Dancing with Gravity Page 25

  “Here we are!” he announced too loudly. He set the tea and cookies before Nikolai and returned to his own chair.

  “You aren’t joining me?” Nikolai leaned forward, his elbow on Whiting’s desk.

  “I’ve already had tea. I’ll just have water.”

  Nikolai raised an eyebrow in question.

  “It’s bottled water—Evian actually. An indulgence.” Again, Whiting was sure he sounded a fool. He cast his gaze to the floor and waited for Nikolai to say something, anything.

  Nikolai remained silent, a slight smile on his lips.

  “It’s hard enough getting around here when you know the way. Did you have trouble finding me?”

  “I read the signs,” said Nikolai. There was something electric about the comment—not the words so much as their delivery.

  “I must confess, I’m surprised to see you here.” Whiting was miserable. He wanted to make witty comments—to entertain Nikolai—to make him laugh. Instead, everything that came out of his mouth was dull, inarticulate. Sarah would have said something clever.

  “It’s the mountain and Mohammed, Samuel. You have not attended a performance for the last two weeks. So I took this opportunity to visit you.”

  “I can’t believe you even noticed my absence.” He could not bring himself to meet Nikolai’s eyes. Instead, he studied their two drinks.

  “You must know that’s not true.”

  Unable to think what he might say, Whiting traced the outline of his glass.

  “Are you planning to attend this afternoon?” Nikolai studied him as he waited for his answer.

  “No … Yes … No.”

  Nikolai laughed aloud, and Whiting was grateful at the release he felt, even at his own expense.

  “I’ve got a meeting scheduled, but it’s tentative.” He was sure Nikolai could see through his excuse, that he knew the source of his confusion.

  “Then I would not have seen you, even today?”

  Whiting shrugged and offered a diffident smile. “And yet, here we are.” He was pleased with his answer. It joined the two of them together and separated them from everyone else—which he found daring. He stole a glance at Nikolai, who was taking in the office and the few personal possessions that he kept there.

  “So this is where you spend your days?” Nikolai looked back at Whiting. “I’ve often wondered about it.”

  “I had no idea that you thought about me at all.” Whiting was breathless with his own behavior.

  “Surely you must know that isn’t the case, Samuel.”

  Whiting’s heart thundered; he was sure that Nikolai could hear it.

  Nikolai took the tea bag from his mug and dropped it into Whiting’s glass. The water blushed a golden red and its fragrance filled his nostrils. Seconds passed. Whiting couldn’t look up, couldn’t breathe. At last, he raised his glass and drank. When he glanced over the rim, he saw that Nikolai, too, appeared changed. Whiting set down his glass, just inches from Nikolai’s mug, and placed his hand, palm down, on the desk. His fingertips were nearly touching Nikolai’s hand.

  “Go on,” said Nikolai.

  Sarah pushed open Whiting’s door, knocking as she entered. Whiting jumped, but Nikolai did not move. She took in the scene—her only reaction, an almost imperceptible tightening around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. Whiting looked from Sarah to Nikolai.

  “The reporter from Channel Seven is here. We need to get over to the pediatrics wing.” Nikolai smiled apologetically at Whiting, then rose and crossed to the doorway.

  “Will we be seeing you at the performance?” Sarah’s voice was even, but Whiting heard a cold formality in her tone.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  In the weeks that followed, Whiting spent more and more of his time at the circus. He said Mass each Sunday, then stayed for both the afternoon and evening performances. Sometimes, he even attended the Friday and Saturday shows, sacrificing visits to his mother and Jerry, with whom his relationship had grown increasingly uncomfortable. He became such a fixture that he often assisted the volunteers by handing out programs, taking tickets, or helping people to their seats.

  He discovered something new at each show: changes to an act or the reactions of the audience. He delighted in each nuance and reveled in the idea that he had secret knowledge about each act, each performer. His frequent visits gave him a new appreciation for the circus troupe, particularly the clowns. Although most people enjoyed the clowns’ exaggeration and broad representations, he became aware of their exquisite grace as they avoided obstacles in their rush to the ring and of their strength and agility as they scaled ropes or did somersaults over one another. The sharp eyes of the clowns seemed to register everything—the props, the animals, each other, the energy levels of the audience. As with all knowledge, once he attained it, he could never return to his former innocence. He remembered the first time he noticed a clown scanning the audience while in the midst of his act. What was he looking for? The size of the crowd? People’s reactions? Someone from the past who might wish them harm? An immigration agent? Their vigilance intrigued him, urged him to the same readiness, although he did not know what he guarded against.

  No matter how often he attended, Whiting could not overcome his fascination with the audience. It was as if he had never really seen, never really understood people before. He watched with affection as couples on dates talked nervously or suffered long silences. His heart swelled as a mother pulled her son onto her lap so the boy could get a better view, or when a father shared a bag of popcorn with his daughter. Occasionally, large groups arrived all at once—neighbors or coworkers—full of energy and ready, almost desperate—to have a good time. He delighted in discussing the circus with first-time visitors and especially enjoyed the surprise on the faces of hospital personnel when they recognized him from St. Theresa’s. One night members of the hospital’s Emergency Department arrived as a group.

  “Don’t make me sit next to the managers,” whispered one of the nurses. “I came to have a good time.” Whiting liked being taken into the woman’s confidence and cast himself in the role of host at every opportunity. When someone saw him later back at the hospital, he was thrilled when they waved or went out of their way to say hello.

  Sometimes several generations of a family arrived together—children running ahead as their parents escorted shuffling grandparents. The old would often pause at the railing, perhaps remembering circuses of their own childhoods. Others—the short of breath—simply tried to gauge the distance to the nearest seat.

  His favorites were the old women—usually friends in their seventies or eighties who held on to one another’s arms as they entered the tent and ascended the slight incline to the benches. They took their programs with great seriousness and studied them before the show. He could imagine them at home, days later, referring to the booklets again as they phoned friends to tell them about the circus.

  He briefly imagined bringing his mother to a performance, but then just as quickly dismissed the idea. She doesn’t like the circus. She wouldn’t appreciate it. But, in reality, he knew he didn’t want to share this part of his life with anyone who knew him before the circus—before Nikolai.

  Whiting had begun to feel as if he were part of the circus, as if he shared a role in its success. He made it a point to sit in a different part of the tent at every show, enjoying the change in perspective it afforded. Each new view was a gift, demanded a new awareness, and made him feel closer to the performers. Sometimes when the crowd was light, he forced himself into isolated areas, where he could watch the show without distractions. Other times, he chose a seat high up in the stands near the men who ran the spotlights. While this view took him away from the immediacy of the performance, it enhanced his awareness of the elaborate scaffolding in the ring and the people in the stands. Often he would check the reactions of those around him. It was as though their laughter deepened his enjoyment of the moment and enhanced his pride in the performers—as thou
gh, together, they had given this gift to the audience.

  One evening, Whiting noticed three women sitting in an adjacent row. It was not the remarkable resemblance between them—he was sure they were grandmother, mother and daughter—but rather, the oldest woman’s face that first caught his attention. The skin at her eye was black and shiny, fading to rings of blue and green down to her chin. The eye itself seemed lost in the swollen flesh—just seeing it made him wince. He found himself looking over at her repeatedly during the performance, as much for another glance at her eye as for her reactions.

  When the tightrope walker crossed the wire, she covered her mouth with her hands, as though to stifle any noise that might distract him. When Whiting followed her gaze, he was surprised to see Anjo’s unsteady movements as he shifted his body and stretched out his arms for counterbalance, as though constantly on the verge of falling. Whiting studied the wire under Anjo’s feet, watched as it yielded to each step. Anjo made it to the other side of the wire, stepped onto his platform, then turned and crossed again—this time with a balancing pole. The long metal shaft dipped from side to side as he crossed. Whiting could see that he struggled—saw his left foot slide from the wire and curl around it—saw, too, how he gave into his misstep, but resisted it also.

  When Whiting looked back to the old woman, her head was bowed as if in prayer. She seemed to embody the reaction, the sense of awe and daring, that the performers should inspire in everyone who came to the circus. He felt a kinship to her and decided he would talk to her at intermission.

  The lights came up but Whiting waited until he saw them get up from their seats. As the old woman came up behind him, he turned toward her and smiled. She reached out and touched his arm.

  “Father, I’ve come to the circus today for the first time in seventy years.” She smiled as though she had just imparted some sage advice. Her back was bent, and she had to cock her head sideways to look up at him. A deep bruise also ran the length of her left arm and turned her crepe paper skin purple and red. He stepped to one side so that others could exit around them. The old woman took this as a sign of encouragement and continued.

  “I last saw the circus when I was ten years old. I turned eighty last Sunday.”

  He placed his hand over the gnarled knuckles of her right hand. “Has it been worth the wait?”

  “Oh yes, Father! It’s wonderful. So wonderful!”

  The crowd had thinned and the old woman took a seat on one of the now-empty benches. Whiting sat beside her.

  “I haven’t seen a circus until now because it was too painful,” she said. “When I see these people walking on that wire, I know how hard it is for them—how dangerous. I was supposed to be trained for the tightrope; my father had it all arranged. He knew some man from the circus who was going to teach me—make me into a high wire artist.” She kept her eye trained on the wire as she spoke. “But my mother died. And my father married a terrible woman—the worst stepmother in the world. Mean like in those fairy tale stories. Only this was no story. She ruined our lives.”

  Whiting looked toward the woman’s daughter and granddaughter. Neither one seemed to be listening to what she said.

  “She was so mean to my brother, Rudolf, that he ran away from home when he was just thirteen. He did odd jobs for a while and finally hooked up with the circus. At first, he just worked as a roustabout. But when they saw he wasn’t leaving, they trained him. Shot him out of a cannon. Taught him all sorts of amazing things.” The old woman smiled and patted Whiting’s hand.

  “He traveled with the circus for six years. They played little river towns all over the Midwest. Even went down to Mexico. When he came home I didn’t recognize him, and he didn’t recognize me.” She looked down then and shook her head. “When I think back on all that, I don’t know how it ever was I grew up to have my girls—a family so good to me. And they are too, Father.”

  The two younger women smiled, and he realized they had been listening to the story all along.

  “Only thing is, sometimes they get tired of listening to me talk about the circus, about how the beautiful ladies would ride out from behind the curtain all dressed in gold. Even their skin was painted gold—all of it.” She clasped her hands together and looked out at the ring, as if seeing the image she described. “Of course, they stopped that later. But they used to do it. I saw it with my own eyes.” She touched the bruise under her left eye. “I saw better then. But I’ll see good again soon. This was my worst eye. Had it operated on and it gave me a terrible time. But when it’s better, they’ll do my other eye. Cataracts.” She said this last word in a lowered voice, as though sharing a confidence. “I’ll see twenty-twenty. And I’ll come back, now that I know the circus is here.”

  The intermission was ending, and people were filtering back up to the stands. Whiting helped the old woman back up to her seat.

  “Somewhere along the way, the world got ruined, Father. It seems that people have so much they don’t get surprised by nothing. Television did it, I guess. Nobody understands what it was like to live on a farm. To grow up in a little town and have the circus come through, have it parade right down Main Street like they used to do. They just don’t understand the anticipation of it. Seeing the circus was like walking past rich people’s houses on Christmas Eve—you’d look in and see all this beauty—this whole other life so unlike your own.”

  Whiting nodded and offered a tender smile.

  She reached over and patted her daughter’s arm. “But even if they don’t understand what it was like then, I can help them see it now. Because it was just like this!” She held her arms wide. “Oh, Father, I feel that I’ve become a young girl again tonight. This circus has given me back my youth…and my good memories. It’s helped me to see that the things I remember were real.”

  Just then, one of the young acrobats walked past them carrying a tray of pink cotton candy on paper cones. The old woman roused herself from her reminiscences.

  “Son, I’ll take one of those. How much is it?”

  “Two dollars,” said the vendor.

  The woman opened her purse, which was almost empty. She pulled out a change purse and took out a dollar bill.

  “Hold on, I have some silver in the bottom of my pocket book, here.” She began her search, her head cocked to one side so that she could use her good eye.

  Whiting took a dollar from his pocket and handed it with the woman’s dollar to the young man.

  “It’s on me—to celebrate your return to the circus after all these years.”

  The stands were filling quickly, and he moved so that he would not block the aisle.

  “Enjoy our circus.” He patted her arm once more.

  “It’s wonderful you’re here, Father. I only wish you had family to share it with, as I do.” She put her hand to her mouth as soon as she’d spoken. “Oh, please forgive me. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I was just thinking, you know, maybe you have brothers and sisters.”

  Whiting took her hand. “Please, don’t worry. I understand what you meant. Besides, I can share the circus with wonderful people like you.”

  He returned to his seat high up in the tent, warmed by their conversation and without ever once thinking about his mother.

  Whiting ate less. He slept less. Yet, his overriding feeling was gratitude. Because of Nikolai, he believed he had become more aware of the beauty of the world. Colors were more vibrant. Music could bring him to tears. And it was—all of it—lovelier than he could say.

  Sometimes he swallowed one of his long, blue sleeping pills in the hopes he would even dream about the circus, its sights and sounds, its smells. As he drifted off he would think of some detail: a flash of color, a clown’s trick, Nikolai’s shadow arcing back and forth across the walls of the tent. Nikolai catching up to him after a performance, a touch, a glance, a word shared from their long talks on the hill. Each image had a sensation, an almost tactile quality. Sometimes he thought if he only stretched out his arm, Nikolai would be
there. He would lie in bed, close his eyes, and direct his thoughts—force himself to concentrate on the fragment and replay it until the image came to life, repeated without his urging.

  When he reviewed his conversations with Nikolai, he imagined himself more provocative or clever. He remembered Nikolai’s reactions as they had been, then changed them to reflect his braver comments, and then reveled in Nikolai’s imagined surprise and response. He had watched Nikolai so intensely that he could recreate him in every detail.

  Whiting held his knowledge of Nikolai close. Something treasured and important, it was his alone. He believed Nikolai understood his feelings, understood him as no one else ever had. And might even—Whiting hardly dared entertain the thought—share his feelings. He carried this possibility with him everywhere, a secret that separated him from everything and everyone else around him.

  Although Whiting spent hours engrossed in these inventions, when he was actually with Nikolai, he often found it difficult to even meet his eyes. Nikolai’s physical presence thrilled and unnerved him. Sometimes when they were together, Whiting could do little more than mumble, stammer, or fall into a confused silence. Other times, he was able to say things that mattered to him, to hold Nikolai’s attention without stumbling. But his reactions were unpredictable, his mood unreliable. There were times when Whiting would get offended and sulk or grow argumentative and lash out without the least idea why. He was at the mercy of forces he could not predict or control.

  To soothe the pain of these agonizing missteps, Whiting nurtured their imagined alternatives so assiduously that they became obsession—a drug that permeated his existence. With every passing day, thoughts of Nikolai occupied more of his inner life, so that his imaginary world became truer, more compelling than his real surroundings. Soon, nothing was as important or intense: not his work at St. Theresa’s, his conversations with Jerry, or his visits to his mother—not even what little was left of his prayer life.