Dancing with Gravity Page 5

  “But why are they here?”

  “She left everything she had to the Missionary Sisters. She owned the circus—not the people of course—but the animals, trailers, everything else. When she realized she was dying, she told the performers to head here, to the motherhouse. She promised that the sisters would help them.”

  “Where is everyone now?”

  “For now, the sisters are keeping them at the motherhouse as much as possible. Just in case anyone comes out here to snoop around. There’s talk of the government being interested.”

  “Whose government? Ours or theirs?”

  “Either. Both. I don’t know.”

  “Where are all these people from?”

  “Central and South America—Nicaragua, Guatemala, El Salvador, Argentina, Chile, Brazil. A few are from Europe, even Asia, but none of those people are refugees.”

  “What exactly is the board’s role in all of this?”

  “They were doing back-flips when they found out about the inheritance. It’s big. Maybe seven hundred and fifty million in properties and cash—it’s still being inventoried. And, as you may have guessed, they wanted the sisters to turn it over to the medical center, so it would be under their control.”

  “But the board can’t do that. If she left her money to the order, then that’s who inherits, not the hospital.”

  “That’s what we thought—at first.”

  “At first?”

  “Actually, the language in the will is less than clear. Mrs. Finch left everything ‘for the sisters’ mission,’ but the sisters and the board interpret that mission differently.”

  “Surely Mother Frances has consulted the order’s lawyers.”

  “Of course she has. But there are lawyers on the hospital board as well. If anything, it’s just made both sides more entrenched.”

  “Why don’t the sisters just wait them out?”

  “I’m thinking that would have been their approach. But then, when the whole convoy of trucks and trailers showed up at the motherhouse, the sisters realized they were involved in something much more complicated than they’d imagined. The board didn’t know about the politics, of course, but they saw that Mother Frances was suddenly diverted. Childs Littleton, thinking he had the advantage, came up with the board’s Stewardship Initiative—isn’t that a cozy name? When Mother Frances refused to go along, all hell broke loose.”

  “Was Father Devereaux aware of any of this?”

  A look of surprise and approval passed over Sarah’s face. “Aware of it? He was swimming in it. But he made a serious tactical error: he backed Littleton and his cronies on the board. He lobbied hard—issues of dignity, mission, all that. Things got out of hand.” As she said this, she rubbed her thumb against her forefinger to indicate money. Both sides have agreed to sever his relationship with the motherhouse. And you, as the saying goes, have been volunteered. You can thank me later.” She leaned back in her chair.

  Whiting’s mind buzzed. The situation threatened to send him into a full-fledged anxiety attack, but there was something so honorable, so romantic about the story that it captured his imagination and his full attention. And besides, Sarah had specifically asked Mother Frances to request his help.

  “I think I’ll reserve the thanks, but I have to admit that I’m surprised you wanted my assistance.”

  “Face it, Sam, you get along with everybody. God knows you probably ought to be sainted—or at least given a really good parking spot—for not murdering some of the arrogant department heads we have to work with.” She smiled at her own joke. “Besides, with your work at the hospital, you’re really the perfect choice—the only choice.” Whiting straightened in his chair. Although he couldn’t have said why, Sarah’s answer made him suddenly irritable.

  “I’ve just returned to work and I’m behind on everything. It was probably a very bad idea to even consider me.”

  “I only made the suggestion. You committed yourself.”

  “I’m not playing word games. You know what I mean.”

  “Look, Sam. You’re the one who met with Mother Frances. If you thought it was a bad idea, you should have said so. The fact that you’re here tells me that you agreed to help.”

  “I was caught off guard. I was expecting—”

  “Please, listen to me.” Her tone was emphatic, passionate. “There is so much at stake here. It might look like a fight over money, but it’s deeper than that. The board wants everything under their control: the hospital, the endowment, the bequest, and the power. And to force the sisters to give in, they’ve made the circus their primary target. They want these people gone, no matter how that happens and no matter what happens to them if they’re forced to go back.”

  “But why? Mrs. Finch is dead. Why would the sisters even want to keep it?”

  “Maybe they do; maybe they don’t. But they need time to figure things out.”

  “This hardly sounds like a project for an order of aging nuns.”

  Sarah’s eyes flashed. “That’s what I love about the Catholic Church: women are always just a little less capable than men.” Whiting took a breath to speak, but she put up a hand to stop him. “Those ‘aging nuns,’ as you so delicately put it, seem to do a pretty good job running a medical center.”

  “Don’t twist my words. You know that’s not what I meant. But if even half of what you’ve said is true ….” Now it was Whiting’s turn to put up a hand to stem her reply. “If this situation is as volatile as you say, I cannot imagine how keeping a circus could be anything but a drain on our energies and resources. There are better places for our time and money.”

  “Well, fortunately, Loretto Finch didn’t feel it was too ‘volatile’ to get involved.”

  “This Mrs. Finch—whoever she was—was way out of bounds. You say the sisters didn’t even know what she was up to. She had no right to commit them to her scheme.”

  “Scheme? This woman was saving lives, Sam!”

  “Since when are you so concerned about social justice?” Whiting struggled to regain his composure. “All right. Let’s not call it a scheme. But she’s dead. Her work has ended. The sisters ought to think about who’s best to handle this kind of thing. They should let it go.”

  “Let it go? We can’t just ‘let it go.’ When Loretto got sick, schedules got disrupted. The whole thing started to unravel. The lights suddenly went on with government officials. The circus really had no choice but to leave. It’s incredible that everyone made it to safety. When you think of their courage, of what they risked to get here ….” She looked away. It was several seconds before she could continue. “Anyway, now that they’re here, we have an obligation to them.”

  “We?” He clenched his jaw. He was suddenly overwhelmed with misgivings. Mother Frances had asked for his help and he had given his word. But she withheld important information. I committed myself without knowing the truth. “Mother Frances knows all of this?”

  “Of course she does. It was a surprise; but she’s not backing down.”

  “Then why doesn’t she call Immigration? If those people are really in danger, surely they’d qualify for asylum.”

  “You can guarantee that? This circus includes people from a dozen countries. The red tape alone is a nightmare. And what if you’re wrong? If these people get sent back to Central America, to South America? They’ll be hunted, tortured, killed. Many of those governments are corrupt. Does the name Oscar Romero mean anything to you? How about San Salvador? They want to destroy every last shred of resistance. And if these people talk, they’ll endanger anyone who ever worked with Loretto, or even knew her. And what do you think all of this would do to the mission of the sisters—or the medical center, for that matter? The repercussions could go on for years, and for what?”

  “This is a mess. You don’t … I don’t know what to do.”

  Sarah leveled her gaze at him. “Look, Sam, I understand your indignation, but while you’ve been in Italy, we’ve been here. Just what is it that offend
s your Catholic sensibilities? Aren’t these the very people you’re supposed to help?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “We didn’t ask for this. But we’re in it, and we’re going to deal with it. Besides, I’ve gotten to know these people—some of them quite well. They’re not what you’d expect. They’re not like anyone you’ve ever met in your life.” Her eyes filled with tears. She turned back to the ring.

  “You’re asking too much of me—both of you. I’ve got obligations at the hospital. And with my mother. I don’t have the time.”

  “We need help. Someone we can trust. I thought that was you.”

  Stung by her disappointment, he fell silent. He studied her profile. There was something different—a new definition to her jaw, something in her bearing. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You know you can trust me.” He had no idea what to say. This was all too quick, too predetermined. This is not a decision discerned. I’m being asked to answer on impulse. This is not my way. His heart thudded. “Surely you can understand my reservations.”

  “I understand more than you know.” She wiped her tears with her sleeve. He found the gesture heartbreaking.

  “Sarah ….” he was helpless to say more.

  “The sisters aren’t fighting about money. They’re ministering, serving out of love. These people trusted Mrs. Finch. And when she died, they didn’t just disappear. They came to the motherhouse. They came to the sisters.”

  “But what can I do? I’m just a priest.”

  She turned toward him and pushed the hair back from her face. The ends brushed against his cheek, and the softness surprised him. “Come, bless the circus. Come and say Mass. We need you, Sam.”

  Whiting was defeated. “Then what? Where will this end?”

  “Things are going to get sorted out—but we need time. Please.”

  He studied her eyes, which had gone bloodshot from her tears. The blue of her irises appeared almost violet. “All right. What do we do first?”

  “Oh, thank you!” She leaned forward in her chair and hugged him around the neck. He could smell a faint sweetness, her perfume or shampoo, as he leaned into her hair. He hesitated, then moved his fingers against the softness of her sweater. His hands came to rest beneath her shoulder blades; he pressed his fingers, almost imperceptibly, to her spine. He hardly breathed.

  Sarah leaned away and smiled. “Let’s walk around the grounds. I want to show you some things, talk over our plans, and get your advice.”

  “Sarah, why do you want to do this?”

  “Maybe because I’ve met them. Maybe I do have a deep sense of social justice.” She smiled broadly. “Besides, when you meet these people, you’ll fall in love—just like I have.”

  She took his arm as they left the tent. The sun was low on the horizon and he was momentarily blinded by the glare. All he could see was the halo of her hair, a deep copper in the sunlight. Gradually, the outline of her face became visible. Her face was thinner, he was sure of it—actually heart-shaped. Then he saw the deep blue of her eyes. They were luminous. Sarah was in her early-thirties and at this moment she appeared to be at the height of her beauty. She radiated youth and energy—her commitment only added to her allure. He felt as though he was seeing her for the first time—or seeing something in her that she kept hidden.

  Whiting was distracted and overtired during rounds the following morning. He had passed a restless night filled with memories of his visit to the motherhouse. Unable to sleep, he had revisited his conversations with Sarah and Mother Frances and altered them with each repetition. In a few of the iterations, he had spoken up more during his meeting with Mother Frances. In one version, it was Mother Frances who told him about Mrs. Finch; and he, armed with this information, had reassured Sarah rather than arguing with her. Even now, he grimaced as he recalled how he must have appeared to her during his anxious moments in the tent.

  He took the west stairway back to his office—a departure from his usual route—in order to avoid passing the boardroom. When he opened the door to Pastoral Care, Carla’s expression betrayed her surprise.

  “You’re here.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” He stood at her desk waiting for his messages.

  “But your meeting with Mother Frances …”

  Whiting suddenly grasped her surprise—and disappointment. “Our meeting took longer than I’d expected. When it ended, I went home.”

  Carla narrowed her eyes. “So you’re … staying?”

  “Of course I’m staying.” He made up his mind not to tell her about the circus or the blessing.

  “It sounded so … urgent.” She studied him as she waited for his reply.

  “Urgent? Not at all. Well perhaps, in a way.” That should give her something to think about. “It was actually very pleasant.”

  Her expression hardened.

  “We had tea,” he said. “And scones. The herbs in the scones come from the sisters’ garden.” He smiled. “Anything happen while I was away?”

  Carla thrust his messages at him without speaking. Just then, Sarah entered the office clutching a stack of folders.

  “Oh good, Sam, you’re here. Morning, Carla.” She did not look at the secretary as she brushed past. “I spent the better part of last night putting together some ideas. I was going to call, but I couldn’t wait. Can you spare some time for me now?”

  Whiting stood dumbly before Sarah. She had been such a constant in his thoughts since yesterday that he was flustered to see her now.

  “Your office?” It was more a prompt than a question. He looked back at Carla to check her reaction; then remembered that she knew nothing of his meeting with Sarah in the tent. The idea thrilled him.

  “Of course. Come in.” He motioned her into his office, and then turned back to Carla. “Please, hold my calls. Unless, of course, Mother Frances calls again.” He could hardly contain his pleasure as he closed the door behind him.

  Over the next few days, Whiting became absorbed with thoughts of the circus—the possibilities, the mysteries. But the more he thought about it, the less prepared he felt for his assignment. His mother had taken him to the circus once or twice in his childhood, but he hardly remembered it. When he forced himself to concentrate, he could recall a ringmaster and lions. He suspected, however, that this was not the circus of his youth, but some image from television or the movies. He thought about the circus performers and about what kind of people they might be. He had an idea—again, he thought it might have come from a movie—that their lives were filled with intrigue and superstition. His mind went back to the dry, rusted trucks he’d seen parked behind the tent. The performers’ lives, he decided, were hard and unknowable.

  Sarah said that the acts in the Little Flower Circus—even its one ring structure—were in the European tradition. He didn’t even know there was a European tradition. This fact and others came as a revelation, excited his enthusiasm, and filled him with self-doubt. There was so much to learn and he had only a few weeks before the blessing. He had never considered himself a strong homilist, and his reservations about his abilities came into high relief when he imagined himself standing before the performers at the blessing or at Mass. They were bold, daring, and had seen so much. How could someone like him possibly address their spiritual needs? There was also Sarah. The performers were an abstract to him, but she was not. He wanted to do well in her eyes.

  The solution to his problem came to him suddenly, and he bounded from his office and out to Carla’s desk.

  “I’m going to the university library.”

  “What for?” She had been ill tempered since Tuesday morning.

  “Research for a—” Whiting stopped himself. He still had not told her about the circus. “A special project I’m working on.”

  Her nostrils flared. She’s desperate to know the details, but she won’t ask. The situation delighted him for its unfamiliar sense of power. “I’ll be back in about an hour.” He moved his orange magnet to the column on the white board labeled Oth
er and hurried from the office. He did not slow his pace the entire eight blocks to the library. He was on fire.

  Whiting’s heart was still hammering from exertion when he approached the bank of computers that had replaced the university’s card catalog. He was not comfortable with computers, so he looked back and forth, hoping that one of the staff would offer assistance. Finding no one, he put down his notepad and pencils and sat before one of the monitors.

  He read the instructions, then read them again. He pressed return on his keyboard. The monitor brightened and the computer came to life. Thank you for using Datamax 5000 appeared on the screen. He waited. The message on the screen remained the same. He pressed return. The message stared back at him.

  Whiting put his ear to the computer and thought he heard faint clicking noises inside. He pressed return; he pressed delete; he pressed the numbers one through nine on the keypad to his right. A series of screens opened in rapid succession, then stopped. The computer beeped three times. A man two stations to his left glanced over, then back to his own computer.

  Whiting pressed return. The computer beeped. He pressed delete. It beeped again, but the screen remained unchanged. The man to his left cleared his throat in what Whiting considered an aggressive manner. What am I supposed to do? Again, he pressed return. The computer made a clicking sound. He tapped the spacebar eight times in rapid succession. The computer beeped eight times. Whiting threw himself back in his chair and pulled on his ear until it hurt. He looked around for someone—anyone—who might help him.

  He grabbed his paper and pencils and stalked to the information desk. A heavyset woman in her fifties with a pockmarked face and short, steel-gray hair sat behind the counter reading a magazine. She did not look up.

  “Excuse me.” His voice cracked; he cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” His voice was now louder than he’d intended. The librarian looked up. “I’m Father Whiting from Pastoral Care.” She remained expressionless. “I’m doing some research and I want to see whether you have some reference materials that might help me.” The librarian glanced in the direction of the computer terminals. He stepped sideways to block her view. “I have very little time, you see. And I can’t seem to find what I need.” He nodded in the direction of the computers, to indicate that he’d already tried them. “So, I’m wondering if you could help me.” He smiled, hoping to win her over, but with no apparent effect.