Dancing with Gravity Page 3

  I’m disgraced. I was seen listening at the door, then running to cover my transgression. Who listens to other people’s conversations? Not the chaplain. The idea of being reprimanded by Mother Frances loomed. It was still bright and sunny outside, but he was sure the room grew darker. He sat heavily in his chair and placed his hands on his desk pad. He moved his fingertips gingerly, as though the surface could burn.

  “I must calm myself. I am overreacting.” He forced himself to take a deep breath. “I did nothing wrong.” As soon as he said this, he felt slightly reassured. “I had every right to pass the boardroom on my way to my office.” He took another deep breath, held it a few seconds, then exhaled slowly. His confidence increased. “I paused, yes. It’s only human nature.” He folded his hands together and straightened his shoulders. “If anyone should be upset, it’s the people in that room who were shouting at one another.” They’re the ones who should feel embarrassed, not me. I was just an innocent bystander.

  Whiting was suddenly insulted at the idea of being questioned by the nun. He rose from his chair. “It was Childs Littleton who acted like an adolescent—he’s the one who should feel ashamed.” He paced before his desk. “Besides, the phone call may have nothing to do with this morning.” At this last thought, he brightened considerably. Then he tried to remember another time when Mother Frances had phoned him for a private meeting. Nothing came to mind. “Well, why would she? With all the demands placed on her, her days are scarcely her own. She has no reason to call me for private meetings. None at all.” As was often the case, his reasoning circled back to the original point. Defeated, he returned to his chair, took up his directory, and dialed the number. I should have stayed in Italy.

  By two-thirty that afternoon, Father Whiting was driving to his meeting with Mother Frances. It was hard for him to concentrate, and he often had to refer back to his map. He had not been to the motherhouse before, but that hardly mattered: his sense of direction was so flawed that even when he had been to a place several times, he rarely retained the information for more than a week. After years of failed attempts to improve, he had resorted to word maps and basic drawings for many of his destinations. He kept these in a folder in his desk, which he had deliberately mislabeled “Follow-up,” in order to hide the maps from anyone—primarily Carla—that might happen upon them and discover his shortcoming. The existence of the maps pained him, but he depended upon them and always kept them close, as it was his habit never to delete a map once it had been created.

  He checked his watch. I’ll be just in time for the appointment. He crossed to the left turn lane, turned, and took one last look at his map, then dropped it onto the empty seat beside him. He passed through a stone entranceway, then downshifted into second gear as he ascended a steep incline. Two rows of mature blue spruce lined both sides of the gravel road and cast deep shadows across the hood of his car.

  As he crested the hill, he saw an immense red-and-white-striped tent shimmering in the afternoon light. Perhaps there’s some fundraising event and they need me to say a prayer? Whiting slowed to stare. A gaunt, pony-tailed man in a gray jumpsuit passed behind the tent; he was leading an elephant. Whiting stopped. Where am I? He grabbed his map and reread the directions. I followed them exactly—wrote them just as Mother Frances’s secretary told me. Even read them back to her. He studied his line drawing at the bottom of the page. It matched his word map perfectly. Whiting looked up to get his bearings and suddenly realized that his car was rolling off the side of the road. His foot missed the brake pedal and he pulled hard on the emergency hand brake, lurching into his seat belt as the car stopped. He held tight to the brake, knuckles white around its handle, until he was sure that the wheels had locked. Perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip. He checked his watch.

  I must be on the grounds of the motherhouse. Craning his neck, he looked up, out and around, and searched for something—anything—that might reassure him. The tent was real, the elephant still visible—just. He found the brake pedal and released the emergency.

  He shifted into first and pulled back on the road, slowed and stopped, leaning close to his windshield to take in the scene. If he had taken a wrong turn, if he were not already on the grounds of the motherhouse, then he would be late for his appointment. He considered parking his car and going inside the tent to ask directions, but felt compelled to keep moving. He let the clutch out, slowly passing the great striped tent, as a second, smaller tent—vibrant blue and decorated with gold stars, came into view. He rolled down his window, slowed, and stared at the tent, hoping someone would come out and give him directions. Nobody noticed him. As he rounded a coppice, the motherhouse came into view.

  Although Whiting could not have put his expectations into words, he was, nonetheless, surprised by the grandeur of the stone structure before him. Nuns live here? A small wooden sign at the head of the footpath read Motherhouse of the Missionary Sisters of the Little Flower. It didn’t seem possible.

  He parked in the circular drive and turned off the ignition, but remained behind the wheel as he took in the building. Square angle pavilions marked the north and south ends of the white stone structure. Twenty-four windows pierced its three-stories. Each window alternated with a carved stone pilaster. An arched window in the center of the third story mirrored the grand entrance on the first floor. Carved double doors, offset by fussy Corinthian columns, distinguished the entrance itself. As Whiting studied the arched entryway, he tried to imagine what awaited him inside.

  He took two quick breaths and got out of his car, then pulled his folded jacket from the back seat, brushed the sleeves, and angled into it. After a brief pause, he climbed the wide stone stairs, then stood for several moments at the door, trying to collect himself before he rang the bell.

  A short, plump nun with a florid face answered so quickly that he felt momentarily embarrassed that she had been watching him.

  “I’m Father Samuel Whiting. I have a three-o’clock appointment with Mother Frances?” he asked, as if justifying his presence. Whiting did not know the nun, whom he guessed was in her late sixties, perhaps even her late seventies; he had difficulty guessing a person’s age, and nuns were always a particular challenge.

  “Mother Superior is expecting you, Father.” She opened the door wide and stood aside as he entered. He wondered whether she knew why he had been summoned, whether he was being evaluated. The idea made his stomach burn.

  To his surprise, the interior of the motherhouse was brighter, airier, than the exterior suggested. Sunlight streamed through mullioned windows and created an almost palpable sense of harmony and peace. Dust mites cascaded through the sunbeams, making him feel that he was floating in the movement of light around him. The muted colors of the walls and patterned stone floors reminded him of his visit, only days before, to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. The tranquil beauty of the motherhouse, combined with the colorful tents and the elephant, made him feel as though he had stepped outside his life—a sensation that did not calm his anxieties so much as divert his attention from them.

  “Please follow me.” The nun did not quite meet his eyes. She walked swiftly along the polished corridors. Her cream-colored scapular and black veil fluttered with her pace. Being summoned was disquieting. Whiting altered his stride so that it matched the muffled footfalls of the nun’s, then dropped back several steps so that he could take in his surroundings.

  Four opened doors on the left offered views of spacious offices. An opened door to his right revealed floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books. A novice in a white veil sat alone at a long table, a text open before her. She did not look up as they passed.

  His guide crossed herself as she passed an incised crucifix, and then stopped before a carved wooden door at the end of the hall. She knocked, then pushed it open and motioned him inside.

  Whiting gave an involuntary murmur of surprise as he entered the room. Three paned windows ordered the light, illuminated white stucco walls and dark woodwork, an
d offered a lush view of a garden beyond. The room contained only a desk, two leather guest chairs, a worktable with four wooden chairs, and an armoire. The furnishings were sparse but appeared very old and beautifully preserved.

  Mother Frances sat at her desk, writing. She was a slightly plump woman past sixty and just over five feet tall. Her skin was very pale, with a faint sheen, as though it had been polished by years of determined scrubbing. Two deep creases traced from the corners of her mouth to her ample chin and neck, giving her a sweet, even soft appearance, like an ecclesiastical Hershey’s Kiss. Her ear lobes protruded from her black veil. Fleshy and wrinkled, they reminded Whiting of carnations. He studied her hand as it moved swiftly across the page. It was heavily freckled with age spots, and her knuckles were large and reddened and gave the impression of being painful. She put down her pen and looked up at him.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Father, but I’m afraid that if I don’t write down my thoughts as they occur to me, they are often lost forever.” She extended her arm to direct him toward one of the leather guest chairs. Whiting started toward the chair, but then decided she was offering a handshake. He quickly retraced his steps and reached over her desk for her hand. The gesture caught her off guard. In their conflicting movements, he caught only the tips of her fingers. He shook them clumsily, and sat down. He could feel his face warming. He knew it must be crimson.

  “May I offer you something? Tea perhaps?” Whiting was unable to discern the nun’s mood, but with the offer of tea, he relaxed deeper into the chair.

  “Tea would be very nice, thank you.”

  The nun who had escorted him to the office left the room. Whiting and Mother Frances looked at one another in silence.

  “The motherhouse is extraordinary,” he said at last. The Mother Superior offered a half smile. “If I hadn’t read the sign, I may have thought I was at a country estate.”

  Her smile faded; he immediately regretted his remark, which, he feared, had sounded like a criticism.

  “It was once the residence—and, some say, the obsession—of a businessman named Edmund Walsch. He designed the house himself. The stone came from the property.”

  Whiting smiled and nodded. He hoped Mother Frances would read this as his strong approval. “It would seem that Mr. Walsch was not only a lover of architecture, but a great philanthropist as well. Was he one of the civic leaders who helped Archbishop Glennon bring the Missionary Sisters to St. Louis?” Whiting’s mention of the late Archbishop had been deliberate: he wanted to impress Mother Frances with his knowledge of her order’s history. A faint smile returned to the nun’s face, and he secretly complimented himself for his success.

  “Actually, our ownership of the house has less to do with philanthropy than you may think. Mr. Walsch lost everything during the depression. It was a classmate of his—a banker—who foreclosed on the house and told the Archbishop of its availability.”

  “Then it was the banker who arranged for the sale?”

  “There was no sale, Father. The banker presented the house to the Archbishop as a gift.”

  “A gift?” Whiting’s eyebrows became serious. He lifted one and offered an approving nod.

  “The banker was in need of an annulment.” She paused. “I understand that his second wedding took place in the Cathedral Basilica.”

  Whiting opened his mouth, but had no idea how to respond. Just then, the other nun returned with a tea tray, which she set at the edge of Mother Frances’s desk. She did not look at either of them as she prepared the cups and saucers. No one spoke. Whiting shifted in his chair. The settling of the cushions sounded very loud to him and he stopped himself in mid-motion—in a position that quickly pained his back—as he tried to slowly adjust his posture. The leather amplified his slightest action. He gave up on incremental moves, made one last, loud shift and turned his attention to the nun with the tea tray.

  “Do you take sugar or cream?” asked Mother Frances.

  “Both please.” The second nun, who stood at the tea service, moved the creamer and sugar bowl to one corner of the tray.

  “One spoon or two?” asked Mother Frances.

  “One, please.” The other nun scooped a spoonful of sugar from the bowl into one of the cups.

  “And cream?” asked Mother Frances.

  “Just a little.”

  The nun added cream and stirred in the tea.

  Whiting was suddenly seized with the idea that the nun at the tray was a large puppet controlled, invisibly, by Mother Frances. He barked a laugh, which escaped like a prisoner offered a chance to run. Mother Frances looked sharply at him. Stunned by his own behavior, he straightened at once. But the image of the puppet refused to go away. He smiled broadly, and a sibilant rush of air escaped around his teeth. He knew he must seem mad.

  The nun handed Whiting the cup of tea. Relieved to have something to do, he leapt from his chair to accept it. Their hands collided and he nearly sent the teacup tumbling. Tea sloshed onto his saucer and splattered his trousers. He steadied the cup, then hunched forward and took a long swallow to calm his nerves.

  “Would you care for a scone, Father? We make them with herbs from our garden.”

  Whiting accepted a scone and, finding himself ravenous, bit into it at once. Fresh air, anxiety, and hunger all met in his first taste. Mother Frances accepted a cup of tea and turned to the other nun.

  “Get Father something to dry his pants, Sister. Thank you.” As soon as the door of her office closed, the Mother Superior addressed him.

  “I asked you here, Father, so that we could discuss a most important matter—in private.” Whiting’s throat constricted. “It was supposed to be a matter between myself and the board of directors, but that, apparently, is not to be the case.”

  Whiting’s hands went cold as he recalled the corridor outside the boardroom. He stopped chewing, stopped moving altogether, so that he could give the nun his full attention. Mother Frances folded her hands on the desk. He wondered whether she was waiting for him to explain his presence that morning. Even if he had wanted to confess, he could not. He could not speak, nor could he swallow the scone. Whiting studied the nun’s face. The pewter frames of her eyeglasses glistened on her thin, sharp nose. Her gray eyes appeared cold and unyielding. Her lips had barely any color in them. She’s enraged. She’s struggling to control herself. He tried to steel himself for whatever she might say next, but was not at all sure that he could withstand the humiliation of a reprimand in such close quarters. I need to leave the room before she has a chance to say more. But he could not bring himself to rise. He lowered his eyes in embarrassment and dread.

  “You undoubtedly noticed the tents on the grounds when you arrived.” The question confused him, but he nodded and offered a weak smile. “It seems that the Missionary Sisters have inherited a circus.” Whiting looked up, his smile exposing bits of scone where his lips parted. He had absolutely no idea where the conversation was going. “After careful deliberation and prayer, we have decided to keep it—at least for the time being.” She paused again. “The board of directors feels otherwise.” As she said these last words, she kept her eyes trained on Whiting’s. He swallowed more tea. At last, the scone went down.

  “I … um.” His mind raced as he considered how to reply. “That is … of course the interactions between the sisters and the board of directors are none of my concern.” Whiting thought the nun’s expression hardened. She knows I was listening at the boardroom door. She leaned forward. “But it does concern you, Father.”

  I must apologize for eavesdropping before this conversation goes any further. “If only I might explain ….”

  She lowered her head and put up a hand to stop him. “Please. Allow me to continue.”

  Whiting ceased his confession. He rose from his chair and placed his teacup on the tray. The other nun returned with a towel and left again. He remained standing—certain that Mother Frances’s reproach was at hand. The towel hung in his hand.


  “Please have a seat, Father.”

  Whiting pursed his lips and remained standing. The door was just a few steps away and he eyed it longingly.

  Mother Frances took a deep breath and continued, “Father, I want you to take on a special, temporary assignment. I want you to bless the circus. I also ask that you say Sunday Mass at the motherhouse for the sisters and the circus performers. We hope to be able to arrange for an alternate—every fourth week, perhaps—but the primary responsibility would be yours. In brief, I am asking you to take on the spiritual needs of the circus while it is with us.”

  Whiting sat. His mind was all confusion and relief. He abandoned his plans to confess, and focused his attention on this surprising turn. “Sunday Mass? I thought Father Devereaux said Sunday Mass at the motherhouse.”

  “Father Devereaux has been relieved of that duty.”

  “Is he ill? I hope that nothing has happened ….”

  “Father Devereaux is in good health. Our decision was based on other considerations.” Her expression was placid, but Whiting was sure that something very dramatic must have taken place.

  “When would I begin?”

  “We’d like you to bless the circus as soon as Lent is ended. Your Sunday commitment would begin then.”

  “For how long?”

  “We anticipate performances throughout the summer. After that, I’m not quite sure. I should know more in a few weeks.”

  “Performances?” Whiting smiled at the idea.

  “Why, yes, Father. These people have endured a great deal of hardship to come to us. Their work will provide comfort and a sense of order and purpose. They want very much to continue as a professional troupe.”