Dancing with Gravity Page 23

  “They made me dizzy.”

  “Did you tell your doctor?”

  “What business is it of his?”

  “Mama, he’s your doctor.”

  “So?”

  “If these pills are a problem, he could give you something else. I could call and—”

  “Stop asking questions. I know what I’m doing. Besides, I don’t ask what’s in your medicine cabinet, do I?” She placed two fried chicken breasts, mashed potatoes, green beans, and corn onto his plate. “Take this over to the table. And bring out the salad.” Lillian prepared a smaller plate for herself and joined him.

  “How was your meeting?” she asked.

  “Which meeting?”

  “I don’t know. You told me you had a meeting last night. Isn’t that why we’re having our Friday night dinner on Saturday? So I’m asking, how did it go?”

  “It was fine,” He looked away as he recalled his lie to his mother. “You know, they act as though everything is an emergency, but it’s not.” He took a long drink in hopes of ending the discussion.

  “That’s your third glass of water since you got here. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just thirsty.”

  “Drinking a lot of water is a sign of diabetes. You don’t have diabetes, do you?”

  “I had a bag of potato chips with lunch. They were probably too salty.” Why does she always assume the worst?

  “Diabetes runs in your father’s family. You should get it checked.”

  “I get a physical every year and my blood sugar is always fine. So don’t worry.” Whiting was surprised at the mention of his father. His mother rarely spoke about the past and discouraged him from asking about it. “Besides, I’d tell you if I had any problems.”

  Lillian fell silent, as if mulling over her son’s answer. “Sammy, do you remember California?”

  “Of course. What makes you ask?”

  She shook her head. “When you think of it, what do you remember?”

  “Strange things. Fires that lit up the hills at night. Ash that floated down all around us—the edges still glowing.”

  Lillian nodded. “Do you remember that cougar that came down from the hills and tried to kill our Persian cat?” Her face was animated. She looked years younger.

  “Omar Khayyam—you named him after the poet.” He hadn’t thought of the cat for years. “I remember his stomach, orange with iodine, after he came home from the animal hospital.” He couldn’t remember how long they owned the cat, or what had happened to it.

  “We were all so crazy in California. I always said everybody in that state was running from something. Came from every part of the country and then ran out of land.” Her tone was bittersweet. “I think we stayed half hoping that the ocean or the earthquakes would swallow us up.”

  Whiting stopped eating and gave his mother his full attention.

  “Did you feel that way?”

  “I was sick with loving your father, Sammy. I went to L.A. thinking he’d follow me, that we could start over. Ha! What a fool I was.” She shook her head, a gesture of pity for her remembered self. “I used to lie awake at night after you went to sleep, and I’d cry until my head pounded.” She wiped a spot on the vinyl tablecloth.

  “But I wasn’t the only crazy one,” she continued. “There was a man who lived in our complex. He’d play that song, Mona Lisa, over and over, then he’d jump into the pool from the second floor balcony.” She smiled and smoothed the fold in her housedress. “I used to lie on my bed with the window open, listening to his record. I think we were the two unhappiest people in California.”

  Lillian stared at some point in the middle distance. Her earlier animation faded and her features seemed to collapse into themselves. Her mouth lost its tension and turned down. Her shoulders slumped.

  “Mama, are you all right?”

  She drew a deep breath and sat up straight, as if he’d caught her napping.

  “Of course I am.”

  She got up and crossed over to the refrigerator. “Hurry up and finish your chicken. I’ve got lemon meringue pie for dessert.”

  “Take this, all of you, and drink from it; this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.” Whiting lowered the Communion cup and looked up to see Nikolai sitting in the back of the chapel. He didn’t take Communion, but each time Whiting looked in his direction, Nikolai met his gaze. After the service, Whiting spoke with the congregants, keenly aware that Nikolai was watching him. But Nikolai remained in the pew. When the others had left the chapel, Whiting busied himself stacking the hymnals, in an effort to mask his growing self-consciousness. Is he praying? Is he here to see me? What does he want? He lingered over his unnecessary tidying in hopes that Nikolai might say something. When he could think of nothing else to do, he made his way to the dressing room to remove his vestments. Nikolai stood and hurried to catch up to him.

  “Samuel.”

  Whiting tried to quickly compose his features before he turned to face him. Nikolai smiled, but said nothing. His nervousness mounting, Whiting broke the silence.

  “It is good to see you … I mean, it’s good to see you at Mass this morning.”

  “I am not Catholic.”

  “Still. Everyone is welcome.”

  “Thank you. But I have come with an invitation of my own.”

  Whiting cocked his head.

  “I was hoping you would come to the circus again. Tonight perhaps? I would like to talk with you. About the photographs.”

  Whiting’s sense of discomfort deepened, and to his surprise, his eyes stung. “I don’t know what there is to say. Besides, I’m not sure I’m the one you should speak to.” He thought of Sarah’s sudden departure from the tent and wondered whether Nikolai had spoken with her since. Does he want me to talk to Sarah for him? Even though the idea was his, he was suddenly offended.

  “If you will take the time, I will explain. It is important to me.”

  Whiting was unsure how to answer. He thought about his obligations. In the last few days he had hardly been home. I need to wash my clothes. I brought work from the office. What is it that this man wants from me? He met Nikolai’s eyes and made his decision.

  “I have some things to take care of, but I’ll be back this evening.” He felt a surge of excitement at his sudden commitment. “I may not make it back for the entire performance.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We will talk afterwards.” Nikolai bowed his head slightly and turned away.

  All afternoon Whiting’s thoughts vacillated between Sarah and Nikolai. Did Sarah tell him about our lunch? Is he worried I’ll expose their relationship? Or is it the lunch itself that he wants to discuss? He tried to imagine what Nikolai might say and how he would react.

  Whiting arrived at the circus late in the second act. Instead of entering the tent, he circled around to the back to check for Sarah’s car. Not finding it among the trailers, he wondered whether her absence was a coincidence. Did Nikolai ask her not to come so we could talk? What would he have said to her?

  He paced back and forth outside the tent until he heard the aria that signaled Nikolai’s act. He started inside, then checked himself and instead waited in the dark. As he listened to the music, he imagined Nikolai’s cape fluttering to the ring, the shadows moving across the ceiling and walls. Whiting closed his eyes and gave himself over to the music—felt its pull and sweep, let it flow over him as he stood alone under the stars.

  The band began the grand finale. There was applause mixed with footfalls on the metal bleachers. Whiting stepped aside and waited for the crowd to clear. As the last of the cars turned from the parking lot, he returned to the backyard—the performers’ enclosure.

  Nikolai stepped down from his trailer and greeted Whiting with an expression of undisguised pleasure. “I was going to look for you. But here you are.” His smile deepened. “Wait here.” He stepped back
into his trailer and returned with two glasses and a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

  “Follow me.” Nikolai led them up a hill in the darkness to where two wooden chairs leaned against a tree. “The night is so beautiful I thought we would sit outside.” He set down the bottle and glasses and opened the chairs. “Take a seat. Please.” He poured two whiskeys and handed one to Whiting. “And we can talk here. Undisturbed.”

  Whiting took a drink. The whiskey warmed his throat and went down easily. After Friday night, he was wary of its effect, but he took another sip. He could feel himself relax.

  “How was the performance tonight?”

  “The equestrian act was uneven. They’ll be practicing in the tent now that everyone is gone.”

  “As you said the other night … the performance never ends.”

  “In the circus, there are a few who seek perfection. It’s never possible, of course, but it drives us forward.”

  “And your performance? How was it?”

  Nikolai shrugged. “If you had seen it, you could tell me.”

  “I got here later than I expected.” He hesitated. “You said you wanted to talk.” His boldness surprised him, but he wanted to end the suspense.

  “I owe you an apology—about the photographs.” He paused. “I wanted you to know me, but I did it badly. I hope you will forgive me.”

  Whiting was taken aback. Nikolai’s apology embarrassed him, but he was also flooded with relief. “I’m not sure I even know how to answer you.”

  “You could accept my apology.” Nikolai smiled. “Forgiveness may have to come later.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “I hope that is a good thing. The circus should always surprise.”

  Whiting took a long swallow from his glass and Nikolai reached over and refilled it. The gesture was familiar, confusing.

  “When I was a child, the circus was considered exotic—even dangerous.”

  “The circus is art. We celebrate what human beings are capable of. Isn’t that what beauty is? A celebration of something uncommon, something done well?”

  “Many mistrust the circus.” Whiting thought of his mother’s comments when he told her about the blessing. “They think it’s dark, sinister.”

  “There is beauty in the darkness too. But people deny this. They fear what they do not know.”

  They sat in silence as a trainer exercised one of the horses in the field below. Whiting watched as the animal circled its handler, then reversed direction. All at once he realized that both animal and human cast shadows. He looked over his shoulder to find the source of the illumination.

  “Oh my God.” He turned to Nikolai with delight. “They’re bathed in moonlight!” He turned back to the scene with new pleasure.

  “It is said that Gustav Mahler painted moonlight on his lover’s bedroom floor.”

  Nikolai’s words held Whiting like a soft embrace. For a moment, both men were silent. Whiting took another drink and listened to Nikolai’s breathing, took in the smell and texture of his presence.

  “The cicadas,” said Nikolai. “Their song is so mournful.”

  Whiting listened to the sounds in the darkness that surrounded them. His chest constricted as if his heart was tender, exposed. He pressed two fingers to his chest to test for the soreness he was sure he’d find. “Why do you think it’s sad?”

  “We see the world through the lens of our own hearts, Samuel. For me, sadness is never far away.”

  Whiting leaned back in his chair and tried to slow his breathing. He was lightheaded, unsure of what was happening.

  “You are noticeably silent. Am I being too personal?”

  “No. Not at all.” Thousands of fireflies descended upon the field and signaled among the trees, the grass. Whiting had the sensation he was floating among them.

  “And you? How do you see the world, Samuel?”

  “People come to me when they’re sad … or worried. Outside of that, I am invisible.” He was surprised at his honesty, but once the words were out, he was glad he said them. That’s the first time I’ve ever told anyone how I really feel.

  “Ah, the disappearing Shaman. I have heard stories about your tribe.” Nikolai filled their glasses. “High in the mountains of South America is a sect called the Monks of the Transformation. That’s the loose translation, anyway. Knowing about them will support or undermine your faith.”

  “How could they undermine my faith? The Catholic Church recognizes the concept of transformation.” He had meant to say transubstantiation but did not correct himself.

  “These monks take disease from people and carry it for them.”

  “Healers? Medicine men?”

  “Spiritual masters. They remove suffering, take it upon themselves, and carry it.”

  “If that were true, your monks would be world renowned. There would be no disease.” Whiting felt woozy.

  “There are not many of these monks. Only the most gifted among them attain this power. Besides, the magic is not just in taking the burden, but in learning to balance it, in learning not to die under the weight of it.” He glanced over at Whiting. “And at the end of their lives, they disappear.”

  “So this is just a story?”

  “Not at all. When the monks prepare to die they break up dishes, burn belongings, destroy their meager houses. Finally, when everything that could prove their existence on earth is gone, they go into a remote cave to die alone. They even brush the mouth of the cave with branches so they leave no footprints.”

  “Why would they do such a thing?”

  “Some say they view death as a failure, a source of shame. I think they do it so they can keep their burdens from escaping, even in death.”

  “You see it as an expression of faith?”

  “They try to end another’s suffering—as do you. It is heroic.”

  Whiting let the silence stretch out between them. At last he spoke, his voice a whisper. “I have never done anything heroic.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  Whiting turned to face him. “And I don’t understand you.”

  “You are speaking of the photographs?” Whiting nodded. “Then I must tell you about my wife—my ex-wife—I must learn to say that. She is one of the Girards—a great French circus family.”

  Nikolai offered a catalog of their relationship. He and his wife had married just weeks after meeting and their relationship was passionate, exciting, but volatile.

  “It got worse when she became pregnant.”

  The news came as a shock. “You have a child?”

  “A son.”

  Again, the silence lengthened between them. Nikolai took a sip and cleared his throat. “My wife was filled with jealousy. She hated my temporary partner and pushed herself to return to the trapeze as soon as possible,” he continued. “It was too soon. She wasn’t ready, and one night on the trapeze, I dropped her.”

  Whiting drew a sharp intake of air.

  “She recovered, but the trapeze was out of the question.” Nikolai fell silent.

  “Where is she now? Where is your son?” Whiting’s mind flashed to a scene from his own childhood: he was alone in a train compartment with his mother, not knowing where they were going or how long they would be staying.

  Nikolai let out a heavy sigh.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up things that might make you sad.”

  “It’s not your fault. I wanted to tell you. Besides, it is always waiting beneath the surface—a wound that has not healed. Even the slightest touch brings the pain rushing back to me. The last I heard, she was in Paris with her lover. The boy is with them.”

  Whiting watched the fireflies. Had there ever been so many? So high up in the trees? They twinkled—golden—like tiny Christmas lights. Someone had told him the fireflies’ lights were beacons, sexual signals designed to attract a mate. Are people the same? Are we helplessly driven by the biology of desire, of love?

  He turned to speak and saw Nikolai lean his
head back against his chair. Tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped unhindered from his jaw onto his shirt.

  Whiting hesitated, then leaned forward and placed his right hand on Nikolai’s shoulder, then on his face. Nikolai did not move away. His skin was smooth and warm to the touch. Whiting traced the contours of Nikolai’s cheeks, the deep hollows of his eyes, the fullness of his mouth. He moved his fingertips from Nikolai’s jaw to his eyes, gathering his tears. Whiting didn’t breathe as he captured the last of Nikolai’s tears then closed his hand around them—to stop himself, to hold them there.

  Neither man spoke and Whiting turned again to the flickering lights in the field below them. How can there be so many fireflies? Beautiful. Silent. Luminecent in the darkness.

  The steady cadence of spring showers and the splash of tires from the traffic below filtered in through Whiting’s open window. As he drank his morning tea, he studied the trees, and beyond them, the tan brick façade of the nursing school. In the middle distance, a group of nursing students in uniform—white aprons over blue dresses—clustered beneath an overhang. When the crosswalk signal changed, they rushed—most without umbrellas—into a side entrance of the clinic. The saturated colors filled him with unbearable tenderness.

  “Your office is so dark in the storm.” Sarah stood at his half-opened door. “At first I thought you were out.”

  He made no move to turn on a light.

  Sarah’s hair was several inches shorter—cut level with her chin—and turned under at the ends. Whiting passed his eyes over the line of her now-exposed neck as she took a seat in his guest chair.

  “You’ve cut your hair.”

  “My hairdresser now wears magnets in his shoes. He says they give him energy.” She smoothed her skirt and picked at some unseen thread. “He’s hooked into some pyramid scheme for magnetic health. I think it’s a kind of Pacific Rim Amway.” She produced a can of diet soda and straw from her bag. “He even tried to recruit me to help with sales.” She sat in profile, looking through his window to the street below. The top button of her blouse was undone. Whiting studied the hollow of her throat. “I hadn’t had a haircut for twelve weeks—I’d been trying to let it grow. But when I showed up for my appointment Saturday morning, I swear, his nose was bigger. Could magnets do that, make his nose grow bigger?” She turned to face him. “So, do you like it?”