Dancing with Gravity Read online

  She gave her attention to the potatoes without answering him. She added milk and a wedge of butter.

  “Mama,” he repeated, “why don’t you stand? That looks so uncomfortable.”

  She cast him an exasperated look as she mashed the potatoes. “It’s too hard for me to stand. I can’t work like I did before.”

  The bluntness of her answer shocked him; he stared dumbly at her, seeing the reality of what she said. Her face was thin, and as she worked, he saw how the flesh hung on her upper arms. She looked tired and very small.

  Whiting jumped from his chair. “Please, let me do that for you.”

  She smiled over at him, but continued working.

  “I’ve got a new jar of stuffed green olives in the refrigerator. I thought you’d like them with your supper. Get them out, please.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Take a good look. I keep thinking that I’m forgetting something.”

  He opened the refrigerator wide and stared in. Except for a few condiments, everything else was in Tupperware containers. He had no idea what he should be looking for.

  “Give me your plate,” she said. “I’ve cooked a roast with all the trimmings, so I hope you’re hungry.”

  It was too warm for such a heavy meal, and the stifling kitchen enhanced the effect. As soon as he swallowed his first slice of roast, beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.

  “This is wonderful. You must have been cooking all day.”

  Lillian half closed her eyes and beamed at the compliment.

  “Say grace for us, Sammy.”

  The request caught him by surprise. She asked for grace only at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Even then she added her own comments about the seasons and the bounty of the earth, which made the grace sound more Druid than Christian. Most often, he was left to cross himself and offer a quick silent prayer as his mother focused on her meal. He set his fork down, bent his head and crossed himself.

  “In the name of Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Bless us, O Lord, for these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive, through Thy bounty in Christ, our Lord, Amen.” He crossed himself again and looked up.

  His mother’s eyes were still closed; she rested her forehead in her hand. Her brow was furrowed, as though she were trying to remember something. A moment later, she opened her eyes and smiled. She patted his hands—an expression of maternal approval and something else, something he could not quite name. Lillian leaned back in her chair, clutching her plate to her chest. Her poodle, Taffy, took small, restless steps forward and back in an effort to get his mother’s attention. Lillian set her plate on the table and tore pieces of her roast beef for the dog.

  “Eat first. You can feed the dogs later.” I’ve heard this happens. I sound like the parent now. The poodle made several unsuccessful jumps to get onto Lillian’s lap. Whiting wanted to reach over and shake the dog. He felt childish for his anger, but he couldn’t help it.

  “I haven’t seen you in so long. I want to hear all about your week—your month.”

  Delighted that she was interested, he leaned forward and shared stories about the summer circus camp and the animals. She laughed as he described Leah and Joseph’s performing terriers, but her expression grew more ambiguous when he talked about the performers. Whiting chose his words carefully, omitted or amended details he did not want to disclose. And although he tried to stop himself, he mentioned Nikolai three times. He mentioned Sarah once.

  “Be careful of those people. Don’t trust them,” she warned, interrupting one of his stories. As soon as he heard her words, he wished he hadn’t told her anything. They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

  “Sammy, let me run your cards.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “You know I tell your fortune when you’re not here,” she said. “This way, I’ll get a better reading.” She pulled the deck of cards from behind the sugar bowl. “Come on. Do this for your mother.”

  “I don’t even remember how to do it.” He felt self-conscious, even foolish, but he was curious too. As he took the cards in his hands, some old, half-forgotten comfort rose up in him, made him want to hear what she might say.

  “Shuffle them while I put things away.” She rose with some effort and, using the edge of the table and the back of his chair for support, made her way to the refrigerator. “Clear your mind of everything but the thing you want to know.”

  He considered several questions, but dismissed each of them in turn as he shuffled. His thoughts went to the circus and to the card he left at Nikolai’s trailer. I won’t think of that. He didn’t entirely believe in his mother’s fortune-telling abilities, but he had never quite dismissed them either. He even considered foregoing the fortune altogether because he knew that for the next several days he would assess incidents through the lens of her predictions. I’ll just hold the general idea of the circus performers in my head. Include Nikolai among the others.

  Lillian took the pickles, olives, and Jell-O from the table. As she passed his chair, Whiting took back the bowl of gelatin and helped himself to more.

  “I’ll give you leftovers. Focus on the cards.” She placed the lids over the pots and came back to her chair. “Now cut them with your left hand and make a wish. I don’t have to know what it is.”

  Images of Nikolai on the trapeze came to mind. He thought of the television crew filming the summer circus camp, Nikolai teaching the children. He blushed as he made his wish. He cut the cards and placed them before his mother. She watched him with the intensity of a high-stakes gambler.

  “You have your wish straight in your head?”

  He nodded. She pulled a kitchen chair close to use as a table and laid out three stacks of cards. She tapped each one with the tip of her right index finger, then turned them over.

  “Jack of clubs, ten of hearts, ten of spades,” her voice was little more than a whisper. She dealt the cards in rows—nine cards to a row—moving left to right. The cards snapped in her hands as they slid from the glossy deck onto the vinyl chair. She leaned over them in silence.

  “Hmm,” she said. He could never make any sense of the arrangements, but he leaned forward as well. “Hmm,” she said again.

  “What is it?” He looked from his mother’s face to the cards, then back at her. Both were indecipherable. She tapped the first card.

  “That’s you,” she said. “You’re always the jack of clubs.”

  Whiting scrutinized the card. His mother frowned.

  “What is it? What do you see?”

  “The ten of hearts is great love. You’re facing this love.”

  A shiver moved down his spine. Lillian looked from the cards to her son, studying him as she had the cards. He fought a smile. Her expression remained impassive. He looked down at the cards. Her right hand hovered over the ten of spades. She lowered her palm, but did not touch it. He had the idea that the card was exerting some force that kept her hand away, as magnets repel when placed end-to-end at their same poles.

  “The ten of spades is trouble. Trouble and tears. And it lies on the other side of the ten of hearts.” She tapped the jack again. “See how you face the ten of hearts? But the ten of spades is there too.”

  He looked from one card to the other as if, at any moment, some drama might unfold. “But if it’s away from the jack—even by one card—that’s good.” His inflection made it a question, a bid for reassurance.

  Lillian looked up quickly. “It’s not good if you don’t see it coming.”

  Whiting studied his mother’s eyes. Neither of them spoke. She took the next stack of cards and repeated the arrangement, laying them in tight rows over the others. Only the corners of the first row were visible beneath the new layer. She pressed her fingertips to the edge of the chair as she studied them. Her expression clouded.

  “I don’t think I understand,” she said.

  Whiting scanned the rows of cards: red and black — random face cards and number
cards intermixed. He had no idea what the configuration signified. If his mother were confused, then the answer to his secret question would be lost. Anxiety swept over him. He wanted to urge her to try harder, but he forced himself to stay silent, to wait. Lillian took up the third stack of cards and fanned them across the chair. After several moments, she pushed the cards into a heap.

  “Why did you do that? What did they say?”

  “Bad cards. They made no sense.”

  Whiting was sure she was withholding something. Lillian sat back in her chair. Her expression was pensive. He watched her in silence. At last she leaned forward.

  “Sammy, I want you to do something for me.” As she spoke, Lillian gathered up the cards and handed him the deck. “I want you to shuffle the cards again, and while you do it, I want you to make a wish. When you’re ready, pick nine cards and put them on the chair, face down. As you pick each one, I want you to think your wish.”

  He did as his mother instructed. “Okay, that’s nine.”

  Lillian turned the cards over. Moving left to right, she placed them in three rows of three cards each. The first three cards were low numbers. She laid the second set above the first. The second card was the jack of clubs.

  “You again,” she said. She took up the third set of cards and turned them over to reveal the king of spades, seven of clubs, queen of diamonds.

  “Who are these people, Sammy? They keep showing up for you—they’re very important. But I don’t know who they are.”

  He looked from Lillian to the cards. “I have no idea.”

  “They’re strong in your fortune. They even show up when I ask about you in my own cards.”

  Whiting shrugged and shook his head, as if nothing came to mind.

  “There are two of them. A dark man and a woman with lighter hair. She’s not married, but he is—or maybe he’s divorced.”

  Whiting met her descriptions with a growing unease, but kept silent.

  “And you don’t know these people?”

  He gave his attention to the cards. “Sarah James has auburn hair.”

  “What color are her eyes?”

  “Blue…gray. They’re light. They change.” I feel like I’m being interrogated.

  “Is she seeing someone? A married man?”

  His chest tightened. “I wouldn’t know. I really doubt it. She certainly wouldn’t tell me.” This wasn’t information he wanted to share. He tried to make a joke with his last comment, but Lillian remained serious.

  “So do you know a dark man, maybe over forty, maybe married. Probably married before?”

  Pressed by Lillian’s tenacious query, he lied. “That description is too vague. I can hardly narrow it down.” I’m not going to discuss it. “Really, I’m at a loss. Forgive me.”

  Lillian was undeterred. “Listen, I can only tell you what I see. It worries me. Be careful. Please. For me.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me.” He laughed to make light of her comment, but a wave of anxiety passed over him.

  “I worry about your heart. About your peace and happiness.”

  “Really, Mama, there’s nothing to worry about.” He patted his mother’s hand and got up from the table to clear their dishes.

  Lillian kept the cards before her a few moments longer, then pushed the kitchen chair aside—the vibration of the chair legs shuffling the cards into a heap. She scooped them up and set them on the table, then slid the chair over to the sink and sat down as she busied herself preparing containers of food for him to take back to his apartment.

  “Give me the tin foil. And a couple of the bowls from the pantry.” She rinsed and dried the already-clean containers—a habit he had always known her to do, and one he followed himself.

  “Oh my God. I forgot the applesauce!” she said. “Oh well, take the jar with you. You can always use it at home.”

  After the leftovers were stacked and ready, she began washing their dishes.

  “Here, Sammy, put these in the cupboard.” She handed him two plates and bowls, still wet from the rinse.

  “They aren’t dry.”

  “They’re fine.”

  “No, there’s water in them. Let them drain.”

  “No room.”

  “Then give me a towel. You can’t put them away like that.”

  “Of course I can.”

  Whiting took a seat at the table. He was uneasy. When had his mother started this? It seemed that every time he came to see her, there was some new behavior that was not the mother he remembered. He never mentioned any of this to her. It would upset them both. And he never mentioned it to anyone else—to do so would feel disloyal.

  When Lillian turned from the sink, the front of her housedress was drenched. She stood slowly, then scooted the chair across the kitchen to her pink chair. She sat down heavily and threw her head against the back of her chair, eyes closed. He was surprised to see that she was winded.

  “Are you all right, Mama?” He waited. “Mama?”

  She opened her eyes. “It’s too hot to do all the dishes.” She gave a quick smile, as though she’d let him in on a joke.

  “I can finish them.”

  She waved away the suggestion.

  “Mama, let me do something to help you before I go.”

  “Let’s have some Lorna Doones together. They’re in the refrigerator.”

  Whiting pulled the cookies out and placed the opened package between them.

  “Why do you keep them in there?”

  “To keep them fresh.”

  Her answer made sense. Still, he could not dismiss his growing disquiet. He poured more Coca-Cola and added fresh ice cubes to their mugs. After his third cookie, he pushed the sack away and took his mug to the sink.

  “Have another cookie. You don’t have to go yet.”

  “I’m tired, Mama. I have a long day tomorrow. Then on Friday I’ll start my weekend schedule with the circus performances.”

  “But you don’t have to be there. You can stay a little longer.” She pushed the sack of cookies back toward his chair. “Have another cookie.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, but I have to go.” He crossed to Lillian’s chair and kissed the top of her head. “I love you.” A pang of sadness seized him. Once he left, his mother would be alone with her dogs. She had few people she might phone, and even fewer who would visit. “Do you feel safe here at night?” he asked.

  “The pups would let me know right away if anybody came near the door.”

  It wasn’t an answer, but he wanted to leave and didn’t pursue it. He kissed his mother’s head again. Where was the beautiful mother he remembered? The woman who held his hand in strange cities, who needed pills to sleep? The woman who sat before him now was frail. The fact surprised him, as though it had happened in an instant. He felt such sudden and overwhelming tenderness for her that he thought he might cry. He squeezed her hand.

  “I love you, Mama.”

  She smiled back sweetly. “I love you too, Sammy. Always remember that. Always. No mother ever had a better son.”

  Whiting walked through his mother’s house, checking locks and windows. He set his bag of leftovers on her porch, then carried her trash through her narrow yard to the dumpster in the alley. A sour odor rushed up as he raised the lid; the inside of the bin gave off its own heat. He heaved the plastic bag over the side, heard the echo as it fell into the nearly empty container, then let the lid drop with a crash. He looked for something to wipe his fingers. Whiting stood for several minutes in the darkness, listening to the cicadas with their signals like the sounds from electric wires. The light went out in Lillian’s kitchen. He retraced his steps through the yard, the gate, the gangway, to the street, and got into his car. He took a tissue out of the glove compartment and wiped his hands.

  Thunder rumbled, and rain drummed hard on the ceiling and walls of the tent, but inside was warm and dry, even cozy. Whiting sat at a distance from the performers with his plate on his lap. There were fewer people at t
he after-performance dinner, and the ones who were there seemed more subdued than usual. But the other performers, like the food on his plate, held little interest: he was eager to learn Nikolai’s reaction to the card—wanted and feared it equally. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice when Anjo sat down next to him. His first reaction was irritation; he had chosen his seat so that he and Nikolai might talk without being overheard.

  “So Father, you don’t like the rest of us anymore?”

  “That’s never the case.” Whiting punctuated his sentence with a tight smile. “It gets noisy at these suppers,” he added. “It can be hard to talk.”

  Anjo leaned closer. His usual expansiveness was absent. “Sometimes, all you want is a little peace.”

  Whiting thought he should try to make conversation, but he really wanted Anjo to leave. “You sound tired.”

  Anjo let out a quick sigh. “I’m having some trouble sleeping.” He cast a quick glance toward Whiting. “There are things that worry me. From the past …”

  There was a rustle at the curtain. Whiting looked up and was disappointed to see that it was not Nikolai, but two of the clowns who entered the tent. “Sorry to hear the show at the county courthouse was cancelled. I hear the wind mangled some of the cable stays.”

  Anjo nodded. “Caught us by surprise. At first we thought it might miss us. But once it began to blow there was no way we could do anything.”

  “I’m sure the audience was disappointed.” Whiting kept glancing toward the curtain.

  “We tried to wait it out. We sat on the benches inside the courthouse. I think it’s where they bring the prisoners through.” Anjo moved the food around his plate but didn’t seem interested. “There was a man there. I … I don’t know. It’s possible he’s from Nicaragua, from my town.”

  “One of the prisoners? That must have been upsetting.” Whiting kept his eyes trained on the curtain.

  “Um … I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  Nikolai stepped through the curtain and crossed to the food table. Whiting needed Anjo to leave.

  “Listen, if you’d like, we could talk after Mass, or maybe one day next week? Let’s set up a time so we won’t be interrupted.” He pulled his black date book from his breast pocket.