Dancing with Gravity Read online

  “You’re supposed to have a card on your dash.” Whiting suddenly realized that he had left the parking pass in his briefcase at home. Rather than blame himself, he felt a surge of anger at Sarah, as though she was the one responsible for the oversight.

  “Do you mean my parking pass for the hospital?” He pointed to the blue vinyl disk that hung from his rear-view mirror. He knew what she meant, but he decided he was not going to give in.

  “Nope.”

  Whiting thought she was being deliberately difficult. He decided to press the point. “All I know is that Sarah James in Public Relations arranged it. And I’m supposed to park for free.” He sought a tone both confident and irritated. “I work with the circus.” The attendant studied him a few moments in silence then took a step back, and called to her coworker.

  “Coming through.” She walked past him to the next car without speaking to him again.

  Whiting parked and walked toward the tent. Calliope music played in the distance, and he felt the same rush of excitement that he remembered from the first performance. When he crested the hill, however, he found the scene very different from the benefit performance weeks earlier. The sky was overcast and growing dark. Already the temperature was noticeably cooler. St. Louis was experiencing a mild and rainy spring and forecasters were predicting an unusually cool and wet summer ahead. The strolling performers and vendors who had lined the promenade were absent. The promenade, too, had disappeared, as had the supper tent. Gone were the effete, precious straw boaters and pastel dresses. In their place: baseball caps, jeans, and t-shirts.

  He picked up the ticket Sarah had reserved for him and glanced again in the direction of the absent supper pavilion. His stomach growled. Now, his dinner selection ranged from salty, charred hotdogs to popcorn and cheese-drenched nachos. He headed toward the smaller entrance tent. Gone were the twinkling lights that crossed its ceiling that first night, and in their place, a string of small, bare bulbs. Long folding tables lined two walls. Behind them stood gleaming machines to make popcorn, cotton candy and sno-cones. Hotdogs rolled on steel tubes. Tanks for soft drinks were strapped together on the grass. At the far end of the tent, candy bars, boxes of popcorn, and bags of pink cotton candy stood in neat rows. Two teenage girls, acrobats from the circus, filled paper cups with soft drinks and arranged them in a line on the table beside the snacks. They wore heavy theatrical make-up—grotesque on their still-chubby faces—and false eyelashes so thick they seemed to have trouble opening their eyes. Each girl’s hair was styled in elaborate ringlets.

  The straps from their costumes showed beneath their thin, flowered dressing gowns. Their form-fitting costumes accentuated their chunky legs. Whiting tried to imagine what they would look like in the years to come. Their legs and thick bodies made him think they would not age well. He imagined them at fifty, sitting on couches and watching television, having progressed to enormous proportions—like circus Smurfs. If they mentioned their youth spent in the circus, would anyone believe them? One of the girls came around to the front of the table to rearrange the cups of soda. A flesh-colored bandage was wrapped around her ankle, beneath her tights. She looked up and nodded at him. It was unsettling to see the performers serving refreshments in their costumes, and he offered only a brief greeting as he passed.

  A second table, covered in red-checked oilcloth, held large, uncovered dishes of minced onions and nuclear green relish, squeeze-bottles of mustard and ketchup. At the sno-cone machine a few steps away, the mother of one of the horseback riders poured blue and pink syrup over shaved ice. She held the cup out with a sour expression, then got to work on a second one. She spoke as little as possible to each customer, but her manner was not abrupt. He reconsidered her expression. Perhaps she’s not angry, but unhappy.

  After buying himself a hotdog and soda, he dressed it at the condiments table. The tent was growing more crowded as people stood in line for tickets and refreshments. He didn’t want to go into the main tent yet, and so he went back outside to eat.

  One of the acrobats performed card tricks and kept up a steady patter with a small group that stood to watch. None of the other performers were in sight. Whiting walked a short distance down the hill, then turned and made his way back, avoiding the rear of the tent where the performers kept their vehicles.

  He bought another cup of soda and a box of popcorn. He wanted a second hotdog, but told himself he could have one if he was still hungry at the intermission. Treats in hand, he straightened his shoulders and passed into the main tent.

  Most of the bleachers were filled. The ringside folding chairs of the gala performance had been replaced with two tiers of benches. Whiting silently criticized himself for not taking his seat earlier. He circled the ring twice, looking for a place to sit. His anxiety increased as more people arrived. Each time he started for an open space it seemed that someone sat down before him. Embarrassed, he edged to the end of the walkway, by the bandbox, as he scanned the bleachers.

  “You look like a man without a country.” It was Sarah, speaking to him from the ring, just behind the bandbox.

  “More importantly, I seem to be a man without a seat.” He shrugged, hoping to mask the anxiety he felt about his predicament.

  “I can’t promise a seat, exactly, but I can get you the most exciting view in the house. Come with me.” She turned toward the curtain, then stopped to see him still standing there “Come on, Sam.” Sarah took his soda and popcorn. “Don’t be timid.” Whiting looked quickly around to take in the audience, then held onto the railing as he jumped down to the ring. He could hardly contain his pleasure.

  Sarah handed back his soda and popcorn, then passed beside the grandstand. She pulled back a tent flap and motioned for him to follow. There was a rush of cool air when he passed through, and he realized, with mild surprise, how warm the now-crowded tent had become. The entrance music and noises of the crowd behind him, the peace of the evening took hold. There was the sound of horses’ hooves on gravel. He followed Sarah around the back of the tent and saw the performers rushing back and forth, checking props, or practicing moves. A few looked up—their expressions unreadable—when Sarah and Whiting approached. Even though he recognized many of them from Mass, seeing them in their costumes made him withdraw. This is a bad idea. I am an intruder.

  “Perhaps I should go. I think I’ll only be in the way.”

  Sarah grabbed his arm as he turned back. “Stay here.” She positioned him in a corner at the curtain’s edge. The curtain muffled the footfalls on the aluminum stands, which had been so loud when he stood at the base of the bleachers.

  He turned to watch the performers behind him. Veronica stood with two other acrobats and made final adjustments to her costume. Bablo the juggler took inventory of a wheelbarrow of props that included clubs, balls, rings, and plates. Several children in tights and satin costumes stood in a small circle. They spoke in low tones and kept their eyes trained on the curtain. Seeing the tension among the performers was like watching a rope strain under weight. Whiting pressed himself closer to the wall and watched them from the shadows. He had delivered Mass to these people for weeks, but watching them now, they seemed a breed apart. Exotic. Transformed.

  A frenzied overture cued the start of the performance. The curtains parted and a dozen acrobats barreled headlong into the ring. Whiting pressed closer to the wall, his breathing shallow. The curtains closed. He stretched to see the action through the panels. He could see the bright spotlights that shone on the performers during their acts. Beyond the lights, he saw some vague movement—a splash of color, but the grandstand was too dark to see the audience well. The crowd applauded. He shifted back and forth as he tried to get a better view.

  The curtains opened again and the acrobats rushed backstage. As soon as they were in the darkened tunnel they bent over and gasped for air. Joseph and Leah hurried toward the ring with their dogs.

  A rider urged four horses forward in the tunnel. The acrobats who formed the pyramid dur
ing the equestrian act took their places on the animals’ broad rumps. The horses fought the reins in their excitement, ready to be released.

  Whiting felt that he was seeing two performances at once. Behind him was the hidden world of the darkened tunnel—all tension and whispers. Before him, visible only as a fragment, was the show in the tent—all noise and light. The two experiences confused him and made him light headed. He almost swooned, and he wished he had a chair.

  As the performance continued, he lost track of what was happening beyond the curtain as people, animals, and props streamed past. Once, just as he was about to lean on an oversized cylinder, one of the roustabouts wrestled it forward and rolled it into the ring as though Whiting had not been there at all. The performers were drenched in sweat when they returned to the tunnel. Their exertion came as a revelation. He was experiencing an entirely new circus, a performance almost completely removed from the one he’d seen weeks earlier.

  In an effort to orient himself, he pulled the program from his jacket and stepped closer to the light. The tightrope was next. As if reading the program provided the cue, Anjo, Rose, and their son appeared beside him. Whiting smiled at them, but they were oblivious to his presence. The music switched to a dramatic fanfare. Anjo took a deep breath and raised his head, then strode into the ring, his family close behind.

  After the tightrope act, the lights came up for intermission. Whiting was over-stimulated and very hungry. A second sandwich. He made his way to the concession tent, but found long lines that hardly seemed to move. When at last he made it to the front, the band began to play. He really wanted another hotdog, but settled on an ice-cream sandwich, which he decided he could eat more quickly.

  The music transitioned to a waltz. Children and adults rushed from the portable restrooms and hurried into the tent. Whiting took his ice cream and stepped over to the trash barrel to unwrap it. The wafer stuck to the paper so that each time he lifted a piece of the wrapper, it tore. Tiny strips stuck to his fingers. Ice cream dripped down his hands; he leaned over the trashcan to avoid dripping anything on his jacket. He tasted paper and spit it out. As he unwound the sandwich, a large chunk broke off and fell into the barrel. He tossed the remainder into the can in disgust and looked around for a napkin or water to rinse his hands.

  “Don’t waste your appetite on ice-cream. I’ve got a better idea.” Sarah handed him a wad of paper napkins.

  Whiting cast a last glance at the ruined dessert. The sight of Sarah, by association, annoyed him. “I’m interested … as long as I don’t have to feed myself.”

  “There’s a party after tonight’s performance. It would be great if you could stay.”

  The ice-cream smears left on his hands stuck to the napkins. He decided he was only making things worse and tossed the napkins into the trash as well.

  “So will you come?”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Lots of times the performers have a pot luck after a performance.” I hope she’s not going to launch into another circus story. “Leah and Joseph’s little boy turned seven yesterday. I brought a cake to celebrate. Any excuse for a party.” She offered a smile. “I know you’ve really wanted to spend more time with everyone. This gives you a great opportunity … in a totally different setting than Mass.”

  “I’ll have to let you know later. First, I’m going to wash my hands.”

  “Don’t worry about telling me. Just show up. We’ll get together in the ring after everyone clears out.”

  By the time Whiting returned to his spot behind the curtain, the second performance of the second act was just beginning. A delicate sound—running water or the tinkling of tiny bells—rose from the speakers. The audience quieted; he leaned forward and tilted his head.

  A slim Asian woman in a silver leotard and tights sat atop a table in the center of the ring. She stood slowly and raised her left leg until it was parallel with her head and seemed an extension of her right leg. She lifted her torso and touched her left leg slightly, guiding it into position, then lowered her leg and twisted into an arabesque.

  A second Asian woman in a darker costume entered the ring with trays of votive candles. As the contortionist folded and unfolded her body, the assistant stacked mirrored trays of lighted votive candles on her hands, feet, and head. She moved from one seemingly impossible position to another so gracefully that Whiting could hardly believe what he saw.

  The show was nearing its close. The trapeze act was next. When Whiting looked up to see if Nikolai and Alyiana were in the tunnel, he realized they were already standing right next to him. His eyes met Nikolai’s. He took a quick breath to speak but something in Nikolai’s countenance stopped him. Is he displeased to see me behind the curtain? Applause broke his concentration. The contortionist and her assistant rushed between them and into the tunnel, trailing the aroma of warm candle wax.

  Nikolai and Alyiana stood side by side, facing the curtain. A crevice of light cast a line along Nikolai’s jaw. The aria filled the tent. The curtains opened, and the aerialists stepped into the ring.

  Whiting moved closer to the curtain and pulled it back as much as he dared. He could not see the performance as he had the first time, but hearing the music and watching the lights change colors through the narrow opening gave the act a different intensity. In his mind’s eye he saw Nikolai’s and Alyiana’s shadows move across the walls and ceiling of the tent—fluid, beyond gravity. He pressed his head into the curtain and held it tight. This time he felt the music, the lights, the expressed passion, and the unspoken sensuality. Someone bumped his shoulder. He looked up to see the company assembling for the final promenade around the ring. Whiting hurried from the tunnel and into the night. He lifted his face to the cool night air and considered the strangeness of his situation. What am I doing here?.

  The band began its closing number. Many in the audience clapped out the rhythm, but already a steady stream of people were leaving the tent. Doors on the portable toilets slammed. There was the crunch of footfalls on gravel as people hurried to their cars.

  He couldn’t decide whether or not he should stay for the party. He wanted to stay, to speak to Nikolai, to try to understand who he was, and to learn more about him. But he didn’t want to deal with Sarah. He hung back as the crowd moved around him. The scene grew more congested. He walked slowly to his car and sat inside, engine off, watching the line of traffic below, then busied himself rearranging items in the glove box so he wouldn’t look foolish in case anyone glanced in his direction. After a while, he laid his head back on his headrest. He was exhausted, paralyzed with indecision.

  Muffled voices filtered through his closed windows as people walked to their cars. Doors opened and shut. Engines started. He tried to discern the differences in conversation. Before the circus, there had been more commotion as children ran ahead and parents called out their sharp commands. But now everything was more relaxed. To his right, several couples gathered around a minivan for a tailgate party. A woman of about thirty leaned into the van, her face illuminated by the car’s dome light. She smiled as she poured wine into clear plastic cups, then handed one to someone who stood just beyond his view. She laughed and stepped out of the light. He turned away and closed his eyes. The voices diminished, his thoughts drifted, and he dreamed he was back in the tent with Sarah, sitting in the empty seats, as they had that first day. The world was without regret, and he was at ease.

  An engine started and he sat up. The van and its partiers pulled away. He put the key in the ignition, then hesitated and looked up at himself in the rearview mirror. Do I really want to go home to an empty apartment? He pocketed his key, got out of the car and headed back toward the tent.

  As soon as he reentered the tent, he regretted it. The magic had been in the anticipation, the music, the shadows. Now, the too-bright overhead lighting made him squint. All of the performers were back in street clothes. Children walked along the metal bleachers picking up trash the audience left behind. Two men tied rop
es and secured the apparatus overhead while another gathered up props. Three girls at the far side of the ring attempted back flips from a low swing.

  He took a seat high in the bleachers. Near the empty bandstand, Nikolai was teaching a small boy how to juggle rings. He watched them at a distance—his eye constantly returning to Nikolai. After many false starts, the boy managed to keep three rings aloft for half a minute or more. Although he could not hear the words that passed between them, he read happiness on the boy’s face, mirrored in the calmer but corresponding expression on Nikolai’s. Whiting searched his memory for a scene of encouragement from his own father. Finding nothing, he looked away.

  A line of folding tables covered in a red-checked cloth occupied the center of the ring. Women from the circus set out stew pots, bread, and bowls of salad. Three young men brought folding wooden chairs through the tunnel and arranged them in a semi-circle. Whiting stood to leave. I made a mistake—I don’t belong here. He started down the metal stands on his way to the exit when he heard his name.

  “Father! How good to see you.” Anjo reached out to shake Whiting’s hand. “We’re still getting things ready, but maybe you would like a beer before dinner?” Whiting hesitated. Now that he had been noticed, his departure felt awkward.

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “No bother. I’m glad you’re here.”

  Whiting followed Anjo into the ring and took a seat in one of the wooden chairs. The tightrope walker pulled a bottle of beer from deep within a tub of ice, opened it, and handed it to Whiting.

  “Here’s a cold one for you. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Whiting turned his attention to the women who prepared the table. Leah sliced bread as she talked with another of the performers. In costume, her clown’s makeup so exaggerated her features that he could not read her real expression. But now, without the white face, broad mouth, and brows she seemed smaller, less vibrant—a pale second to the real life that was the clown.