Dancing with Gravity Page 2

  “Right. So what brings you back to St. Louis?”

  “I’m finishing my fifth book—this one on the mimetics of executive leadership in the boardroom and chancery. I’m here through the end of June, just getting away, making some minor changes my publisher thought would be helpful.”

  Whiting had no idea what Devinsky was talking about. “Actually, I’m calling for Jerry Stemple. Has he arrived yet?”

  Devinsky dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “I was shocked to hear the news. I still can’t believe it.”

  Whiting felt a flush of alarm. “What news? Has something happened?”

  “Surely you know about the cancer?” His tone was breathless, magisterial.

  “The cancer, yes. But has anything happened?”

  “I’d say that’s enough, wouldn’t you?”

  Whiting realized anew why he’d never particularly liked Devinsky. “Of course, it’s enough. I only meant ….”

  “Jerry’s getting radiation, you know. I thought that only chemotherapy made people sick, but he throws up for hours after his treatment. It’s really terrible.”

  Whiting held the phone so tightly that his knuckles blanched. Is this really only my first day back? He thought of the cancer patients he had visited on his hospital rounds. Some of them were so violently ill after treatment that he had no idea how they found the strength to go on. He tried to imagine his friend in the same condition, but his mind wouldn’t register the image.

  “When he isn’t sick, he’s sleeping. It’s a task getting him to eat anything.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  “He’s resting now. He has a treatment this afternoon, and I think he’s trying to save his strength.” Whiting tried to grasp what Devinsky was saying, but his mind rebelled against it.

  “How’s he getting to the hospital?” His own voice was little more than a whisper. He was afraid that he might cry.

  “We have a master schedule set up here in the kitchen. We all take turns. Would you like to take a day? We could use the help.”

  “Of course, of course.” Taking Jerry to the hospital seemed a ridiculously small gesture. Whiting wanted to do more.

  “Thursdays are difficult. Jerry’s appointments are always at one o’clock, and it seems that everyone has commitments then. Could you do that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The treatment goes pretty quickly, unless they’re backed up in radiation therapy. Then you can get stuck for an hour or more. But that’s rare, so don’t worry. Oh … and Sam, you’re going to have to plan on some extra time.”

  “I’m not sure I understand—time for what?”

  “You know … time to get Jerry to the car, into the hospital … things like that. He moves very slowly. Factor it in.”

  Whiting felt tightness in this throat; he wanted to speak with Jerry. He could not imagine his friend as Devinsky described him, and he wondered if the priest might be exaggerating.

  “I have to go now. I’ll tell Jerry you called. And I’ve got you down for Thursday. Don’t forget.”

  Whiting sat with the receiver pressed to his ear after he heard the line go dead. He placed two fingers above his heart and pushed down; it was tender to the touch.

  After talking to Devinsky, Whiting was unable to concentrate on his work. Jerry has cancer. Is he dying? What would I do if he were gone? Whiting fought his rising anxiety.

  “Don’t panic. Just give yourself a moment.” He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. “It’s difficult coming back to work after such a long absence, and today has been extraordinary. Anyone would have a hard time.”

  Whiting’s habit of talking to himself had begun in childhood, after his parents’ divorce. Left alone for long stretches, he had turned to these soliloquies for comfort when he found himself slipping into anxiety or sadness—two emotions that often hounded him.

  His was not a mind that conjured monsters under his bed or kidnappers at the door. Instead, he gave his attention to the reality before him: his mother’s declining career as an entertainer, his overwhelming sense of loneliness as they relocated—with ever-greater frequency—from one city to another in her search for work, and the realization—in spite of everything that Lillian Whiting said to the contrary—that his father would not magically reappear to care for him if anything should happen to her.

  His sense of isolation was so complete that when he recalled his childhood, he remembered it only as fragments without sound: a deserted train station at night, lengthening shadows on a brick wall across from their apartment building, sitting beside his mother in the back seat of a taxi, the lights from city streets illuminating the side of her face, the silence broken only by his own murmurs of reassurance.

  Whiting roused himself and called Sarah’s office. Her secretary told him—in a tone that skirted impatience—that Sarah was still out. He hung up the receiver and wondered what to do next.

  When he emerged from his office, Carla was still typing briskly at her keyboard. Is she writing her memoir? Is she writing about me?

  “I’m going to lunch now. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”

  She did not acknowledge him—a gesture that always upset him because it made him feel invisible. Of course, she’s still angry. Well, I’m not Baricevic. And that’s her problem, not mine. I’m not going to say or do anything that shows I even notice. He straightened his shoulders and crossed to the exit.

  “You didn’t move your magnet.”

  Whiting stopped. Carla continued typing. What is she talking about? For a moment, he considered leaving without turning around, but he knew that this would only make matters worse between them when he returned.

  “Did you say my magnet?”

  She stopped typing and stared at him over her half glasses. He couldn’t decide which was worse: being ignored or having her undivided attention.

  “Didn’t you read the memo I put on your desk?” She waited for an answer. His stomach tightened.

  “I’ve only made it through the first two weeks’ worth.” He paused. Carla’s right eyebrow twitched. “And I’ve been on the phone and writing.” She knows I’ve done almost nothing in the last few hours. Forcing a casual tone, he added, “Well, if it’s a memo, I’ll look for it after lunch.” He turned again toward the door.

  “You have to move your magnet before you go.” He stopped again.

  “No idea what you’re talking about.” His voice was high with frustration.

  “We have a new system.” She nodded to an oversized white board mounted on a far wall, above the department’s coffee pot. “It tracks where people go. What they do.”

  Whiting took in the board. The names of everyone in the department—eight staff members and two interns—were listed along the left side. Brightly colored pieces of plastic dotted In or Out boxes under a menu of possible activities. The columns along the top of the board were labeled for Meetings, Lunch, Group, Rounds, and Other.

  “Everybody has a magnet. Yours is orange.”

  “Who came up with this idea?”

  Carla leveled her gaze at him. “I did.”

  “Who authorized it?”

  “Father Baricevic gave the okay.”

  Whiting bristled. “Father Baricevic? Surely you didn’t ….”

  “It’s been on back-order for nine months,” Carla interrupted. “He approved it before he left.” Her nostrils flared with this last volley.

  “I think it’s unnecessary.”

  “We’ve been using it since the first week after you left. Everybody likes it.”

  Whiting crossed to the board and took up the toxic orange disk beside his name. It was his least favorite color, and he was sure Carla knew it and had deliberately assigned it to him. He read the list of activities across the top of the board, then ran his finger down the chart. Half-hour increments divided the day. He dropped his plastic disk, bent to retrieve it, clipped it on the corner of the coffee table, caught it in midair, and then near
ly threw it onto the board. It attached itself with a satisfying click. Fuming, he turned to face her.

  “It’s a simple system, really. But perhaps because you missed the in-service ….” She turned her attention back to her typing. He left the office without answering.

  Whiting needed comfort. And that meant food. Soups. Breads. Starches. Sugar. He made his way to the cafeteria, sure that he could smell cinnamon buns. The closer he got, the more crowded the hallway. Inside, a crush of visitors and employees milled among the serving stations with trays and flatware. The conflicting odors of pizza, fried fish, and the overcooked vegetables at the steam tables nauseated him. I need some place quiet. A breeze. Sunlight. Italy. Feeling cheated, he left the cafeteria, took the first exit to the outside, and emerged at the north end of the complex.

  St. Theresa’s Medical Center, in midtown St. Louis, was a corporate merger of three separate hospitals, which had been united through a series of administrative negotiations and fiscal obligations. Its buildings had been connected through interminable construction projects of awkward design and application. The names of the other facilities—like their boundaries—were long ago subsumed into the labyrinth now known as St. Theresa’s. The resulting complex included an 800-bed hospital, two wings of which had been converted for long-term rehabilitation patients; thirty-two subspecialty clinics; a shrinking maternity service; expanding pediatrics offerings; and a newly completed center for the study of geriatric medicine. A separate cancer building was on the architects’ agenda. The entire complex took up two city blocks and was surrounded by apartment buildings, many occupied by students and staff of St. Theresa’s. Beyond the apartments, less than a mile to the north, stood the inner-city campus of American Catholic University, which offered studies in the arts and sciences through the doctorate level, as well as schools of law and business. Also associated with the university, but located adjacent to St. Theresa’s, were the schools of allied health, dentistry, and medicine—the latter having earned a national reputation for its public health programs.

  Whiting walked at a clip. The air was cool, but the March sun and his activity kept him comfortable. He took long strides, swung his arms, and breathed deeply. To the west was a coffee plant. The aroma was distant and centering. He turned down the long block that bordered the south wing of the medical center and entered a small garden that the hospital maintained in a courtyard between buildings. A life-size statue of St. Francis of Assisi stood just inside the wrought iron gates. Year round, a variety of shrubs, flowers, and wild grasses filled the space. In warmer weather, employees of the medical center often filled the eight benches that lined the path through the garden. Here they would eat their lunches or read their books and magazines to take back their lives.

  He followed a path bordered with pale yellow daffodils to the center of the garden. A three-tiered copper birdbath, donated by the Ladies’ Auxiliary of St. Theresa, was still shrouded beneath a black plastic tarp to guard against a late freeze. Whiting eyed the morbid casing and thought of his brief trip to Florence at the conclusion of his conference. The sky had been so spectacularly blue. Closing his eyes, he once again felt bathed in the Italian light. A sudden pang of sadness seized him: his visit to Florence had been intended as a rest, but it had just the opposite effect. I’m glad I’m away from there. Yet, he felt himself a stranger here.

  I’m going to tell Sarah about Italy—about the things I saw, all that I experienced. She’ll understand. Carla wouldn’t—or couldn’t. Besides, she resents me. Although he knew he could not fully express how the trip had affected him, he needed to tell someone. And I’ll tell Sarah about the argument in the boardroom. She’ll be delighted by the news. He smiled to himself as he realized that she would probably even know what caused the confrontation. I’ll tell her about Jerry, too. She had never met him, but Whiting had spoken of him often.

  Sarah was the only person he confided in at St. Theresa’s. Aside from his friendship with Stemple, closeness eluded him. He told himself that this was because of the demands of his vocation. Still, he worried that his isolation was the result of something deeper, something in his character that did not inspire intimacy in others. He shook his head. These were not possibilities he wanted to consider.

  He hurried toward the nearest hospital entrance. With each step, he lost confidence about confiding in Sarah. I can share the facts, of course, but what if she doesn’t understand how important these things are to me? Being misunderstood seemed worse than having no one to tell.

  Once inside, he followed the maze of corridors that crisscrossed the buildings. As he walked, he ticked off the former names of the now-indistinguishable structures: Maternity Hospital, Jenkins Mental Health Hospital, Klondike School of Pharmacy, and the Everett Pavilion, a short-term residence for patients’ families.

  He rounded corners quickly, arrived at Public Relations and pushed the door. Inside, he stopped short, his greeting caught on the intake of breath: Sarah’s door was open, but her office was dark.

  “May I help you, Father?” The department receptionist, a fleshy brunette named Tina, addressed him.

  Through a series of what Whiting considered truly misguided design decisions, the receptionist’s desk sat three steps down from the rest of the office and was surrounded by a low, gray-walled cubicle. Seeing it always reminded him of a hostage situation. The effect was underscored by the room’s low lighting—another design choice—made in deference to the department’s aquarium of exotic fish. The long tank seemed a design afterthought. Intended as a calming influence, Whiting found it disturbing. The tank’s tiny captives were broadcast live throughout the medical center. The staff called it “Fish TV.”

  “Is Sarah still in her meeting?” His voice betrayed his disappointment. The receptionist blinked.

  “Her meeting ended about half an hour ago, but she had to rush to another appointment. Outside the hospital.”

  “Did you let her know that I called?”

  “I put all her messages on her desk, but I can’t say whether she saw them. She was in a hurry. I didn’t realize it was urgent.”

  Whiting regretted coming. He knew that he had called too much attention to himself. “Urgent? Oh no. Nothing like that.” He forced a smile to underscore his response, waving away any importance.

  “Can anyone else in the department help you, Father?”

  “Thank you. Just tell her I came by, please. What time do you expect her back?”

  “She didn’t say. But when she returns, I’ll be sure to tell her you stopped by.”

  Whiting wanted to leave a note on Sarah’s desk, but he worried that the receptionist might be hurt or offended if she thought he didn’t trust her to deliver his message. Besides, he was sure that she would immediately read it once he was gone. He studied the fish hiding in the sunken castle as he tried to decide what to do.

  “Father, is there someone else who can help you?”

  She wants me to leave. He didn’t want to prolong his visit, but he really felt the need to leave a message for Sarah. Now that the idea had occurred to him, it was nearly irresistible. He stared back at the receptionist. The gurgling of the aquarium was the only sound between them. He wished he could appear more casual, so she wouldn’t think about him any longer. The moment was growing uncomfortable for them both, but he couldn’t think of anything to say to ease the situation.

  “Father, if Sarah calls in, I’ll tell her you asked to see her. Would you like her to phone you if she does?”

  “It’s nothing that can’t wait until she’s back at the hospital … really.” He cast a parting glance at Sarah’s office as he left. Sure that the receptionist was still watching as the door slowly closed behind him, he turned down the nearest hallway and hurried out of her line of sight.

  Whiting stopped in the corridor and leaned against the wall, out of the way of traffic. Now what? He thought of the stacks of mail in his office and the calls to be returned. He imagined Carla typing as if possessed, her f
ingernails clattering on the keys. He couldn’t go back to Pastoral Care. Not yet.

  It was nearly one o’clock. His walk had revived his appetite and his stomach growled. Breakfast had been hurried and meager and now he was ravenous. But the idea of going back to the cafeteria held no appeal either. A snack then. Just a little something to tide me over so I can get back to work. Whiting turned left at the next corridor and took a serpentine route back to the hospital’s gift shop.

  He glanced at the shelves of cookies as he made his way to the candy display and picked up a Mr. Goodbar. His favorite. As he waited to pay, he calculated that it had been nearly two months since he had last eaten one—even before his trip to Rome. The idea made him hungrier still, and he got out of line and went back for another.

  As soon as he had paid, he slipped one bar into his pocket, and tore the wrapper off the other. He broke off two rectangles. It tasted better than he’d remembered. It surpassed satisfaction—it comforted him.

  He ate the candy quickly as he walked and threw the wrapper in a trash bin just outside Pastoral Care. I’ll go directly into my office, close the door, and eat the second bar slowly. Then I’ll review my mail. He took a deep breath and pushed the door.

  Carla was on the phone, speaking in an excited whisper when Whiting entered the office. Her face was flushed. She hung up quickly when she saw him.

  “Mother Frances called you from the motherhouse. She wants to see you at once.” Carla was breathless. This was news.

  “When did she call?” He tried to stay calm.

  “About forty minutes ago. I said you were at lunch. I put her on hold and had you paged in the cafeteria, but you never answered.” She sniffed after this last sentence. “Finally, I had to tell her I didn’t know where you were.” Her eyes narrowed. “She said she wants to see you this afternoon. At the motherhouse.”

  Whiting closed his eyes. He knew he was being summoned. This is about the boardroom incident. She wants to know what I heard. He turned toward his door but stood in place. With a second deep breath, he collected himself, went into his office and closed the door. Once inside, he fought to contain a feeling of foreboding. He needed a routine, a task. He cleaned his teacup and placed it on a folded paper towel on his credenza. He rearranged his basket of teabags alphabetically: Apricot Chamomile, Green, Irish Breakfast …. He polished his small teaspoon, a commemorative item from his ordination.