Dancing with Gravity Read online

  “It’s striking.” He pulled himself straighter in his chair.

  “It’s a change.” She shrugged. “I meant to stop by yesterday, but we had an off-site meeting. I’m curious … how did Sunday go?”

  Whiting tensed at the question but Sarah’s demeanor was friendly. “It was nice to be back.” He hesitated. “Nikolai was there.”

  “At Mass?” Her expression betrayed her surprise. “He’s not even—” she broke off, mid-sentence. “Did you two talk?”

  Whiting could hardly disguise his pleasure. If Sarah didn’t know about Mass, she most certainly did not know about Sunday night. He tried to sort out the implications of this new information.

  “Just a short exchange after Mass.” His lie was effortless.

  “Nikolai is such a lonely man, Sam. And so much of it is his own doing.” She popped the tab on her soda and inserted a straw.

  “What makes you think so?”

  She rolled the straw’s wrapper into a scroll. “Because I’ve seen it.” She laughed then, as though Whiting was being particularly dense. “He knows I’m the best thing that ever happened to him, but he won’t accept it, won’t give in to it.”

  “I don’t think I’m following you,” Her behavior irritated him, but he wanted her to keep talking.

  “He says he could never make me happy.” She rolled her eyes to underscore the ridiculousness of the comment.

  “He told you that? Those exact words? When?”

  “We were talking about the two of us. About our future.”

  “Your future?” He disliked her intensely at that moment. But he needed to hear what she had to say and so he used his training as a counselor and repeated back a word to guide the direction of their conversation.

  “What did you think? That things would just go on this way forever?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I could do a lot for the circus. Publicity. Media relations. I could probably leave what I’m doing here a lot easier than he could.”

  Whiting felt his throat constrict. “Would you really leave? Join the circus?” The idea is ridiculous! His mind flashed back to the field, the fireflies, to Nikolai’s tears.

  “Now you sound like Nikolai.” Sarah made a face. “He’s as reserved as you are about the idea.”

  Whiting’s heart swelled, a sail catching the wind. “So he doesn’t want … he doesn’t agree?”

  “He says I need more than the circus can offer, that the adventure would wear off and I’d be unhappy.”

  Whiting could hardly disguise his elation. Sarah was the one pushing for a relationship. He’s not in love with her.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Look, he’s not about to live without me.” She offered a smug smile. “Have you seen the way he looks at me? The way he smiles?” Sarah leaned forward with each question. She gave Whiting a pitying smile. “Well, maybe you don’t see it, but I do. And so do the others. I even think Mother Frances might be suspicious.” She gave a small laugh.

  “That’s not how it looked Friday night.” Whiting was surprised at the meanness of his own remark.

  Sarah bristled. “And your point is? You don’t know the first thing about Nikolai—or me, for that matter.” Her vehemence was surprising and revealing. She’s not as sure of Nikolai as she pretends. He decided to change his approach, to again enlist his skills.

  “You misunderstand me.”

  Suspicion clouded her face but her uncertainty showed as well. He enjoyed this new sense of power.

  “You told me before that you were keeping things low key. That’s what I saw at the party. So Mother Frances, the others, they may not suspect anything at all.”

  Sarah’s face relaxed. “The fact is we did have a spat last Friday. Nothing serious.” She looked up quickly to check his reaction. “Things were a little tense, but we got all that sorted out.” She looked down and smiled to herself. “Everything is back on track.”

  Whiting felt his earlier confidence ebb.

  “He’s really opening up to me.” She glanced up coyly. “We’re at a new level. I can’t even describe it.”

  Whiting nodded. He struggled to appear neutral.

  “He was married before. I guess you saw the photographs at the party. The break-up nearly destroyed him. He said it was the last time he’d ever allow himself to love anyone.” She sat straighter; her expression hardened.

  Whiting was hardly breathing. He thought back to when Nikolai told him about his ex-wife. Had he told the same story to Sarah? Whiting felt foolish. He had taken their conversation as a special confidence—an important moment between them—but now it seemed little more than a trick, something that Nikolai offered up when it suited his purposes. But to what end? And why would he disclose so much pain and sadness, unless he felt a special closeness with his listener?

  “So we ate dinner and drank a bottle and a half of wine. Then just sat on my couch and listened to opera. It was very romantic.” She cast a quick glance at Whiting. “Of course we didn’t just sit there, but let’s not go into that.” She smiled. “But it was one of those storybook evenings. The only thing that could have made it better was if Nikolai’s son was there. Then we could—”

  “Live happily as a family?” Whiting detested the image she created and was suddenly angry. Angry at the smug woman who sat across from him and angry at Nikolai for playing him for a fool. The intensity of his reaction surprised him, but he was a prisoner to it.

  Jerry and Whiting sat across from one another at the long dining table in St. Benedict House. The meal was drawing to a close. As he looked around the table at the other priests, Whiting took inventory: How many are gay? How many virgins? How many have had lovers—maybe even since taking their vows? Surely some of them. Perhaps no one from this table, but it happens. We’re no different from anyone else. Prisoners to our biology just like the damned fireflies. Some of the priests, especially the older ones, seemed asexual, tepid to the touch. They’re so distant from a life of the flesh that they’ve forgotten desire completely. He imagined their isolation, their remove from the world. How do they live without love? How do they stand it? How do they cope? He imagined their loneliness, so much like his own. Some drank to excess—as did he. A few were overweight, even obese. What do they have, really? In their decades as priests they have become dead to the idea—devoid of the memory even—of themselves as men.

  Their meal ended; the priests drifted in twos and threes from the table to return to their rooms or watch television. Whiting placed his napkin beside his plate, and was about to excuse himself when Jerry stopped him.

  “Let’s take a walk through the garden, Sam. It’s been weeks since we’ve dined together, and this way we’ll have a chance to talk.”

  Whiting followed him down the stairs and into the courtyard. When they reached the stone path, he amended his step to walk at Jerry’s side.

  “So how are things with the Little Flower Circus these days?”

  Whiting thought of Nikolai, and his chest tightened. He did not want to discuss the circus.

  “Going forward.”

  “And the board of directors?”

  “Quiet. All their resistance seems to have disappeared.”

  “Was keeping the circus a condition of the will?”

  “No. But the sisters didn’t want to abandon it. It’s more a matter of the people involved. You know the Missionary Sisters.”

  Jerry sniffed a smile. “And with Mother Frances at the helm there won’t be any compromises. What are the plans for the future, for next year?”

  Something in the question irritated Whiting. He was walking faster now and had to force a slower pace. Jerry moved to a low stone bench and sat down. Whiting wanted to continue through the garden—he wanted to leave—but he reluctantly took a seat on the bench.

  “It sounds romantic.” Jerry’s tone was dreamy and seemed to address no one in particular. “I’ve always enjoyed the circus—my favorite was always the tightrope walker. Does your circus ha
ve a tightrope walker?”

  “Yes. His name’s Anjo. He’s very good; he performs with his wife and son. But the real star of the show is the trapeze artist.” He immediately regretted his reference to Nikolai, even as he could not seem to help mentioning him.

  “Do you know him well?”

  Whiting tensed. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was only curious. You’ve been saying Mass there for a while now—it seems that you would get to know them fairly well—some of them at least.”

  “Some more than others. You know how that is.”

  “Well, let’s hope they don’t persuade you to run away with them.”

  Whiting blushed violently and was glad for the cover of darkness that hid his reaction.

  “We’ve known each other a long time, Sam. Shared questions of faith, of our purpose in life, our commitments. I sense that the circus consumes much of your time and your thoughts, yet when I ask questions, you offer generalities—or silence.

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’ve seen a change in you. Your heart and mind are troubled.”

  “So of course the circus is at fault.”

  “I don’t know that to be the case. But I am concerned about your silence.”

  “My silence?” Whiting was suddenly angry. “You showed up this spring announcing you have cancer. I’ve driven you to your treatments every week. But you never talk about your prognosis. When I ask you about it, you give me some platitude about faith.”

  Jerry listened in stony silence. When he spoke, he did so slowly and deliberately.

  “I apologize if I have offended you. But I tell you honestly and before God, I hardly know you anymore. Even when you take me to my treatments—and again, I thank you for that—you are not present. You complain about my secrecy, but you are the one with the secrets.”

  Whiting let out a heavy sigh. “What dark secret do you want me to reveal? That I say Mass by rote? That I listen to people’s problems at a distance? Offer up pat answers and prayers and am mystified that they have an effect when the same answers, the same prayers have grown hollow in my own life? Well, it’s true. But it’s none of your concern.”

  It was several minutes before Jerry spoke again. When he did, he seemed to weigh each word. “Perhaps, it might be wise to remove yourself from your duties with the circus.”

  Whiting spun around. “So that’s the problem? If only I’d go back to my old life, then everything will be fine again?” He almost wept with frustration. “I’ve been miserable for years, Jerry. I’ve been asleep in my own life. And now I feel as though I’m just waking up.” Jerry’s expression was grave, but he remained silent as Whiting continued. “Don’t you ever want to open up? To share your life with someone? To say, ‘I was this, and then these things happened, and they changed me. And I want you to know who I’ve become.’ Isn’t that important—even necessary? For the first time in my life I want that, I need that. Can’t we allow ourselves to be human just once?”

  “You … me … we are always human. To deny this is to despair.”

  “I want to be more than a collar. I’m tired of being invisible.”

  “The collar is only a symbol.”

  “For you.”

  Jerry’s shoulders sagged with fatigue and he looked years older, but Whiting was unmoved.

  “Can’t you understand my suffering?”

  “You’ve always suffered. You suffered in the seminary—and for years before that. And for that I am truly sorry. But you must fight this tendency toward over analysis. You’re a priest. You need to be more outwardly focused.”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me?

  “I have been listening. And watching too. You obsess without insight. You dwell on minutiae without contemplating mystery. Sam, you must hold fast to the mystery that brought you to the priesthood. It is a call to accountability as well as vulnerability. You must rise to your vocation.”

  “And that’s all you have to say?

  “You act as though the mystery, the calling itself, counts for nothing.” Whiting’s look was a challenge at the rebuke, but he said nothing. “Sam, I ask you—urge you—to separate yourself from the circus. Pray for them—but keep your distance.”

  Whiting exhaled heavily. “So that’s your solution? I suffer and the only plausible explanation—the only remedy—is to leave the circus.”

  “No good can come from the path you’re traveling.”

  “Believe me, however great this suffering, to return to my old life is untenable—a punishment I cannot—will not—endure.”

  “Cui bono?” The question—to what good—came as a slap.

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “I will pray for you, Sam.”

  “Pray for yourself.” Even before he saw Jerry’s stricken reaction, Whiting recoiled from his own words. But he did not ask forgiveness. Could not admit his error or his sorrow. Instead, he turned and left the garden.

  St. Theresa’s commemorated the hospital’s founding on June 30th each year with an ice-cream social. In celebration of the sisters’ newfound holdings, Sarah arranged for a mini performance of the Little Flower Circus as part of the event.

  Roustabouts worked most of the day assembling the rigging in the hospital’s west parking lot as staff and visitors took time to walk past the site. Whiting could hear the activity from his office and had tried all morning to ignore it. But he grew more restless with each passing hour. He wanted to go down and greet the performers, to join in the activities of what he increasingly thought of as his new parish, but he also rebelled against it. He was confused about Nikolai—about his own reaction to him—and so he stayed inside. Is Nikolai in love with Sarah? Are they together?

  Whiting crossed to the window and looked across at the parking lot bustling with activity. He craned his neck, hoping to see past the trucks and trailers, examining every face, looking for any sign that Nikolai was on the hospital grounds. He caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man and his breath caught. But when the man stepped out from the shadows, Whiting could see it wasn’t Nikolai. He exhaled through pursed lips. What does it matter to me if they’re together? He straightened his shoulders and took a sip of tea. Why did he open up to me? Why did he let me touch him? What did he want from me? What do I want from him?

  Since the night of the fireflies, Whiting had maintained his regular Mass schedule, but had sidestepped the performers’ invitations to attend the circus and stay for supper. That had been difficult enough, especially as Anjo always pressed him to stay, but now the circus troupe had come to him. His agitation at their proximity seemed to grow with every passing minute.

  “This is ridiculous.” He decided to stop by social services—an unnecessary errand that, if he used the south stairwell, would take him by the pediatrics wing where the performers were posing for photographs and handing out toys. “It’s only proper that I offer a show of support.” Will Nikolai be there? He’s a good teacher. The kids like him. He’ll be there. Whiting was nervous and rubbed his hands together. I’ll say hello. Nothing more. I’ll leave if it’s too crowded. Of course, she’ll have arranged all sorts of media coverage. He had to admit Sarah was capable—even as he resented her for it. He gathered up a legal pad and retrieved his folder for the parents’ support group to justify his trip. Just as he was about to leave, someone knocked at his office door. He glanced at his appointment calendar. Nothing was on his schedule. Why does Carla let people barge in here? I don’t have time for a visitor now. His brow wrinkled with resentment at the delay.

  “Yes! Come in.” His tone was impatient, and he hoped that he sounded unwelcoming. The door opened and Nikolai stepped into his office.

  “Am I disturbing you?” he was smiling, already sure of the answer.

  “No, not at all.” Whiting put his hand on the desk to steady himself. “It’s just that I ….” He put the legal pad and folder onto his desktop. “So many people drop in, you know, sometimes it’s difficult to get any
work done.” He detested his answer as soon as he had given it.

  “Am I keeping you from your work now?” Nikolai gave no indication that he planned to leave, regardless of Whiting’s answer.

  “Actually, I was just going to take a break.” He glanced quickly around his office to make sure it looked presentable.

  “May I offer you something? A cup of tea?”

  Nikolai returned a faint smile. “Afternoon tea? I should have guessed.” The comment flustered Whiting; he wasn’t sure how he ought to answer. “What kind of tea are you offering, Samuel?”

  Whiting couldn’t settle down under Nikolai’s gaze; he rose from his desk and looked through his basket of teas as he struggled to control his nervousness.

  “Apricot. It’s very good—a gift from the Board of Directors.”

  “The Board gives you presents?”

  “Only at Christmas. All the department heads receive a basket of cookies with an assortment of cocoa, coffee, and tea. I shared it among the staff, but I kept the apricot tea for myself.”

  “Your board is generous.” Whiting thought he detected a tinge of sarcasm. “The influence of the nuns, I suppose.”

  “They give the doctors expensive wine. For the rest of us, it’s tea time.” Nikolai chuckled, and Whiting beamed.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He wished he hadn’t offered tea because now he had to turn his back to Nikolai. His mind was torn between preparing the tea and giving Nikolai his full attention. His indecision made him clumsy and he sprayed water across the counter when he filled his electric kettle, then knocked a stack of paper napkins into the sink as he rushed to wipe the spill. Rather than give Nikolai a styrofoam cup, he offered his own, which he hurriedly washed and dried. Salvaging a dry napkin, he placed three butter cookies on a plastic plate. When he lifted the mug, he saw that his hands were shaking. He set the mug down, and pressed his hands hard against the counter to steady them. When he turned to face Nikolai, he saw that he had pulled his chair around the desk, beside Whiting’s own.