Dancing with Gravity Page 6

  “What are you looking for?” Her voice—like her face—was without expression.

  He glanced quickly around, and then whispered, “I’m doing research on the circus.” She stared at him. She had not heard him. “The circus,” he said again. He wanted to shake her.

  The librarian hopped down from her stool and disappeared behind a partition. As he stood there, his face burned. Is she going to ignore me? He looked around quickly to see if anyone had been watching.

  “Come with me.” It was the librarian again—much shorter than she’d appeared from her stool. He was so relieved to see her that he followed at once. She led him up two flights of stairs and through a set of glass doors to the top floor of the library.

  Unlike the main floor, this level seemed almost deserted. A row of work-tables—empty except for a few discarded books—lined a wall beneath the windows. The librarian hurried past them; her rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the polished tile as she marched past rows of gray metal shelves.

  She darted into the darkened stacks, passed through the row to the end of the aisle, slapped her left hand against one of the shelves, then stopped midway down the next row. Whiting lost her temporarily, but found her again when fluorescent lights blinked on above them. He looked toward the ceiling in surprise.

  “What just happened?”

  “How long since you were last here?” Her voice, no longer a monotone, sounded accusing.

  “I…I’ve been away.”

  The librarian’s expression did not change. She doesn’t believe me. “I’ve been in Rome.” He straightened, hoping to make himself appear more credible. It was an unnecessary gesture, since the top of the woman’s head barely came up to his shoulders. But the truth was, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been in the library.

  “Energy saving system,” she said at last. “Hit the light before you enter the stacks. After fifteen minutes, they shut off. That way, we don’t waste electricity.” She faced the shelves. She ran her index finger along a row of books just above her head. “Circus starts here … goes to here. There isn’t much. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but this is all we have.” She turned to face him. “Don’t reshelve the books. Just leave them on the tables. I’m going back downstairs.” She squeaked away, leaving him alone in the stacks.

  Whiting placed his notepad and pencils on an open shelf nearby and got to work. I’ll take each book in succession, read its title, table of contents and index, then scan the pages. Something is sure to catch my attention.

  The first book included badly reproduced photographs of circus performers from the early nineteen hundreds. In one photograph, a bald man—dressed only in swim trunks—stood with his back to the camera, his head turned to the left. Tattoos covered all visible areas of his legs, arms, back, neck, and face.

  Whiting studied the grainy black and white image. He tried to imagine why the man had done this to himself and wondered, too, whether any performers in the sisters’ circus had done the same. In another photograph, a very fat woman with short black hair sat in a chair with her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing a tutu, leotard, and ballet slippers. Rolls of flesh hung from her stomach, thighs, and upper arms. A second woman, unusually small—at first Whiting thought she was a doll—stood next to the fat woman’s chair. Their faces were somber. Neither of them looked at the camera. The photograph upset him. He closed the book hard and put it back on the shelf.

  As he reached for the next volume, the overhead lights shut off. Whiting tensed. He stood motionless in the darkness and listened. Then he remembered. The timer must have expired. He shook his head at his own reaction and walked to the end of the row to turn on the lights. Where’s the switch? He stepped to the end of the next row and passed his hand over its surface. Nothing. He searched several rows in the stacks without success. His heart beat faster. He returned to his aisle, but the darkness made it impossible for him to read. Whiting gathered up his pad and pencils and turned to go, then turned back to the shelf and took down the row of books the librarian had shown him. He hurried from the stacks and descended the stairs. He sensed that someone was behind him, but he could not bring himself to look back.

  His relief in reaching the busy main floor turned quickly to irritation when he saw a long line at the library’s checkout desk. A young man—a student, he was sure—worked the desk alone. Dirty blonde hair hung over the boy’s eyes. His hair combined with his deliberate movements made him appear on the verge of sleep. Whiting took his place in line, then scanned the area in search of another checkout desk. Instead of finding help, he locked eyes with Father Devereaux. To his horror, he saw that the priest was walking toward him. Whiting turned back toward the line. He considered walking out and leaving his books, but he didn’t want Devereaux to see the titles. If he does, he’ll realize that I’ve been chosen as his replacement. The seconds dragged. He wanted desperately to see whether Devereaux had left the library, but he was afraid to turn around. Just then, the priest addressed him over his left shoulder.

  “Good afternoon, Father.” Whiting waited a beat, his eyes half closed in concentration. He wanted Devereaux to feel as though he was interrupting.

  “Father Devereaux.” He tried to smile and sound surprised, but his lips were dry and stuck to his front teeth.

  “That’s quite a load of books you have. Are you taking a class this semester?” Devereaux leaned forward to read the titles. Whiting shifted his weight as though to become more comfortable. It also allowed him to turn the books away from Devereaux.

  “No class. Just … some general reading.” Of course he knows I’m lying. “How have you been?”

  “Oh, I’ve been busy, as usual. But not as busy as you, I hear.”

  Devereaux placed the fingertips of his left hand on the stack of books. Whiting glanced helplessly toward the boy behind the checkout desk. The line did not move. “So tell me, how are things in Pastoral Care?”

  “I’ve just returned from a conference … Rome, you know … and I’m still catching up. You know the story: six weeks away from work and you either realize how much you do in the course of a day or everyone finds out how well they can get along without you.” He forced a chuckle at his own small joke. Devereaux’s lips parted in a half smile, but his gaze betrayed his intensity.

  “And yet, you’ve taken on a new assignment. Perhaps you’re overextending yourself?” Devereaux stepped closer and made a point of reading the spines of Whiting’s books. “Consider yourself, Father. Saying ‘no’ is sometimes the best course of action.” Devereaux stepped back. “I hope you get back to your usual routine quickly.” He turned and left the library. Whiting rushed back to his office, swept past Carla, and dropped the books onto his worktable. The interaction with Father Devereaux had unnerved him, and yet he felt a nascent energy. I’ve got to call Sarah.

  She was out, so he left a message to return his call as soon as possible. Nervous energy surged through him; he paced back and forth in his office and replayed his conversation in the library. At each pass, he stared at the phone, willing it to ring. These last few days have been unbelievable! Sarah and I are caught up in a great adventure, I’m sure of it. And she asked for me … trusted me to face it with her. He grabbed one of the library books as if he could devour it.

  After hurrying through his Thursday morning rounds, Whiting returned to his office determined to address the paperwork he had ignored all week. He only glanced at Carla.

  “I’m working and don’t want to be disturbed.”

  She didn’t even look up.

  Once inside, however, he couldn’t concentrate. He had been up late the night before reviewing his library books and his mind was a jumble of all he’d read and dreamed. As he leafed through his messages, he saw that Sarah had returned his call, but would be out of the hospital until late afternoon. He checked his watch. In just two hours, he would drive to St. Benedict House to pick up Jerry Stemple for his radiation treatment.

  Whiting poured
a cup of hot water from his electric kettle and deliberated over his tea basket. Lemon? Chamomile? Earl Grey? Maybe Raspberry Oolong. He checked his watch again. Not even five minutes had passed. He sighed deeply and then resigned himself to reviewing his mail. He had been at his papers for little more than an hour when Carla’s voice came though the intercom.

  “Your mother is on line two.” She cut the connection before he could respond. He knew Carla was delighted to interrupt him—especially with a call from his mother. He pressed the intercom button on his phone.

  “I told you to hold my calls.”

  “Do you want me to tell your mother you won’t take her call?”

  Whiting snapped the intercom off without answering. He usually spoke to Lillian Whiting every few days and visited her once a week. But while he was in Italy, he had sent her only two postcards—both mailed in the first days of his conference, so he could be sure that she would receive them before his return. As he sat there, he realized that he had spoken to her only once—the night he got back—and their conversation had been brief. By calling him at work, she was pointing out his neglect. Was this second nature to mothers all over the world? Fingers pressed into his temples, he watched the constant blinking of line two. The small light took on the insistent character of his mother.

  He closed his eyes. I need to gather my thoughts. His mother’s conversations were often peppered with unreasonable demands. She had always been that way, but her requests were growing increasingly extreme. If he offered to bring something for their Friday night supper, she might ask for a package of Lorna Doones, or, just as likely, a birthday cake for one of her dogs. As a result, he had grown more guarded in dealing with her. The practice, however necessary, exhausted him. After waiting as long as he dared, he pressed the button, and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you get that clipping I sent you, Sammy? You haven’t said anything about it.”

  “Which clipping?” The muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “About the old lady who was killed in her apartment.”

  Whiting leaned forward in his chair. “Oh, Mama, when? Where did it happen?” He hadn’t seen anything about it on the news or in the paper. But he had been preoccupied by the circus. I should pay more attention. His mother’s working class neighborhood wasn’t as safe as it used to be.

  “Some teenagers came to her house to rob her. After she gave them her money, they killed her anyway. My God, Sammy! For what?” It was Lillian’s habit to ignore what her son said and charge ahead with her own line of thinking. “It makes me afraid to open my door. I’m afraid to even let the pups out. What if someone grabbed them? They do that, you know. Teenagers torture animals for no reason. Oh, Sammy, the world has become such a terrible place. It makes me want to die sometimes.”

  Whiting lay his head back on his chair and closed his eyes. He had little patience for his mother’s dramatics. It seemed that she was always performing, always delivering her lines. The problem was that he was the only audience she had anymore.

  Lillian had appeared in dozens of Hollywood productions, many with speaking parts, but she had never played a major role. After she passed forty, even these opportunities became scarce. Constantly in search of work, she moved frequently, and Whiting grew up in a succession of apartments across the country.

  Then Lillian got the idea of working with dogs. After getting coaching from an animal trainer she’d met on a film, she bought five poodles and found a new career in children’s theater and variety shows.

  Even after Lillian and her poodles no longer performed, she kept moving—sometimes twice a year, if only to different apartments in the same city. Although Whiting hadn’t lived at home since entering seminary, Lillian still wanted him involved in every move. He suffered great apprehension over these moves—especially since her last few were to shabbier places and rougher neighborhoods. The last thing he needed now, on top of his circus assignment, was to handle another move.

  “Mama, would you like to find a different apartment?”

  “Nothing’s safe anymore! Did that woman in Florida think she was going to be killed?”

  “What woman in Florida?”

  “The one in the clipping, Sammy! Didn’t you read the clipping?”

  “So it didn’t happen in St. Louis? I thought …..”

  Lillian cut him off. “Dead is dead, Sammy. Coast to coast.”

  Whiting’s concern dissolved into irritation, but he struggled to conceal his reaction. He heard the sound of shuffling cards in the background. His mother told fortunes with a deck of fifty-two standard playing cards. He couldn’t recall when or how she had started the practice, but he knew that she read her own cards several times a week—more often if something troubled her.

  “Besides, you know I can’t afford a new place.”

  “Let’s look at your money. I think we could work out a budget so you could afford a nicer place.”

  “I never had any money. Why should I worry about it now?”

  “I could check with Social Services here at the medical center. Apartments in senior housing are always opening up.”

  “I can’t move to that kind of apartment,” she snapped. “All those old people—that’s not me. That’s nothing like me.”

  Whiting held the receiver away from his mouth and sighed.

  “And besides, those places wouldn’t allow pets,” she continued. “What would happen to the pups if I went to a place like that? They wouldn’t be able to go outside the way they do now.”

  “We could find a place with a common area.”

  “What’s a common area, Sammy? It’s not a yard.”

  “It’s a term for—”

  “For a piece of grass with benches on it for old people. Old people who have nothing left in their lives but complaints. What peace would the pups have with somebody always calling me to tell me they’d done something wrong? No, I had enough of that when you were little and I’m not going to have it before I die.”

  He hated it when she referred to the hardships she’d endured as a single mother. He hoped she wasn’t going to start on the topic now.

  “All those years, I had to put up with other people telling me what to do while I was a single parent just trying to do my best and—”

  “Mama ….”

  “Listen, Sammy, the pups will have a yard and a little freedom. They don’t have anyone but me. If I don’t do it for them, who will?”

  “But it’s dangerous. You said so yourself.”

  “If I’m a little unsafe, well, then, that’s the price I’ll have to pay. These pups have had enough worries on them. I won’t be adding to them as long as I’m alive. You know how fragile Taffy is, Sammy. How can you suggest that I put her through any more?”

  His head pounded. Their conversation had turned—as it so often did—to the emotional lives of her poodles.

  “Mama, I have an appointment in less than an hour, and I really must get some things done before I go. Maybe we can talk again later.”

  “Never mind. I know you’re busy.”

  “You know I’m never too busy for you. But I really have some things I have to get done. Why don’t we talk more at supper this Friday?”

  “So you’re coming over?” Her voice took on a new vitality. “You know I haven’t seen you in almost two months. It’s not like we live in different cities.” Her words hung in the air between them.

  “Mama, I didn’t get back from my trip until last Saturday. And I haven’t even begun to catch up.” Why does she always do this? I’m a grown man.

  “I know! We’ll have a junk supper like we used to have on the road. I’ll get lunch meat and tomatoes and Cokes in those little bottles you like.”

  He rubbed his temple. “It’s Lent. I can’t eat meat on Friday.” He waited for Lillian’s reaction. A lapsed Catholic herself, she had been, and still was, mystified by his decision to become a priest. At first she had accused him of abandoning her, but seeing h
is resolve, she had finally made an uneasy peace with his vocation largely by ignoring it.

  “Well, then, we’ll have tuna sandwiches. I’ll get the good white tuna you like, and I’ll make it with real mayonnaise and celery and green onions and eggs, the way I used to. And I’ll get potato chips—those barbecue ones you like. How’s that?”

  “Don’t get the potato chips for me. You won’t eat them.”

  “Of course I will. Besides, you can take some lunchmeat and chips home with you for next week. I know you don’t eat right. Don’t tell me otherwise; a mother knows these things.”

  He was touched by his mother’s plans, and her enthusiasm was infectious. He was seized with a desire to see her, to take care of her. “I’ll be by at six o’clock. Do you want me to pick up anything on my way?”

  “All I want is your presence. Or is it presents?”

  It was an old joke between them and he smiled when she said it. He wanted to say something else, to tell his mother that he was looking forward to seeing her, tell her that he loved her.

  “Mama, I lo—” The phone clicked as Lillian hung up. Whiting sank slightly, offered an embarrassed smile into the receiver, and then slowly returned it to its cradle.

  Whiting put away his work and prepared to drive to St. Benedict House for his meeting with Jerry Stemple. He looked forward to seeing his friend after such a long absence, but the anticipation was mixed with apprehension. It had been so long since they had last seen one another that he worried that their relationship, which seemed so close and easy in their correspondence, would be awkward or distant when they again met.