Dancing with Gravity Read online

  In his desire to possess everything related to the trapeze artist, Whiting mined other people’s ideas and experiences. How long have you known him? What have you shared? He was offended when someone didn’t seem especially interested in Nikolai and jealous when anyone expressed admiration. He was mystified that the other performers could talk so easily with him—that they didn’t even notice when Nikolai walked into the tent. But Whiting noticed. He knew, even before turning around, when Nikolai was near.

  Some weeks he didn’t see Nikolai from Sunday night until the following Friday. During those times, he set aside his animosity toward Sarah and sought her out for whatever news of Nikolai she might share. He feigned disinterest, but was alert for every detail, any news. Her behavior told him she had no idea about his regular late night conversations with the trapeze artist. Instead, she offered stories that she thought proved her closeness with Nikolai: an intimate dinner at her apartment, their plans to make the children’s camp a success. Only twice had he seen her frown, shake her head and offer some vague allusion to dissatisfaction between them. Only twice. But it was enough.

  Eric Clapton poured from the loud speakers at the Circus After Hours Party, an event to thank the board of directors and circus volunteers for their support. A few of the younger performers danced absent-mindedly at the edge of the ring while others sat talking in the stands. Whiting stood at the periphery of a hundred other guests and waited for his chance to escape.

  Finally, he extricated himself from a conversation that had long ago ceased to involve him, set his plate at the edge of the table, and slipped from the tent. He headed up the hill to the copse of trees where he and Nikolai often met. As Whiting approached, he saw Nikolai sitting alone in the darkness.

  “You were the last to arrive and the first to leave,” said Whiting. “Even so, you hardly spoke to anyone.”

  “That surprises you?”

  He stood at a distance, trying to gauge Nikolai’s mood. “It’s just that … I thought the party was supposed to give the board members the chance to mingle with all of you.”

  “They have no desire to mingle. The VIPs want to come to a private circus party, yes. And they definitely want us there. It was specifically requested and arranged. But tonight we are part of the decoration. No different than the displays of food that must look beautiful before the board members will devour them.”

  Whiting took a seat beside Nikolai as he addressed him. “I thought that after the performance ….”

  “The performance is not over; it continues in a different form. They want to stare at us. And I want no part of it.”

  “What other dark thoughts would you like to share?” He wanted to lighten Nikolai’s mood.

  “I am merely stating the facts. Did you see how the board members disappeared while the caterers set up the party? They didn’t even want to admit that such work was necessary.”

  “People can be arrogant.”

  “And stupid,” said Nikolai. “Especially the rich.”

  “Not everyone is like that.”

  Nikolai cast him a disdainful glance.

  Whiting pressed the point. “I’m serious. Think about Loretto Finch. She was very rich. But she didn’t place herself above others.”

  Nikolai reacted to the mention of Loretto with mild surprise. “You knew her?” he asked.

  “I only read about her—an obituary. Actually, it was her picture that struck me. She was looking straight at the camera.” Pausing a moment, Whiting again saw the image in his mind’s eye. “Who knows where that photograph came from? A graduation? A gift for someone who loved her? She had the most amazing expression on her face—a look that said she already knew what life was going to throw at her, that she already knew about the cancer—even before the first symptoms.” He inclined his body toward Nikolai. “Then I think about her story. Her family taken from her in an instant. And yet, she didn’t die.” He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know how a person can suffer so deeply—incur such damage to the spirit—and still go on.”

  “Each person is unique—you must know this,” said Nikolai. “What would destroy one will harden another. They are both damaged—but differently.”

  “What was she like?” It suddenly occurred to him that they had never spoken of Mrs. Finch before. The strangeness of that fact surprised him and he wondered if there was something Nikolai did not want him to know.

  “She was determined. Fearless. Zealots always are.”

  Whiting looked into the distance. “I don’t have that kind of courage.”

  “I said she was fearless—not courageous.”

  Whiting gave him a questioning look.

  “To have courage is to acknowledge fear and still go on,” said Nikolai. “Loretto Finch was a different sort.”

  Nikolai’s description troubled Whiting, hovered as a shadow in the periphery. “I understand she was a woman of great faith.”

  “She was reckless—guided less by God’s pure light than by the blue of a field of flowers, a flash of lightning.” Nikolai turned to face him. “She was obsessed with the deaths of her husband and daughter; kept searching for a reason, something that would give such a horrible, random act some kind of meaning.” For several minutes, Nikolai seemed lost in thought. Then his expression changed—did not soften so much as resolve. “She said that when you love someone and they leave you, or disappoint you, a small piece of you breaks off. And if someone you love dies, a big piece falls away. And this happens over and over … an entire lifetime of fracturing, of breaking, of falling away so that in the end there’s so little left you can’t be sure you are still a person.” Nikolai shook his head at the recollection. “She said this was ‘the cost of love.’”

  “Were you close?” Something like jealousy rose up in him and he was ashamed even as he waited for the answer.

  “Loretto had her faith—her God. There was nothing else.”

  “You make faith sound so negative.”

  “Religion has caused untold suffering. You call that positive?”

  “Religion is not faith.”

  “You’re right. But it can sometimes be difficult to tell the difference.”

  Cicadas droned in the darkness. The Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction filtered up from the party.

  “When someone came to us for help, Mrs. Finch always gave them a medal of St. Thérèse. She promised them that the Little Flower would keep them safe.”

  “Your tone tells me you didn’t approve.”

  Nikolai shrugged. “Many were comforted. It gave them something to hold onto. But I always thought it marked them. Maybe it was the association with Mrs. Finch, I don’t know. But every time I see someone with one of those medals, the first thought in my mind is you have suffered.”

  “To live is to suffer. I think she must have known that.” Whiting tried to imagine the scene Nikolai described: the wild green of the jungle, the screech of monkeys, the smell of wet earth. The knock at Loretto’s door as someone—desperate, hunted—hoped she would answer, hoped she would let them in. “She must have understood that the medal offered hope.”

  “Hope.” Nikolai said the word as if considering its meaning for the first time—as if asking a question. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal disk on a red ribbon. “This for you. A medal of St. Thérèse of Lisieux.” He held Whiting’s gaze and then dropped it in his hand. “Hope.”

  Whiting raised the medal closer to his face even though he could not see it in the darkness. When he spoke, his voice was choked with emotion.

  “You told me you aren’t Catholic.”

  “I’m not.” He turned and stared down on the darkened field. “But you are.”

  The deep red ribbon and silver medal of St. Thérèse were bright against the dark wood of Whiting’s desk. He stared at the silver disk as if it might reward his attention by revealing a great secret. A smile spread slowly across his face as he thought again of Nikolai and realized that it already had.

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sp; “Excuse me.” Whiting jumped. Carla stood in the door with her hands splayed across her hips. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the parent’s support group?”

  Whiting started. He checked his watch and his calendar and then looked up. “No. The time’s been changed this week.”

  “Who changed it?”

  “I did. I must have forgotten to tell you.”

  An undisguised look of distaste played across her face. “What else have you forgotten to tell me?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” he said. I will not be intimidated by my own secretary. Not anymore. “Thank you, Carla. Now … I’ve got a lot of work to do, so ….”

  “Your mother called again.” She stepped forward and handed him a sheaf of messages.

  “Thank you. Please, close the door on your way out.”

  She turned and pulled the door closed behind her.

  Nothing can ruin my mood today—not even Carla. Whiting turned his attention back to the medal—back to Nikolai. I must give him a gift in return. But what? It must be perfect. The gift had to convey what he couldn’t trust himself to say. I’ll send him a card—something beautiful with a message only the two of us will understand.

  After an obsessive search, he found a poem written by St. Thérèse. I’ll buy a special card and copy the poem in long hand. The power of the idea overwhelmed him. If someone else—Sarah, for instance—were to pick up the card, they would never guess the true meaning. But when Nikolai opens the card, when he reads it, he will know.

  The best place to find the kind of card he wanted was in the Brick Town District—an area of coffee houses, bookstores, and shops a few miles east of St. Theresa’s. Whiting drove there the next day over lunch.

  The area was congested and he had to park off the street in a parking garage, but he was pleased to see people lunching at sidewalk tables amid rollerbladers and skateboarders. Whiting imagined walking the district with Nikolai—sharing the feast of color and noise, the overpowering cinnamon and allspice, roast lamb, lemon, and mint wafting out of the doorways of Middle Eastern coffee shops and Greek diners.

  Stalls lined the open-air market where vendors sold cut flowers, herbs, organic vegetables, honey, and pottery. Tattered brochures on kiosks announced art fairs or plays, promoted ecological causes or rock groups. Musicians crooned on the sidewalks for donations. Many wore peace symbols and colored beads—generational talismans that now seemed out of place. Even as a young man, he had felt separate from the peacemakers and was slightly bewildered that the symbols were so popular again.

  Dark, incense-laden boutiques sold imported trinkets, vintage clothing, hand-made books, and silver jewelry—each its own little world. In a small shop heavy with the scent of patchouli, Whiting found a card with an image that made him gasp: a young boy stood on a window ledge, arms outstretched, ready to take flight. Brilliant colored scales, like those of a fish, covered the boy’s neck and chest. His face was rendered in rainbow hues. Multi-colored wings emerged from the boy’s shoulder blades. Whiting studied the image, traced the unknowable face with his fingertips. He had never seen anything so strangely hypnotic.

  After buying the card, Whiting stopped in a coffee house and ordered a cappuccino. He sat near the window and carefully removed the card from its paper sack. The poem was long, more than a dozen stanzas, and he smiled at its perfection. After struggling over which lines to copy, he settled on the first line of select stanzas. Working slowly, and using his most careful penmanship, he wrote:

  To live of love, ‘tis not to fix one’s tent

  To live of love, it is to know no fear;

  No memory of past faults can I recall;

  To live of love, it is to dry thy tears,

  To die of love, O martyrdom most blest!

  - Ste Thérèse of Lisieux

  He re-read the lines several times—first to be sure he had written them correctly, then to take pleasure in their beauty. As soon as he finished, he sealed the card in its envelope and wrote Nikolai’s name on the front. I must get this to him before the Friday evening performance. He would attend the circus, of course, but he could not bear to deliver it to Nikolai in person. I’ll let him find it. Once he sees what I’ve written, he will understand everything.

  At least half of the acrobats—Nikolai among them—were scheduled to perform at the park across from the county government center later that afternoon. Whiting decided that he would leave the card at Nikolai’s trailer before returning to the hospital.

  The sky was overcast. As Whiting hurried back to his car, he worried that the performance might be cancelled. But the desire to leave the card was so strong that he had to take the chance. He drove west. Clouds darkened and roiled overhead. A cool wind blew in and brought the smell of approaching rain. He drove faster. With every passing moment, his confidence ebbed, but he could not bear to turn around. He was still a mile from the motherhouse when the rain began. The first large drops became a downpour within seconds. The rain fell with such intensity that it also seemed to bubble up from the ground. He rolled up his window, turned on his wipers and lights, and clenched his steering wheel. The rain would halt the performance; he had to hurry.

  Whiting sped up the hill and parked at the entrance to the tent. No one was around. He planned to leave the card at Nikolai’s trailer, but now, in the downpour, he worried that it would be ruined. He waited several minutes in hopes that the rain would lessen, then held the card under his jacket and jogged across the grass to the trailers. Water filled his shoes with his first steps. His pant legs were soaked from his knees to his ankles. He stopped just behind the tent and studied Nikolai’s trailer. The interior was dark. He hesitated, but his earlier resolve returned. He rushed to the trailer, pushed the card inside the screen door, watched a moment to be sure it stayed dry, then pulled his jacket tight as he hurried back to his car. He started the engine and descended the hill quickly, sure that no one had seen him.

  Lillian was sitting in her overstuffed chair slicing tomatoes when Whiting arrived at his mother’s house later that evening. She had pulled one of the heavy chrome chairs before her to use as a make-shift table. Her pups crowded around her hoping for a treat. Whiting kissed the top of her head and sat down at the table.

  “It’s good to see you, Mama. How have you been?”

  “I’m fine, Sammy. But you look tired. Are you getting enough rest? Is everything all right?”

  Paris, one of the poodles, hopped up and down beside the chair where Lillian worked. Whiting knew the dog wanted to jump into his mother’s lap, but the chair prevented it. He pushed the pup away. The poodle snapped, and he yanked his hand back. A damp, pink mark rose on the flesh between his thumb and index finger.

  “Get down!” he said, as much from fear as anger. Lillian stretched to place the plate of tomatoes on the kitchen table, pushed back the chair, and pulled the pup onto her lap.

  “Mama, don’t do that. He tried to bite me!”

  “He’s only a baby. Don’t be that way.”

  “He’s six years old. Besides, when you do that, it encourages him.”

  “You’re upsetting him.” She rubbed the dog’s back.

  “He upset me. Now make him get down.”

  Lillian looked hurt but pushed the dog from her lap. It scurried to the far side of her chair and peered out at Whiting, who glared back.

  He rubbed his hand and decided that his mother loved the dog more than him. Even as this idea occurred to him, he knew it was absurd, even pathetic. Still, he wanted to say it aloud—to argue with his mother and make her admit that the poodle had been in the wrong.

  “Please don’t be this way.” Lillian’s words roused him from his thoughts. “You just got here. And the first thing you do is fight with Paris.” She held a smile, as if to cheer him.

  “I’m not fighting with him.” He said, each word clipped. “He’s a dog; he tried to bite me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Her smile faded. He resented the dog and his mother and wishe
d he hadn’t come. Taking a measured breath, he decided to try again.

  “Mama, can I fix you a soda?”

  Lillian brightened. “Let’s each have a Coke. I’ve got our mugs in the freezer. The ice is already in them.”

  Whiting retrieved a plastic jug of Coca-Cola from the pantry and filled their mugs. He poured too quickly and the soda foamed over Lillian’s glass. She leaned forward and sucked at it, then smiled at him above the rim. It was the gesture of a child, and he softened. But he also saw how old she looked. When he thought of her, it was the Lillian of his youth he imagined. Her hair was black then, and he always thought of her as beautiful. Now her hair was completely gray, with streaks of white at her temples. His heart caught like a cough, and he put out his hand to cover hers.

  “I love you, Mama.”

  Her eyes widened and a surprised smile spread across her face.

  “What a lovely thing to say. You know I love you too.” She slipped her hand from beneath his and rose from her chair. She pushed the kitchen chair like a walker as she crossed to the stove. She squeezed his shoulder as she passed.

  “Sammy, give me the milk from the refrigerator, please. And the butter. I’ll just mash these potatoes, and then we can eat.”

  “What can I do, Mama? What do you need?” He handed her the milk and waited for more instructions.

  “I’ve got a salad in the refrigerator, and a plate of sweet pickles. Get those out. Do you need more Coke? Pour me a little while you’re up.”

  He refilled her mug and watched as she pulled a boiling pot from the stove and carried it the few steps to the sink. She balanced the pot on her drain board as she pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. She tilted the pot of boiling water toward the sink and held back the potatoes with the pot’s lid as steam shot up. Wisps of hair around her face curled in the updraft. Her position looked awkward and dangerous.

  “Why don’t you stand to do that? You could get burned.”