Dancing with Gravity Page 8

  The elevator wobbled as it rumbled its slow descent. When, at last, the doors opened on sub-level three, Whiting stepped off first and held the door, with Jerry close behind.

  Orange plastic chairs lined the cramped area. Fluorescent lights glared from a dropped ceiling. At the end of the row, a woman in a blue nylon housecoat and pajamas stretched lengthwise across two chairs. A sense of hopelessness and suffering hung heavily in the air, leaned over the shoulders of those who paged through the greasy magazines and waited. The place was surprisingly cold. Whiting realized with a start that it had once probably been a corridor, but that it had been converted to a waiting room as the medical center ran short of space.

  “You find us a couple of seats and I’ll check in,” said Jerry. Whiting moved to a section of three connected chairs against a far wall. A few people looked up briefly—eyes assessing his health—as he sat down.

  He studied the others in the room. Most people wore street clothes. Some bore red markings on their heads and necks. He knew that these marks were for the technicians, so they could tell where to focus the radiation. People whose markings showed were obviously patients. But with the others, it was harder to tell. A middle-aged man and woman—both haggard looking—sat a few feet away. Neither spoke.

  “The price of suffering. The cost of love,” he murmured. A woman of about sixty looked up from her magazine when he spoke. He had surprised himself—both with his observation and that he had spoken. He cleared his throat—wanted to explain himself, to offer some casual comment. More than anything, he wanted to tell her that Jerry—and not he—was the patient. But his mumbling had made the situation awkward. He rocked from thigh to thigh and looked away.

  The ambulance drivers had also left the elevator and positioned their stretcher against a far wall. Whiting was surprised at how skillfully they maneuvered in this tight space. The male attendant crossed to the registration desk while his partner, a woman with a ponytail of brassy blonde hair, stayed with the stretcher. She had normally-shaped legs, but from the tops of her thighs to the waist of her tight navy-blue pants, she was decidedly round, like a teacup. The image made Whiting smile. When her partner returned, the two of them guided the stretcher around the chairs to a set of double doors at the opposite end of the waiting area. The male attendant pressed a metal panel on the wall and the doors opened with a rush of air.

  “Which way?” asked the woman as she passed through the doors.

  “Left.” answered her partner. Whiting leaned forward and craned his neck to see where they were going just as the doors closed behind them.

  “I’ve checked in.” Jerry took the seat to Whiting’s left. “They’ve stamped my attendance card and the parking stub. Now all I have to do is wait.”

  Whiting studied his face as he spoke, searching for some clue about what he might really think or feel about his upcoming treatment. “Would you like some coffee? A soda?”

  “Oh no. No, thank you. I tend to get sick after my treatment, and I try not to have anything on my stomach that might add to it.”

  Whiting thought immediately of his telephone conversation with Devinsky and berated himself for being so thoughtless. He wanted to do something that might comfort his friend, to take his mind off the upcoming treatment and its aftermath.

  “Would you like something to read?”

  “They’ll call me soon.” He did not look at Whiting when he spoke, but instead kept his attention focused on the reception desk. “Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on with you?”

  Whiting had looked forward to their reunion, and had imagined their conversations, but not here—not under these circumstances. He struggled for what he might say and considered telling his friend about the sisters and the circus, but he didn’t want to bring it up while they were at the hospital and could be overheard. After several moments, he brightened, and sat up in his chair. “Well, I could tell you about my conference. You asked about that in your letter.”

  “I haven’t seen you in years, and that’s the first thing you tell me?”

  Whiting blushed, stammered. “I only thought ….”

  Jerry patted his arm. “Oh, Sam, you haven’t changed a bit. Still flustered at the first sign of trouble.” He smiled in apology. “I’m only being difficult.” He turned in his seat and faced Whiting. “Actually, I do want to hear about your visit. But not just the conference—I’ve lived through too many of those myself. Tell me how you found Italy—the people. Tell me that you had some wonderful adventure while you were there.”

  Whiting thought immediately of the beauty of Rome and of his side trip to Florence. He had been so unprepared for what he found there—and for the ways that it had affected him. While still in Italy, he had planned to tell these things to Jerry, had even composed fragments of letters in the small notebook he always carried in his breast pocket. But the man that he encountered today seemed so unfamiliar to him that he now felt reluctant to share any of his thoughts and feelings. Whiting decided he would tell him about what had happened to him in Florence. He turned toward Jerry and crossed his arms.

  “Well, there was something that happened while I was in Flor—”

  “Jerome Stemple?” The two men looked up. A young woman in a white lab coat stood at the reception desk, holding a clipboard. She scanned the room without appearing to see anyone. Jerry jumped up so quickly that Whiting was startled.

  “Here I am.” He unbuttoned his coat and handed it to Whiting. “I’ll leave this with you. I’ll only be a few moments.” Whiting felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as the technician led his friend away.

  In Jerry’s absence, he grew suddenly restless. He picked up a copy of Newsweek, and saw that it was from the previous year. None of the articles interested him anyway. Whiting scanned the faces around him, and tried to imagine who they were and where they were from. To his dismay, he realized he didn’t care. All he could think of was his friend. Impulsively, he picked up the Newsweek again and tried to force himself into attention by counting the number of advertisements on any given page, then reading the names of each product featured, but that didn’t help. He couldn’t concentrate. What’s happening to Jerry back there? His anxiety rose, and he pushed the question away.

  When Jerry returned a few minutes later, Whiting greeted him with a questioning look. “Did you forget something?”

  “I’m ready to go.” He seemed pleased with himself. “It doesn’t take very long. I hardly have time to lie on the table before it’s time to get dressed again.” Whiting was surprised that he would offer this detail in the middle of the waiting room; he stole an uncomfortable glance at the people who sat nearby. Jerry put on his overcoat. “You should see my chest and stomach. It looks as though someone has written hieroglyphics all over them.”

  Whiting blanched at the news. He had always heard that the more radiation markings appeared on a person’s body, the worse the prognosis.

  “Do you feel … pain?” He lowered his voice, and hoped that Jerry would take his lead.

  “Not really. Sometimes, though, just when I feel it’s getting too warm, the treatment stops and the sensation goes away.” His cheerful demeanor suggested an insight about something both amusing and inconsequential. “The radiation itself only lasts for a few moments. They can’t leave it on long, you know.” The remark was delivered casually, but Whiting heard it as a nod toward the lethal power of the radiation and, by association, Jerry’s acknowledgment of his grave diagnosis.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.” Jerry was suddenly full of energy.

  Whiting rose and crossed toward the elevator, but his friend headed for the stairs. “Jerry, where are you going?”

  “I thought I’d like to walk a little.”

  “Don’t you think we should wait for the elevator?”

  “Let me just walk this one flight.”

  Once in the stairwell, Jerry held onto the handrail with his right hand and slowly climbed the steps as Whiting held his left arm. W
hen they got to the next floor, Jerry was winded.

  “Take the elevator … now.” He smiled through clenched teeth as he struggled to regain his breath.

  As they reversed their earlier path back to the garage, Whiting wondered about his friend’s prognosis. Had the doctors given him hope for a full recovery? Once back inside the car, he broached the subject.

  “What will you do when your treatments are finished?” He was tense with expectation as he waited for Jerry’s reply, but he covered his interest by staring out the windshield at the line of cars waiting to exit the garage. “Do you have any plans?”

  “I’ll return to my work at school, of course.” Jerry seemed surprised at the question.

  “But what if you ….” He hesitated, weighing his words, “What if you don’t feel like going back to work?” Jerry gave him a sidelong glance. “All I’m saying is,” Whiting cleared his throat, “perhaps you’d like to stay for a while, renew old acquaintances?”

  “Oh no, Sam. I have a calling—as do you. It is what gives our lives meaning. If I couldn’t serve, if I couldn’t fulfill my promise to God, then I’d be lost. I’ll return to work, and I hope it will be soon. It’s my path, my obligation, and my salvation.”

  Hearing Jerry’s sudden profession was painful. It also seemed impractical—he doubted Jerry would really be able to return to work. And if he did go back to New Hampshire, he feared that the cancer would make his stay brief.

  During the ride back to St. Benedict House, Jerry looked out the passenger’s window in silence. Whiting glanced frequently toward him, but said nothing. He kept extra space between his car and the vehicle in front of him so that he could pull over quickly if Jerry should suddenly become ill. This plan, which he had just devised, was a great preoccupation to him and he was pleased he had thought of it. Casting himself in the role of caretaker—however secret his self-appointed designation—made Whiting feel both protective and more connected to his friend. He wished Jerry could know he had a plan. Although he didn’t want him to suffer, he almost hoped that he would become ill, so that he could come to his aid. Whiting stole another glance and saw, to his slight disappointment, that Jerry appeared to be enjoying the ride. He realized—with some shame—that he wanted Jerry to admit he was necessary.

  Alone with his thoughts, Whiting again wondered why Jerry had withheld the information about his illness. Surely he must have had symptoms—gone to the doctor. The treatment at St. Theresa’s hadn’t been decided in a day. Suddenly offended, Whiting straightened in his seat. What is our friendship based on if something so important could be kept secret? It was clear to him that Jerry had made a conscious decision to exclude him—to treat him as a stranger. He ran through a catalog of their communication. What are our letters about—really? What do they disclose? True, our exchanges give me pleasure. But why? How well do I know him after all?

  Whiting thought back to his friend’s correspondence—his observations and references to religion. When he read the letters, Jerry’s comments seemed to offer such important disclosures. On more than one occasion, he had even carried one of Jerry’s letters in his breast pocket, like a secret talisman. Sometimes, over lunch or when alone in his office, he would open and re-read it, marveling at Jerry’s insights and eager to compose his response. If these are not the private confidences of two close friends, then what are they? Who else exchanges letters with him? Perhaps my letters are no different than those that he writes to anyone else?

  He had managed to upset himself considerably. Whiting glanced again at Jerry. The reality of the person beside him only confused him further. Jerry’s lost weight, and he’s easily winded, that’s true. But how sick is he, really? Whiting remembered how vulnerable Jerry had seemed in the parking garage. If I hadn’t been with him, there’s no way he could have gotten to radiation and back. He fought back tears as he considered the image. Yet, he looked happy now—even planned to return to teaching soon. Maybe I’ve just assumed the worst. He tried to think objectively. Why am I so sure that Jerry is gravely ill? He recalled his friend’s remarks regarding the hieroglyphics. His own stomach squeezed.

  Whiting thought about their aborted conversation in radiology. Doesn’t he remember that I didn’t answer? Why didn’t he ask again? If it really mattered to him at all, he would have.

  When they pulled up in front of St. Benedict House, he came around the car and extended his arm toward Jerry.

  “That’s good of you Sam, but I don’t need any help.”

  “I just thought we could spend a few minutes together inside.”

  “I want us to catch up. I really do. But not today, please.” Jerry addressed him over his shoulder as he started up the steps. “Forgive me if I’m abrupt. But if I lie down right afterwards, then I don’t get quite as nauseous.”

  Whiting was astonished at his own selfishness. I’ve only been thinking about myself. The fact that he needed Jerry more than Jerry needed him came as a subtle shock. He watched his friend pull himself forward with the handrail as he slowly ascended the stairs. Jerry waved goodbye over his shoulder as he went inside. Whiting stood alone at the foot of the stairs.

  As he turned the key in the door of his apartment later that evening, Whiting’s legs were heavy, and his knees felt as though they might buckle at any moment. Once inside, he dropped his briefcase at the door and went directly to the kitchen.

  He stood before his opened refrigerator; he was tired and hungry, but nothing looked appetizing. He closed the door with a sigh. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the idea of cooking was more than he could manage. At last he fixed a peanut butter and honey sandwich and ate it at the kitchen table after a brief prayer.

  As he ate, he listlessly examined his mail. There were only four pieces—three advertisements and the letter from his mother. As usual, Lillian’s envelope included no return address, but he knew her handwriting as well as his own. He ran his fingers over the address and thought back to the weekly letters she sent while he was away at seminary. She had always pressed her pen into the paper so hard that Whiting could actually feel the impressions of her words when he touched his fingers to the backs of the pages. She punctuated her sentences with stars and underlines and multiple exclamation points and sometimes drew stick figures in the margins. Her penmanship had always been heavily slanted and angular, but in recent years her handwriting had become more rounded—like Lillian herself. Of late, she had also made the switch from ballpoints to felt tip pens. She often complained that the tips lost their shape within a day or two, but she preferred the range of colors the markers afforded. and she always kept a wide spectrum on hand. To compensate for the broad line of her crushed pen tips, Lillian increased the size of her handwriting and exaggerated the loops of her letters. It always gave Whiting the impression that her sentences were shouted, even though her words were no longer palpable to his fingertips.

  He opened the envelope and pulled out its contents: a newspaper article haphazardly taped to a sheet of lined yellow paper. The article, dated January 28, reported an attack on an elderly woman in her home in Jacksonville, Florida. Unlike his mother, he had no stomach for gruesome crime stories. He quickly reviewed the article, then folded it back into its envelope. He wished his mother had also enclosed a note.

  The second envelope held an offer for an ecological MasterCard that promised to donate one half of one percent of all his interest charges to a fund to save the rain forests. A sample cardboard credit card was enclosed; it featured a drawing of a Toucan perched on a branch on the card’s lower right corner. The bird’s broad rainbow beak rested on the final three letters of Whiting’s name. The next letter offered a rival credit card. Although it lacked the lush colors of the first, it touted a titanium level of membership with a pre-approved credit limit of fifty thousand dollars at three and nine tenths percent for six months. He read the chart of conditions, trying to discern the real interest rate once the introductory offer had expired, but he could not read the small print on the
back of the form. The last envelope contained a get-acquainted letter and coupons from a newly opened dental practice that promised painless family smiles forever. The letterhead featured a full-color photo of the dentist printed in its upper left hand corner, just below an embossed set of disembodied and perfect white teeth. Whiting fanned the letters out on the kitchen table, then crossed to the refrigerator and poured himself a second glass of milk.

  He leaned against the sink and took in the view. His home was a great comfort to him, and he often studied its features the way one might take in the appearance of a loved one. Whiting lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment without animals or plants. The apartment, one of twelve in the building, boasted large rooms, thick plaster walls, wide filet and fascia molding, hardwood floors, and radiator heat. The building itself sat atop a steep grassy hill in a quiet residential neighborhood and for much of its history had been owner occupied. In the last decade, absentee landlords and a series of management companies had taken over. Since then, the building had suffered a rather benign neglect so that the overall effect was of a faded gentility.

  As he took in the living room, he tried to imagine what someone who saw it for the first time might think. He stepped away from the sink and looked to his left. His view took in the white stucco walls of the living room and the dark wood of the polished front door. A navy blue tuxedo couch and a wing back chair, covered in a complimentary print, gathered around a low mahogany coffee table. Matching tables at each end of the couch held cranberry ginger-jar lamps with white shades. White mini blinds, which had come with the apartment, covered the bank of windows behind the couch and every window in his apartment. A roll-around cart that held a nineteen-inch color television, VCR, and cassette tape deck completed the room.