Dancing with Gravity Page 19

  “I wasn’t referring to work.”

  “Neither was I.” Her neck and cheeks colored. He wondered whether it was a reaction to the liquor.

  “Oh?” He took a sip of his water to cover his keen interest in what she had to say. She looked past him, toward the window. He studied the line of her jaw, the graceful curve of her neck.

  “When I look back on everything that’s happened this year ….” Her voice trailed off. Then, as if remembering her point, she looked up at him and continued. “Would you believe me if I told you that these last months have been the happiest of my entire life?”

  Whiting’s heart beat faster. “It means a great deal to me to hear that.” He wanted to interrupt her and tell her that he felt the same way, but he also luxuriated in hearing her confession. “And, I admit, I’ve noticed the change in you.” Can this really be happening?

  “Really?” She lowered her head. “I had no idea I was so obvious.” Her reaction enthralled him.

  “Please … don’t be embarrassed.”

  “I was so nervous about seeing you after the performance Friday.”

  Whiting leaned forward. He looked at her hand. What would she do if I touched it? “Why would you ever be nervous around me?” He scarcely breathed as he waited to hear her answer.

  Sarah took another sip of wine. “Well, I didn’t know what you would think, but I suppose it’s obvious, you know, that Nikolai and I ….” She kept her eyes trained on her wine glass as she spoke. “That there’s something between us.”

  Whiting was lost. He frowned his confusion and felt his senses dull.

  “I wanted to tell you. In fact, I started to do it a hundred times or more. But I was afraid of how you’d react, that maybe you’d disapprove.”

  “I … I had no idea.” His face was a wound of embarrassment. He heard his voice as at a distance.

  “Well that’s good.” She glanced up quickly. “We’ve been trying to keep things low key.”

  “So he knows?”

  “What do you mean?” She shook her head to dismiss his question. “Of course he knows, Sam. We’re seeing each other.”

  “How long?” He did not want her to say any more, and yet, he could not stop himself from asking.

  “The attraction was immediate. There was something there right from the beginning.”

  Whiting nodded. His eyes stung. How could I not have known this?

  “It’s been building steadily ever since.”

  “Building?” His mind was a jumble. Perhaps he’d misunderstood.

  “You know.” She smiled coyly. “Or, maybe you don’t.” She started as if to take back her comment. “What I mean is ….”

  He raised two fingers from his wine glass to stop her. “And no one knows?”

  “No one at the hospital. But you can’t keep a secret like that among the circus troupe.”

  Whiting thought of the performers. Their solemn faces and shy smiles at Mass now seemed treacherous. His stomach burned.

  “Do the sisters know?” The weight of what Sarah was telling him was sinking in.

  “Of course not.” She gave an exaggerated frown.

  “Why keep it a secret?” He struggled to maintain an even tone, but anger at his wounded ego rose up within him.

  “Politics. Way too volatile.”

  “But if this is serious—” He wanted to dismiss whatever she had to say.

  “It is.” She cut him off. “Look, you know what’s going on. This would only complicate things.”

  “Would complicate things? I’d say you’ve done that already.” I have to get out of here.

  The waiter placed their check on the table, and then stepped away. Whiting called him back; he couldn’t be alone with her one minute longer. His hands were trembling as he opened the leather folder that contained his bill. Ninety-six dollars—and that didn’t include the tip.

  Whiting stood in pained silence as they waited for the valet to retrieve his car. He could not even look at her. I’ve made a fool of myself—I’m sure she knows it. He thought back to the past weeks, to their meetings and phone calls, and her visits to his office. A small groan escaped from his throat.

  “Did you say something?” she asked. The attendant arrived with his car.

  “It’s here.” He moved quickly. The valet held Sarah’s door as Whiting hurried behind the wheel. After they had pulled away, he realized that the Bach was playing in his cassette deck. He snapped off the sound and turned toward the highway.

  They drove back to the hospital in silence. By the time they reached the parking lot, his desire to be rid of her was overwhelming. I need time alone, to think over what she said, what she’s done to me. No. What I’ve done to myself. A wave of anxiety passed over him. He had spent far more on lunch than he had anticipated. You are such a fool! What did you expect? Oh, God, you are pathetic!

  The parking lot was jammed; he drove up and down the rows without finding a space. Parking was expensive and in short supply at the medical center, and it was well known that many of the medical residents sold their parking cards and then claimed they had lost them. Even with the fee for a replacement card, they usually made at least two hundred dollars on each sale. As a result, the cars with access to the lot far exceeded the number of spaces. When the situation became untenable, the hospital’s Human Resources department reissued new cards, effectively locking the illegal buyers out of the lot. Parking would improve for a few months only, until the illicit sales began again.

  “Damn those residents!” He had never before shown such ill temper in her presence.

  “Looks like we’ll be getting new parking cards soon.”

  “I wonder what would happen if they showed even half as much energy and resourcefulness toward their patients?” He sped to the end of the row and made a sharp turn down the next aisle. “I’m sick and tired of their sense of entitlement.”

  “Maybe that’s considered a plus in the selection process.”

  Whiting did not acknowledge her remark. After circling through the lot and finding no place to park, he pulled up at the hospital entrance and stopped.

  “Go on in … this may take a while.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “No … really. We’re both busy. This is my problem.”

  She gave him an assessing look, and then opened her door. “Thank you for a lovely lunch.”

  “You’re welcome.” It was all he could do to look in her direction.

  “And thanks for listening. I hope I haven’t shocked you.” She offered a questioning smile. The gesture rang false.

  “Not at all.” He wanted her out of his car.

  She came around to his window. “We’ll talk later this week.”

  He nodded but only stared through the windshield as if studying the parking lot. As soon as she turned toward the building, he sped away. As he approached the lot’s exit lane, it took all of his will not to leave the hospital.

  Whiting avoided Sarah for the next week, a task made easier because, either from work or intuition, she never attempted to see him. But that didn’t matter. She was constantly in his mind—alternately a source of pain, resentment, or complete and total mortification.

  His self-imposed isolation did nothing to assuage the hurt and humiliation that wrapped him like a blanket on a hot, humid day. He went through his work routines as if by rote, and he kept his appointments with Jerry and Lillian, even though he resented both obligations. Although they both commented on his dark mood, he put them off with weak excuses that did nothing to satisfy their questions and much to stoke their suspicions.

  Whiting obsessively replayed every moment of the disastrous, ridiculously expensive lunch. But there was no going back. He now saw his life in stark terms—before the lunch and after it. Sarah had torn him from his previous existence and now there was nothing to hold him up, nothing to support or comfort him, no corner in which he might find solace—or peace. He thought ruefully of her offer to attend Mass and help him get
better acquainted with the performers. I was so easily taken. How could I have been so stupid? He considered asking Mother Frances to relieve him of his circus duties, but his courage faltered. Of course she’ll want to know the reason. And what will I say? How can I possibly explain my actions? Since he could not bear to examine them—indeed, refused to examine them—he did not understand them himself.

  The first prayer Whiting had learned from his mother was the Our Father. Even as a child he loved the sense of protection he took from each recitation. Throughout his life, when sadness or anxiety wore down his spirit, he turned to the prayer for comfort.

  But prayer was useless to him now. His heart was scalded. And he could not bring himself to admit the reason or to turn to God in his suffering. Without the reassurance of prayer, his misery increased and a cold, hollow emptiness filled his chest. I cannot confess to Jerry. I cannot talk to my mother. I am alone.

  His days lost their shape. Hours crawled or sped by. He couldn’t focus. His inability to pray persisted, or he suspected it did. But, in fact, he had stopped trying. And this too occurred without his full awareness—the way a swimmer, gradually entering an undertow, might be carried out to sea.

  Not knowing where to turn, he settled on the closest thing at hand—his desk. There, sitting unopened was his folder for the Little Flower Circus. I should get to know the performers, put names to the faces I see at Sunday Mass. He decided he would visit the circus again as soon as possible—this time, on a weekday. It’s important to be more accessible.

  Whiting checked his schedule and blocked out the time with a large X, then sat back to plan his approach. I will reinvent myself. Go alone. I’ll walk into the tent. Maybe two or three performers will be in there rehearsing. I’ll take a seat on one of the benches just outside the ring. We’ll talk as they work. It was all in his mind’s eye: their surprise as they caught sight of him, their warm exchange.

  His decision was final—made with the resolve of someone making New Year’s resolutions. If I don’t involve the sisters, then Sarah won’t have any information about me. I don’t need her. And I don’t need the sisters either. He paused to consider how the nuns might react to his plan. It doesn’t matter. Better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

  But what if they aren’t there? What if they’re not in the tent? He considered the possibility. I’m certainly not going to the motherhouse to look for them. A new idea presented itself: perhaps they wouldn’t be at the motherhouse after all. Maybe they’ll be in their trailers. How will they react? I make rounds each day in the hospital, but that’s different—I’m not going into someone’s home, uninvited, unexpected. Will they be glad to see me? Or will they feel I’m intruding? He pictured himself knocking at each door. Being invited in for tea and conversation. Hearing stories about their adventures. He decided that even if he didn’t see all the performers, it would be worth the visit. Even if I only have a chance to talk to two or three, it will be a start. Just a conversation with Anjo, the tightrope walker, or one of the clowns, or with the acrobats. Or with Nikolai.

  Whiting watched impatiently as the parents in his group counseling session wiped away tears and hugged each other. It had been another emotional meeting, and the members were slow to leave. He checked his watch. Carla, who he knew went to lunch precisely at noon every day, would already be gone. He ushered stragglers toward the door, and as soon as the last parents disappeared down the hall, he flipped off the light and took the steps down to his office two at a time. He hurried in, moved his magnet to Other, and left the building. It was only after he turned onto the highway that he felt he had really slipped away without anyone having noticed.

  But once he drove onto the grounds of the motherhouse, he was disconcerted to see three school buses and several cars parked on the grass below the tent. I hope this isn’t some publicity stunt that Sarah arranged. He checked the parking lot for her car, but didn’t see it. He considered returning to the hospital, but the idea made him miserable. No. This is fine. So what if she’s here? I have every right to be here, too. Besides, with the school children here too, my presence will be less obvious. He parked at the end of the row and headed to the tent.

  Whiting stopped at the crest of the hill to take in the scene. Children clustered around the performers in small groups that dotted the slope and extended to the field below. A few women sat on lawn chairs facing the activities. They carried on a lively conversation as they passed snacks to one another. Probably parents or teachers. He noted them at a distance, and then ducked inside the tent.

  It was as noisy as a gymnasium. The performers stood at intervals along two rows of red mats that crossed the ring. Lines of children waited their turns to practice somersaults and mid-air flips. Overhead, two men adjusted rigging and shouted questions and instructions to one another as they worked.

  Whiting introduced himself to three women who sat nearby. They told him they were teachers from St. Stephen’s and St. Matthew’s grade schools—two of the three schools on a daylong field trip. He moved far enough away to discourage conversation and turned his attention to the ring.

  One of the performers blew a whistle and called to the children who lined up along the first row of mats. At another burst from a whistle, six of the circus children—dressed in matching red tights and leotards—hurtled from the curtained entranceway and exploded in a succession of cartwheels, forward rolls, handsprings, and flips, stopping just inches from the end of the mats. The scene was an exuberant riot of joy, legs, arms, and swirls of color.

  Two roustabouts pulled a trampoline into the ring. The circus children took turns catapulting from the trampoline: back flips, side flips, and forward somersaults. The school children watched with great intensity. It looked so easy. They could barely contain their energy.

  The young performers joined the spotters along the mats as the school children returned to their places. The circus acrobats joined hands to form a brace and, one by one, helped the school children into back flips. They offered loud whoops as each child leaned back, turned feet over head, and returned to a standing position. The teachers applauded and cheered from the stands.

  Near the base of the ring, closest to where Whiting sat, a girl of about ten moved unsteadily across a cable suspended two feet above the ground. She held the hand of one of the acrobats, who walked beside the wire. One of the circus children hopped onto a balance beam at the other end of the ring. Whiting could hardly believe her confidence as she stepped forward, then back, and moved into a handstand on the beam. He studied the faces of the schoolgirls who stood nearby. They want to be just like her; you can see it.

  Anjo, the tight rope walker, entered the tent and formed a one-man parade as he passed before the stands. He waved and smiled. When he noticed Whiting, he made his way over to where he sat. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the day’s events, and then he rose to leave.

  “I’d like to stay and talk, but I’ve got to warn everybody that you’re here. They’ll want to be on their best behavior.”

  Whiting offered an appreciative grin, but the comment grated. The gymnastics training, with its whoops and clapping, distracted him. The activity overwhelmed and irritated, too. This was not why he had come. As soon as Anjo passed behind the curtain, he seized the chance to slip out of the tent.

  On the hill outside, the performers led groups of school children through various circus skills. Whiting worked his way down the slope, exchanging greetings as he went. Sophie, one of the acrobats in the equestrian act, interrupted her instructions to introduce him to the six boys and girls in her trampoline class. She then led each child through a short routine. Whiting lingered, then applauded appreciatively.

  Further down, he watched as Moleiro, another acrobat, led instructions in juggling.

  “Throw the ball to eye level. Once you choose a height, throw every ball the same height. Rhythm is everything.” The acrobat tossed three balls into the air in rapid succession. “Each throw is just a flick
of the wrist. Keep your shoulders relaxed.” The children watched intently, the joy on their faces unmistakable; their wonder, enviable.

  Next, Whiting stopped in on a session—it seemed more a performance than a class—with Joseph and Leah, a married couple whose clown act incorporated half a dozen small dogs. The clowns took turns stealing a rubber chicken from one another, only to have it stolen by one of their terriers. The dogs tossed the chicken back and forth like football players passing on a field, then lay on top of it to hide it from the clowns. The children howled with laughter as Leah scowled and searched among the boys and girls for the missing fowl. I remember what this was like. Whiting thought back to his mother’s performances and the delight of the children she entertained.

  He stopped near the bottom of the hill and tried to decide where to go next. His gaze fell on Nikolai, who stood beneath a white canopy at a distance from the other groups. A dozen children gathered in a semi-circle in front of him. Whiting drew closer.

  “We cannot escape gravity.” Nikolai took an apple from his pocket and raised his right arm above his head. “Everything falls.” He dropped the apple and caught it in his other hand without looking. He offered an exaggerated smile and tossed the apple to one of the boys. Whiting could hardly believe the aerialist’s relaxed delivery. Each time he thought of him—and he had done so many times since his lunch with Sarah—he remembered his magnetic intensity: the way he caressed his partner during the benefit performance, and later, when he stepped from the shadows behind the trailers. Whiting forced the images from his mind—he wanted nothing to distract him as he watched Nikolai now.

  “So we must find a way to dance with gravity.” Nikolai picked up a long dowel, at least the length of a yardstick. “Balance.” He placed the dowel on his open palm, end up. “When you balance an object, focus only on the top of it.” The stick wobbled. Whiting thought it might topple, but Nikolai adjusted his hand and the stick stayed upright. “If you focus on the wrong thing, gravity will find out. If you are too confident, if you don’t respect gravity, it will find out. And if you focus too much—if you are afraid of the fall—gravity will know.” As he said this, he let the stick tip out of his palm and caught it with his other hand. “Just a mistake. Nothing bad happens.”