation confused him. He rose automatically, but then dropped back into his chair.

  Even as the last of the audience shuffled from the tent, half a dozen workers rushed back into the ring. They tied rigging, raked and wet the sawdust, and collected props left behind during the finale. Four of the circus children made their way noisily through the stands, trailing black plastic trash bags. Whiting watched wordlessly as they collected mounds of paper cups, popcorn bags, and other refuse that the audience had left for someone else to clean. Finally, he roused himself as from sleep and left the tent.

  Outside, the promenade was dark, the vendors gone. As he passed the registration table, jacketed volunteers popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. The wine foamed and they bent forward, laughing, to catch it with upraised glasses. At the crest of the hill, he saw a long line of cars, turn signals on, waiting to exit the convent grounds. Where was Sarah? At last he doubled back toward the tent, then circled around to the rear, to the performers’ trailers, hoping that he would find her car still there. He saw her standing a few yards away, silhouetted in the light of one of the trailers. His heart beat faster as he approached.

  “That was quite a disappearing act,” he said. “Maybe you should consider working for the circus.” He tried to sound casual, at ease. Her eyes were bright when she turned to face him. “They’re drinking champagne at the registration table. I’d say that’s a good sign.”

  Whiting rolled onto the balls of his feet. “Sarah … I was wondering ….” She turned back toward the darkness and extended her arm in a gesture of entreaty. He stopped mid-sentence. The trapeze artist stepped out from the shadows.

  “Sam, this is Nikolai Zhultuscha.” She opened her hand in a gesture of presentation. “Nikolai, Father Sam Whiting.” She looked down at the ground. Whiting looked from Sarah to Nikolai. He was seized with embarrassment—and confusion. He stepped forward and shook the trapeze artist’s hand.

  “Your performance tonight was wonderful.” Nikolai nodded and offered a slight smile. “And such beautiful music … so ….” He struggled for what to say, then glanced back at Sarah who stood apart from them. “Heartbreaking.”

  “It was not intended to make you sad.” Nikolai spoke with a heavy accent. His expression was unreadable.

  “Your accent … it’s ….”

  “Russian.” The word hung in the air between them. Whiting looked over at Sarah, who watched Nikolai with undisguised interest. No one spoke. He wished that the trapeze artist would excuse himself so that he could talk with Sarah alone. He waited awkwardly for her to tell Nikolai goodnight, but she made no move to leave.

  “Kudos, kudos!” Mimi Schirmer sang out as she approached. Her husband and two other couples followed close behind. Whiting struggled to smile as he turned to greet them.

  “Kudos indeed!” Sarah stepped forward and the women embraced.

  She’s not glad to see them.

  “Didn’t I say it would be the best ever?” chirped Mimi.

  “It was extraordinary, wasn’t it?” Sarah cast a glance back toward Nikolai.

  “Now Sarah, dear, Rennie’s put some Dom Perignon on ice ….” She smiled appreciatively in his direction. “And we have cheese and crackers and lots of fruit.”

  “Mimi’s idea of a tailgate party.” Rennie shook his head in mock disapproval and placed his arm around his wife’s shoulder.

  “So you simply must join us.” She looked over at Whiting and Nikolai as if seeing them for the first time. “Please join us … there’s plenty to go around.”

  Nikolai took a step back. “Thank you, but no. I must check things in the tent.”

  Whiting’s heart squeezed as he saw Sarah’s stricken reaction. “I’m afraid I’ll also have to say goodnight,” he mumbled. “It’s been a very long week.” His chest ached.

  “Well, then, another time, Father,” said Rennie. He turned toward his party, “Ladies, shall we?” Mimi held Sarah’s arm and led the way.

  Whiting stood, stone-like, starin
g after them until they rounded the tent and passed from view. Without acknowledging Nikolai, he turned to go.

  “I hope your heart heals quickly.”

  Whiting turned back to the trapeze artist. “What did you say?”

  Nikolai offered a cool smile. “You said my performance was heartbreaking. I hope your heart heals and allows you to return for another visit.”

  Whiting nodded, turned without comment, and walked away.

  Sunlight flooded Whiting’s office and revealed a fine layer of dust on his lamp and credenza. He rocked listlessly in his desk chair, a cup of tea in his hands, as he stared out the window to the scene below. The morning was breezy and cool. With each new gust of wind, hundreds of white blossoms snowed from the ornamental pear trees that lined the street, cascaded along the gutters and filled the seams along the walk. He was so engrossed in the scene that he did not hear Sarah enter his office.

  “I looked for you at morning coffee.” She waited.

  “I needed to catch up on some things. I just had my tea here.” He had spent the weekend alone, unwilling to leave his apartment except for his Sunday morning trip to the chapel at the motherhouse. Earlier, during his regular six a.m. Mass at St. Margaret’s, his participation had been perfunctory, his demeanor, withdrawn, and when he got to work, he had deliberately avoided the cafeteria.

  Sarah took in his desk without interest. “Well, that’s boring, Sam.” She offered a child-like grin. She tossed a folder across his desk and sat down in his guest chair. “Besides, I desperately need to talk with you.”

  “Really? Desperately?” He thought ruefully of the scene behind the circus tent. He tried to sound neutral, but there was an edge to his voice.

  “Yes, really.” Sarah held his gaze until he looked away. His mind was a jumble. His emotions were raw, although he couldn’t fully admit this fact—or its cause.

  “What’s this?”

  “I’m trying to get one of the cable networks to pick up a summer circus camp for underprivileged kids. Take a look at the media kit.” Whiting made no move toward the folder. Sarah opened it and pulled out a photograph of the tightrope walker on the high wire with his wife and son perched on his shoulders.

  “How do they do that?” Whiting thought of Anjo and his family. They always sat in the rear of the chapel during Mass. Quiet, always polite. Yet they risked themselves—and their child—on the wire. He couldn’t understand it.

  “It’s incredibly dangerous. Did you know that their feet actually curl around the wire? That’s why they wear ballet slippers—so they can feel the wire and still keep enough flexibility.”

  “Anjo told you this?”

  “Actually, Nikolai told me.” Sarah’s cheeks colored. Whiting’s mood soured.

  “I thought you already had all the coverage Mother Frances wanted.”

  “I know. But I think the network might be interested.” She kept her eyes on the folder. “Besides, with the circus doing public performances we need some collateral interest stories to get the public’s attention. If I pitch it right, I see a series, kind of an after-school special about the circus. Promoting fitness and all that. Tie it in with the whole healthy living idea. Good for the hospital, good for the circus, good for the kids. Get it?”

  “Ironic to do a TV show about fitness, wouldn’t you say?” She gave him an assessing look, but didn’t reply. He was still wounded by her disappearance after the performance, but had no idea how to broach the subject and, in fact, wasn’t even sure what he might say.

  “Hey, about Friday night.” Whiting held his breath, his muscles tense with anticipation. “Thanks again for the rescue.” He exhaled and slumped in his chair slightly as Sarah continued. “Littleton is pushing the board to act, and the elephant handed him his argument.”

  “So it really was dangerous?”

  Sarah wrinkled her brow and let out a sigh. “Maybe. I don’t know. The elephant is pretty new to the troupe and it’s been unpredictable. We’re pulling it from the show. We have enough acts to fill the slot—and it certainly simplifies the animal situation.”

  What’s all this “we” stuff? She acts like she’s part of the circus. “What will happen to it?”

  “There’s talk we might retire it to a sanctuary in Tennessee.” Sarah was paging through her date book. “We don’t really know the animal’s history. It’s probably best for everyone concerned.”

  Whiting’s thoughts traveled back to the benefit performance, to the elephant and its handler, to the horses and riders, to Anjo and his wife on the high wire, and to Nikolai and Alyiana.

  “I don’t like circuses. They worry me.” Why did I say that? The performance had completely captivated him—until afterward.

  Sarah looked up. “Worry you? How?”

  “I worry about whether the animals are treated well. I worry that someone will fall. The smiles seem forced. I don’t know if the people are happy. You can’t trust what you see.”

  “Which people? The ones who come to the circus or the ones who work there?”

  “Everyone.” Whiting offered an apologetic smile.

  “The circus helps people forget their troubles. It always has.”

  “What worries me most,” he continued, warming to the topic, “are the animals. Because they can’t tell anyone if they’ve been abused, they can’t do anything about it if someone’s mean.”

  “The animals aren’t being mistreated.”

  “But what if they were?” He thought of the elephant again, of its handler’s anger when it wouldn’t perform. “How would we ever know?”

  “They’d look mistreated. Walk around where they’re kept. Believe me, the animals in this circus are well cared for. The circus is a happy place.” She closed her datebook and took up her files.

  “Hey, feel like a field trip?”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Massive fish kill.” He gave her a questioning look. “Somebody set the thermostat too high and all our fish died over the weekend. Luckily no patients have noticed. But the live channel has been trained on the yellow plastic diver all morning.”

  Whiting laughed and his mood lifted. Sarah seized on the change. “So help me pick out some fish. You’ll have to drive, though. My car is in the shop. But I’ll treat you to lunch.”

  The invitation delighted him and all thoughts of the circus vanished. Aside from the motherhouse and the circus, he had never seen Sarah away from the hospital.

  “Well, since you’re buying.” He tried not to act too eager. “So, what’s wrong with your car?”

  “Starter? Fuel pump? Who knows? But the dealer needs time to find something really expensive wrong with it.”

  “Why didn’t you call me for a ride to work? I would have been happy to help.”

  “The dealer gave me a ride to the office. And they said they’d pick me up when it’s ready.” A look of mock worry crossed her face. “Now that I think about it, that kind of service should indicate just how much it’s going to cost.”

  He glanced at his calendar as he got up to go. “Oh, wait. I can’t go. I have Parents’ Support Group at 11:30.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Maybe another day.” She stood and retrieved her press kit from his desk.

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” He didn’t want her to leave. “And you won’t even have to treat.”

  “Name the day.” She left his office without turning back.

  “Is it all right if I say the opening prayer, today, Father?” The question came from Carol, the mother of three sons, two of whom were chronically ill. Her oldest, five-year-old Eddie, suffered from asthma, and her middle child, three-year-old Benjamin, was an insulin-dependent diabetic.

  “Of course.” Whiting tried to hide his relief. The familiar fatigue he had experienced at early morning Mass had dogged him during his morning rounds and was still with him. He wished he could leave. He wished he were at lunch with Sarah. But since he had to stay, he decided serving as a comforting background presence wa
s the best that he could manage. Carol bowed her head, glanced up to be sure that the others were doing the same, then closed her eyes and began.

  “Dear heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us together today at St. Theresa’s.” Carol was in her thirties, but her voice could have belonged to a woman of seventy. Eyes closed, Whiting imagined a heavy-set grandmother in a dark cloth coat, hands clutching her handbag as she eyed strangers on a bus. He opened his eyes briefly and saw her as she really was: a brunette of average build, dressed in a navy blue sweater and creased jeans. A quilted nylon jacket, hot pink with bold purple trim, was draped over the back of her chair. He closed his eyes once again. “Thank you for your love and support. And thank you for our families. Help us, dear Father, to learn from one another and to gain strength from these meetings, so we can each go back and serve our families in a better way, as you see fit. And-dear-St.-Joseph-intercede-for-us-and-shine-your-fatherly-love-on-us-forever-Amen.” She added this last sentence in a rush as though she expected to be interrupted. St. Joseph was a favorite of hers and she mentioned him at every meeting.

  Whiting took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Who would like to begin?” He looked at each of the parents in turn and hoped that one of them—he didn’t care who—would lead out the discussion. No one spoke. At first, he thought he would simply wait them out, but as the silence continued it grew more oppressive. He decided he must offer some opening thoughts. As he took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, Carol interrupted.