Dancing with Gravity Page 20

  He picked up the dowel again and placed it on his open palm. “But if you focus on the right thing, if you respect gravity, and if you are not afraid, it forgets about you.” He held his palm out to the children as if presenting a great gift, and this time, the stick did not wobble. “Violá!” He bowed deeply—and his audience applauded.

  Their faces tense with hope and concentration, the children struggled to imitate what Nikolai had done so effortlessly. He played both teacher and clown as he passed before each one, laughing easily and beaming when a child succeeded—however briefly. The students smiled and blushed under his gaze. Whiting thought of Sarah—of the look on her face when she spoke about him at their lunch. His stomach burned, and his throat tightened. With a shake of his head, he pushed the image away.

  It was then that he caught sight of someone in his peripheral vision. Sarah stood a short distance away with a cameraman who recorded Nikolai’s presentation. Whiting could hardly believe he hadn’t seen her before. He looked back at the trapeze artist. It’s all a show, just another performance.

  He turned back to Sarah. She was radiant. Not only did she watch Nikolai, she absorbed him. She was smiling, but hers was not an expression of pleasure. Rather, it was tense, full of barely concealed—barely controlled—expectation.

  Now what? He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached as he fought the desire to storm up to Sarah. But what would I say? He looked back at Nikolai. He’s the one I should confront. Call him on his performance, on the smiles that are meant for the camera, not the children. Even if Sarah doesn’t see his falseness, even if the children don’t, I do.

  Whiting watched as Nikolai continued his performance, addressing the children as though there was no camera, no one watching from a distance. What do you think of Sarah, Nikolai? Do you want this publicity? Or is she the one who engineered everything? You must see her devotion. But what’s your game? Sarah said there was ‘something’ between them. What does ‘something’ mean, Nikolai? He hated himself for not getting specifics when he had the chance. ‘Building.’ That was her word. Things had been ‘building.’ Maybe it’s all on her side. The idea of her attraction to the trapeze artist was agonizing, but perhaps the relationship was all in her head, reflecting nothing more than her own desires. And if that’s the case, then what does that say about you, Nikolai? Are you using her?

  The idea intrigued Whiting and he studied Nikolai’s features more closely. Would most women find you attractive? He was dark and powerfully built, but he was not particularly handsome. And yet there was something about him—his ease. Confidence. He looked like a man with an intriguing, maybe even mysterious, past and his accent only added to the effect. There was a softness to his sentences, so that his words seemed to caress his listeners. Whiting thought back to how Dr. Lesstein used his native accent as a device to gain advantage over Sarah. Was Nikolai weaving that same spell—for a different effect?

  The class ended, and the teacher and students applauded. Nikolai bent to hug each child goodbye.

  “And cut,” said Sarah. She turned toward the cameraman who offered her a thumbs-up sign. “Great job, everybody! Let’s get some inserts.” She picked up a clipboard and made notes.

  Nikolai turned to where Whiting stood and offered him an embarrassed smile. Or is he squinting against the sun? The gesture surprised him and put him off balance. How long had Nikolai known I was there? Maybe he saw me as I came down the hill? The idea made him self-conscious. Nikolai continued to gaze in his direction. Or does he even see me? Whiting had no idea how to respond.

  “Sam! What are you doing here?” The question came from Sarah. Whiting ignored her as long as he dared. When at last he turned from Nikolai, she was almost upon him.

  “Well, this is quite a surprise,” she said. Color dotted her cheeks; he wondered whether it was her reaction to seeing him or because Nikolai was also present.

  “Actually it’s just a routine pastoral care visit. I had no idea I’d encounter a crowd.” Let’s make it clear that I didn’t come because you were here. If Sarah took his meaning, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she took his comment as an opening.

  “We’re doing a sort of dry run for the children’s camp. We’ve got kids from three different Catholic schools here for the day. The guys from the hospital’s Media Services are helping me collect footage for video news releases.”

  Whiting glanced at the camera.

  “Here, let me introduce you.” She turned back toward where the others waited. “Sam, this is Gregg, Bill, and Dan.” She gestured to each of them in turn. “Guys, this is Father Sam Whiting, head of Pastoral Care at the hospital.” She laughed. “Or do you already know each other?”

  “I’m sure we’ve crossed paths, but I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced,” Whiting said as he stepped forward to shake their hands. “I assume that’s because filming a circus has more allure than following chaplains on their rounds.” The crewmembers smiled and glanced at Sarah.

  “And you’ve already met Nikolai,” she added. Although he looked for it, Whiting saw no sign of intimacy between Sarah and the trapeze artist.

  “Yes, of course. The night of the benefit.” He struggled to sound polite. “And now I find that your skills are not only up in the air, but on the ground as well.” His remark was in reference to the class, but as soon as he’d spoken, he realized it might be construed as a reference to Sarah’s infatuation. The misstep flustered him.

  Nikolai offered a good-natured smile—a man acknowledging a friend’s witticism. “The circus requires many skills.”

  Nikolai offered a handshake. His skin was warm and calloused. Whiting wondered whether Sarah had told him about their lunch.

  “Where do you want to go next?” The question came from the cameraman. Sarah flipped the pages on her clipboard.

  “Our last location is the interior of the tent. We want B-roll of the gymnastics and some student testimonials.” She consulted her watch. “Go ahead and set up. We’ll meet you there in ten minutes.” The crew gathered up their equipment and headed toward the tent. Sarah turned back to Whiting.

  “It hasn’t been announced yet, but we’ve just arranged for Nikolai to direct the children’s circus camp.”

  “We?” There’s that ‘we’ again. Sarah acts as if she’s employed by the circus, not the hospital.

  “Nikolai and I … what I meant to say ….” She took a breath to collect her thoughts. “It’s been decided that a circus camp would offer a great summer option for kids in the area. And Nikolai has agreed to take it on.”

  Whiting turned to face the trapeze artist. “Director of the children’s camp? How do you manage it?”

  “How so?”

  Whiting suspected that he understood his meaning quite well, and he resented the ruse. “So many activities—so many claims on your time and talent. You must find it exhausting.”

  “These things are not the burden you imagine.” Nikolai offered a slight smile. “After all, I am a circus performer. This is what I do.” His cool delivery confused Whiting, who thought it was some sort of ploy. But why? To what end? “Besides, you also have become involved. A new experience for you—as you said at the blessing.”

  Whiting was sure that Sarah had told him about the expensive lunch.

  “I’ve got to get back to the tent,” added Nikolai. “I will leave you two to talk.” They watched in silence as Nikolai ascended the hill. Sarah turned back to Whiting.

  “I wish I had known you were coming.”

  “I didn’t realize I needed permission.” Surprise registered on her face. He had not intended such a sharp retort, but made no effort at a retraction.

  “Of course you don’t. It’s just that today ….” She gestured toward the school children on the hill. “I could have told you about the field trips, even helped you coordinate your visit.”

  “It turned out for the best,” he said. Of course she wants to cast herself in the role of gatekeeper. “It was interesting t
o see a different side of the circus—an unscripted side.”

  Sarah surveyed the classes sprinkled across the lawn. “Sure. It looks like fun and games—and it is. But you wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get these teachers to accept a field trip. First it was free bus service and lunch. Then t-shirts for the kids and the teachers. I even had to promise that everyone would get a photo keepsake to take home.” She laughed at her own story. “And all through it, I could never decide whether they were trying to protect their kids or if they were just too lazy to move out of their routines.”

  He nodded and smiled mechanically, but in fact he found her self-promotion irritating.

  “I swear, I’m starting to feel like one of the jugglers: first, keep the teachers happy. Then, make sure the kids have a great experience. Next, get terrific footage. Send it to the stations so they’ll have something to show, even though they don’t want to spend a dime on gas to send a reporter.” She mimed throwing pins into the air as she announced each of her accomplishments. She closed her eyes and bowed slightly as she laughed. He found her display embarrassing.

  Sarah continued with her story, but he hardly listened. Instead, he watched her and inventoried his reactions. Seeing her did not delight him as it once had, but if that was missing, so was the pain he’d experienced since their disastrous lunch. The change came as a revelation. He had been so filled with self-recrimination since that day that he hadn’t realized something fundamental had shifted inside him. I came here on my own. Not because she asked me to and not because I wanted to please her. I came because I wanted to. I don’t need to see this circus through her eyes. I can discover it for myself. A surge of relief—of power—flowed through him.

  Once he turned his attention away from his own reactions and back to Sarah, he was surprised to note her obvious nervousness. Even as she offered a rapid-fire litany of her dealings with the teachers, she kept checking his reactions, gauging approval she was suddenly not at all sure of receiving. The reversal in their roles so engrossed him that he scarcely paid attention to what she said.

  After a few more minutes, Whiting broke off their exchange and reminded her that the video crew waited in the tent. The pleasure he felt in taking control dissolved into ambivalence when he saw her confused and embarrassed reaction at being dismissed. She fumbled an invitation to join them in the tent for filming. The idea of watching Sarah and Nikolai together both intrigued and repelled him, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for more of that just yet. I need an excuse to leave. He checked his watch only to realize that he had been gone from the hospital much longer than he’d expected. He had a four o’clock meeting and was suddenly worried he would be late.

  “Sorry, I’m late for an appointment so I won’t be able to be part of your audience today.” That should make it clear she’s not the center of things anymore. He strode quickly up the hill as Sarah hurried to match his pace. They walked together as far as the circus tent before he turned and quickly drove away.

  Sarah responded to Whiting’s visit to the circus with tentative overtures of her own. The Monday following their encounter she stopped by his office to give him a freshly printed poster featuring the circus’s schedule of public performances. Two days after that, she sought him out as he ate lunch in the cafeteria.

  Even though Whiting had felt in control on the grounds of the circus, back at the hospital, his reaction to her overtures was less predictable. He had to force himself to appear cordial. Some days, he could barely resist a desire to cut their meetings short or to turn the other way when he saw her at the hospital. For the first time he noticed that she peppered her sentences with the same phrases so often that he could hardly listen to her without going away annoyed. Instead of seeking out her company, he actually found a certain sense of relief when someone interrupted their conversation.

  Then one day, to his surprise, he realized that his former self-consciousness had disappeared. In its place, a new reserve had taken hold. Often, as Sarah spoke, he wondered what he had ever seen in her. Why did I think she was so wonderful? There was no doubt she was attractive—very attractive. But her earlier radiance had somehow dimmed, at least that was the only way he could describe it. Is it her demeanor? Her eyes? That she’s always assessing an opportunity? He couldn’t pinpoint the difference, but it was undeniable. No matter how intently he studied her, he could not find it again.

  And where once he had been enthralled by her voice and her movements, now he was interested only in the information she had to offer. When previously he had dreaded her references to Nikolai, now, after seeing him with the children, Whiting wanted to know more. Something about the trapeze artist intrigued him—was so familiar, yet hard to grasp. He recognized Nikolai’s ability to charm an audience—and had seen the gift often when his mother performed. The warmth and ease, he knew, could be an act, but Nikolai had seemed sincere. He thought about his handshake, the calloused hand, so unlike his own and recalled how Nikolai had seemed to enjoy his presence even though he had probably seemed standoffish. He wanted to talk to me as much—no, more—than he wanted to talk with Sarah. He thought about Nikolai’s smile.

  At times, the scraps of information he gleaned from Sarah’s conversation were maddeningly incomplete or contradictory. Many of her stories exasperated him, and she often repeated exchanges that cast her in a positive light without revealing anything about how Nikolai had reacted. A record with a worn groove, Sarah could not get beyond her self-absorption. She framed every reference to Nikolai in terms of herself and, by implication, her deepening relationship with him.

  When Sarah’s circus anecdotes failed to include Nikolai, Whiting had to force himself not to ask about him. If I can resist my own impulses, if I can demonstrate just the right balance of interest and inattention, she will keep talking. At first she made only cursory references to Nikolai. But as she grew more comfortable, it appeared as though she could not say his name often enough—and Whiting could not hear it often enough.

  The Circus of the Little Flower held public performances on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings at seven o’clock. The schedule also included an additional show each Sunday afternoon at two. Whiting knew that Sarah attended most of the shows and so he avoided them. Instead, he hoped to see Nikolai at Mass. He looked for him every Sunday without success and even drove slowly by the tent on his way from the grounds in hopes of catching sight of him. But when Mother Frances sent a message to Whiting that priests from the missions would say Mass at the motherhouse for three weeks running, he made up his mind to return for another performance.

  At lunch the following Wednesday with Sarah, he announced his plans. Her expression telegraphed surprise—or something else, he could not be sure. She quickly recovered however, and even seemed pleased with the idea.

  “Attendance is better than we expected, so get there early. I’ll drop off a VIP parking pass at your office. And I’ll have a ticket waiting for you at the entrance tent.”

  Before retrieving Jerry for his Thursday radiation appointment, Whiting called his mother to tell her he was needed at a special meeting and had to cancel their Friday night supper. He kept their call brief—as much to maintain the illusion of his rushed scheduled as a defense against the disappointment he was sure Lillian felt. Their recent dinners had been pleasant, but Lillian always seemed overly worried about him. She constantly asked about his work, about his friends, and about how he filled his days. He wished she didn’t depend on him so much, that she had more friends of her own. I won’t tell her I’m going to the circus. I don’t want to have to answer any more of her questions. In fact, he was afraid she might ask to go. And although he was not sure what he hoped to find on his visit to the Little Flower Circus, he was certain he did not want Lillian there with him.

  Whiting left work early on Friday to shower and change before driving to the circus. He was surprised at how good he felt. He was, he admitted, a little anxious, but overall he felt confident, eager even.

&n
bsp; At the entrance to the grounds a vinyl banner—perhaps twenty feet across and mounted just above eye level—announced the circus in gold and black script across a bright red background. The sign itself wasn’t offensive, but he was surprised the sisters had consented to it. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He flipped on his blinker, waited for oncoming traffic to pass, and then turned towards the motherhouse.

  A woman in an olive green uniform and day-glo orange apron stood on the grass collecting money from a line of cars. Further up the hill, a man waved the cars forward with the intensity of someone guiding jets onto an aircraft carrier.

  Whiting stopped his car beside the female attendant. She wasn’t fat, but her slacks were too tight, and her pockets gaped on either side of her orange apron. He wondered whether she had recently gained weight or was wearing a man’s uniform that did not accommodate the female shape. As if she might answer his question, she stepped over to his car. She held a thick roll of dollar bills folded over her index finger. Her nails were long and painted the same fluorescent orange as her apron. Tiny green rhinestones were pasted onto each nail. The idea that she had coordinated her manicure to match her uniform made him smile.

  “Five dollars.” She wore no make-up and Whiting found her features slightly masculine but unremarkable. Her dishwater blonde hair was pulled back into a short, jagged ponytail. The overall effect was of a tough, tired appearance—much like a guard at a corrections facility.

  “I’m supposed to park free.” The attendant looked up. He felt that she was taking him in all at once, even though he couldn’t be sure that they had actually made eye contact. “I’m Father Samuel Whiting. I’m supposed to park at the top of the hill—VIP parking.” The woman leaned forward; her eyes swept the interior of his car.