“Uh … sure, Father. Maybe that’s best.” His expression said something else.
As Anjo got up to go, Nikolai arrived and sat down next to Whiting.
“Next Tuesday. Three o’clock. We’ll talk then.” Whiting was relieved that Anjo was leaving. He made a show of reviewing his date book to calm his nervousness now that Nikolai had arrived.
“What were you writing just now?” asked Nikolai.
“An appointment. Nothing special.”
“This is your calendar?”
“It’s really more my brain than my calendar.” He was delighted with Nikolai’s interest. “I have to write down everything lately: appointments, meetings, any list that has more than two items.” He squeezed the book as he recalled the poem he’d kept in the back of his calendar for Nikolai’s card.
“Write something in there now.”
“In my calendar?”
“Yes, please.”
Whiting looked from Nikolai to the date book.
“Write: Little Flower Circus.”
“Why?”
“Must I have a reason?”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Whiting put his book back in his breast pocket.
Nikolai’s expression went flat, as though he was no longer interested in their conversation. Whiting was afraid that Nikolai might leave. He wanted to understand but couldn’t make sense of the request.
“I would like you to do it,” said Nikolai. “Write: Let’s go to the Little Flower Circus.”
A puzzled look crossed Whiting’s face. “Please, help me to understand. Why would I write that sentence?”
“I have a reason. It’s personal. Something that I must be careful about disclosing.”
Whiting’s heart knocked in his chest. He was sure Nikolai must hear it.
“It involves my feelings.” Nikolai took a deep breath, emphasizing the difficulty of his revelation. “Not just feelings … affection. You could even say romance.”
Whiting scarcely breathed. It took all his will to remain still.
“You understand what I’m saying to you?”
Whiting looked at his hands, then up at Nikolai. “I think I understand. Please, go on.”
Nikolai shrugged. “I just wanted to see your writing. I have never seen it before.”
Whiting’s heart heaved. If Nikolai didn’t understand the meaning of the lines, then the gesture was ruined. He rebelled against the idea. He understood Nikolai and Nikolai understood him—he was sure of it.
All at once he grasped the real question. It wasn’t that Nikolai didn’t understand that he had received a love poem, it was that he wanted to see Whiting’s handwriting to find out whether he had sent it. If not me, who? Sarah? Alyiana? Someone else? Whiting nearly swooned. How can he not know it’s from me?
Nikolai watched him impassively. His face was a mask. Is he smiling? Is that a satisfied look? But what about his own face? Whiting had no idea whether he appeared shocked or composed. He felt feverish. Sick. Wanted to sob. To leave.
Had Nikolai deliberately humiliated him? Is he aware of my feelings at all? Do I even matter? A sudden and overpowering anger rose up within him. He felt dangerous. Unworthy. Appalled by his own reactions, he no longer believed that he knew Nikolai—or himself. His mind raced from moment to moment, inventorying his interactions with Nikolai. Why has he done this to me?
Images of Sarah—smug, victorious—crowded out every other thought. She was the source of his misery. It’s her fault. She’s the reason Nikolai doesn’t understand. All of his anger, all of his resentment became focused on her.
Finally, he remembered that Nikolai was still sitting beside him, and he struggled to compose himself, to order his thoughts. He had to extricate himself from the moment, had to leave now. At last he met Nikolai’s eyes.
“To live of love is not to fix one’s tent.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “To live of love, it is to know no fear.” He could not bring himself to recite any more lines. “You don’t need to check my handwriting. The card was from me.” He got up and walked out of the tent.
My mother has no idea who I am.” Clark Teasdale, head of the hospital’s IT Department, sat in Whiting’s guest chair and hung his head. Whiting watched as fat tears rolled down the man’s cheeks and dropped onto his pants. Teasdale’s nose began to run, and he snuffled to stem the flow. Whiting pushed a box of tissues toward him. Teasdale grabbed a handful all at once, but did not wipe his eyes or nose.
“I’ve seen the changes. I knew something wasn’t right. But, I never—“ He broke off mid-sentence and looked up, helplessly. His face was red and contorted with his efforts to hold back tears. “But not to know me? My own mother?”
Whiting’s eyes stung; his emotion was not for Teasdale, but for himself. It had been two weeks since he’d seen his mother. First, he had neglected her so he could spend more time with the circus. Then he had avoided her completely in his misery over Nikolai and the card. The weight of that transgression pressed down on him.
“Alzheimer’s is a terrible—even cruel disease,” said Whiting. “What do the doctors tell you?”
Teasdale coughed and wiped his face. “They’re going to try some different medicines. That’s why they admitted her again. They can’t reverse the disease, but maybe they will give her more good days than bad.”
Whiting nodded. “It’s good she’s here. It has to be a comfort knowing you can stop in and see her during the day.”
“I stopped by this morning on my break.” Teasdale shook his head. “She gets anxious, and I wanted to make sure she was okay.” His tears resumed. “But when I walked in, she was sitting in a chair, wearing clothes I’ve never seen before.”
“Perhaps you just didn’t recognize them?”
“No, Father. They weren’t hers. And it gets worse: she was wearing some other woman’s wig! It wasn’t even on straight.” He tore the tissues as he spoke. Lint fell in a steady snow across his lap.
Whiting glanced toward his phone. He wanted to dial his mother. I need to hear her voice. He swallowed consciously.
“So I put out my hand. And I said, ‘Mom, where did you get that outfit?’ And she turned to me with such a look of hatred. I swear it was like a knife through my heart. And she said, ‘Who the hell are you?’”
Having reduced his tissues to clotted lumps, Teasdale now wrung his hands. “I’m her son. Her only child.” He said this last sentence so softly that Whiting had to lean forward to hear.
The phone on Whiting’s desk rang and both men jerked with the sudden sound.
“I’m so sorry. I asked Carla to hold my calls.”
“It’s fine. I have to get back to work anyway.” Teasdale rose to go. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Father. It means a lot.”
Whiting took Teasdale’s hand and both of his. His anger at Carla intensified as the phone continued to ring. “I’ll make sure to stop in to see your mother on my rounds.” He escorted Teasdale to the door; he wanted to be sure he was gone before he dealt with Carla.
Whiting opened his office door and came face to face with Anjo.
“Father, I need to see you.” Anjo was pale and sweat beaded on his forehead.
Whiting nodded but looked back to Teasdale and shook his hand. As he left the office, Whiting looked past him to Carla. The phone on his desk continued ringing.
“Carla. I told you to hold my calls.” He could barely conceal his anger.
The tension between them in recent weeks had become unbearable. This is the last straw. I’m going to have to fire her or get her transferred. I’ve had enough. Their conversations had contracted to the point that they hardly spoke—even about department business. The phone in Whiting’s office continued to ring.
“Now take that call. Tell whoever it is that I am not available. And take a message. Can you do that?”
Carla’s eyes narrowed in hatred. With an exaggerated gesture, she struck the button on her phone and picked up the call. The ringing
stopped. She stared at Whiting as she spoke into the receiver.
“I’m sorry. Father Whiting isn’t picking up. Yes. I see. No, I don’t know when he’ll be free. I’m sorry. He didn’t tell me. Yes, I’ll give him the message. Thank you.” She slammed down the receiver and held Whiting’s eyes.
“Did you even get a number?” Whiting’s stomach roiled. He knew that Carla hated taking orders from him and he wanted to press the point—make her write down a message as he watched.
“No need. We have the number on file.” Red colored her cheeks all the way to her hairline.
“Well? Do you think you can manage to give me the message?”
“Mother Frances would like you to call.” She narrowed her eyes. “At your earliest convenience.” Whiting took a step toward Carla’s desk, and then stopped. When he turned back toward his office he bumped into Anjo and was momentarily surprised to find him there.
“Our meeting isn’t until tomorrow. I’m sorry, there’s no way I can see you today.” He wanted to get past him, into his office, to call Mother Frances. Anjo blocked his way.
“But I have to see you, Father. My wife, Rose … she’s in the emergency room downstairs.”
Whiting heard the news at a distance. His head reeled. He was consumed with his anger at Carla. He struggled to focus on what Anjo said even as he took another step toward his office.
“Wait. What did you say? What’s happened?”
“She fell from the high wire.”
Whiting gasped.
“We’re trained to grab the wire when we lose our balance, but she missed it. She ruptured her Achilles tendon.” Anjo twisted his cap, passed it from hand to hand. “The high wire is ended for her.”
Whiting leaned against his doorjamb as he took in the news. “I’m so sorry.”
“I have to get back to the emergency room. They have to operate, and I need to be there.”
“Maybe they can fix her leg? Perhaps it’s not as bad as you think.”
Anjo shook his head. “She will walk again, but with a limp. The high wire is over.” He turned to leave. “Father, will you come downstairs?” It would mean a lot for Rose to see you.”
Whiting nodded. “Of course.”
“And our talk.” He cast a glance toward Carla. “You won’t forget?”
“I won’t forget.” As soon as Anjo was out the door, Whiting turned back to Carla.
“Tell me again about the call from Mother Frances.” His voice was barely controlled.
“You were here.”
“I’ve had enough of your stupid games!” He forced himself to lower his voice. “Just give me the message.”
“Mother Frances asked to talk with you. I put her through. You didn’t pick up. She wants you to call her back. As soon as possible.” She recited the facts with a mocking, singsong cadence, but the expression in her eyes told him she hesitated to push the matter any further.
Whiting went back into his office and slammed the door so hard the glass shook. He paced back and force behind his desk, then crossed to his sink and splashed cold water on his face again and again until he regained some control. He rummaged in his desk for the hospital directory. Even as he struggled to calm himself, to think more clearly, he dropped to his desk chair and dialed.
When Mother Frances told Whiting that he was being relieved of his Sunday Mass duties—of his involvement with the circus—the news came with the force of a physical blow. The phone line went dead. He sat motionless at his desk, the receiver still in his hand. His peripheral vision darkened and narrowed. Sight and sound receded, engulfed by the noise in his head. How could this be?
At last he rose from his desk and stepped to the outer office. Carla looked up, her expression flat. He had nothing to say. He went back into his office and picked up the receiver, but there was no one to call.
I can’t stay here. He grabbed the prayer book and consecrated oil from his desk, retrieved his car keys from his briefcase, then returned to the outer office.
“I’m going out for a while.”
“Where?”
“Out.” He crossed in front of the white board, but did not even pick up his magnet.
“When will you be back?” Carla was studying him now, trying, he knew, to garner some clue.
“Later. I’m going downstairs.” He answered over his shoulder as he closed the door.
Whiting entered the hallway in a daze and made his way to the bank of elevators that would take him down to the E.R. His hands shook so violently that he couldn’t press the button. Suddenly he turned, flung open the stairwell door and ran down the steps like a man pursued. When he pushed open the heavy metal fire door on the lower level, he was so agitated that it required all his concentration and will to move through the crowded hallway.
I handled the call badly. I didn’t give myself enough time to collect my thoughts. Stupid! Stupid!
“Hey!” A woman trying to maneuver a wheelchair and an I.V. pole called out in disgust as he brushed past.
He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, as he replayed his conversation with Mother Frances. His cheeks burned at the finality of her words, her tone. She knows. She knows about Nikolai and me. He detested himself for his impetuous behavior, but his self-punishment rang false. Should I go to Nikolai? Try to talk with him? Shame and embarrassment washed over him, and he knew that was impossible.
Anjo’s head appeared between the curtains that circled his wife’s bed just as Whiting rounded the corner to the E.R.
“Oh Father, I’m so glad you came. They’re getting ready to take Rose to surgery, but I asked them to wait. I knew you’d come.”
Whiting nodded. His head pounded. What can I offer to either Anjo or Rose? I’m in no position to offer anything to anyone. The tightrope walker slipped back through the curtain. Whiting took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and followed.
Rose lay beneath several hospital blankets. She was pale and bruised, and her upper lip was split. Dried blood caked the wound.
“She bit her lip when she fell,” offered Anjo as he pressed a damp washcloth to her mouth.
Two plastic bags of intravenous fluids piggybacked from a pole attached to the bed. Their tubing snaked along the covers and ended under dressings on Rose’s left arm. Whiting stepped forward and took her hand.
“I’m so sorry, Rose.” His voice caught in his throat. I should have sent someone else. I’m not up to this.
Rose licked her lips slowly, without effect.
“They gave her a shot, and she’s on medicine for the pain. It’s hard for her to talk.” Anjo leaned forward and kissed his wife’s forehead.
“Anjie, you have to do the act tonight—even without me.” Rose’s voice was high and weak.
Anjo’s lower lip trembled. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” He turned to Whiting. “We’re doing a special back to school performance tonight.”
“Promise you won’t disappoint the children,” Rose whispered.
Anjo rubbed his thumb over the back of Rose’s hand. “See? She’s taking care of everyone. Even now. She puts the children first.” He smoothed the hair at his wife’s temples. “Father, will you bless her before she goes into surgery?”
“Of course.” Whiting bent over the bed. “Rose, I’ve been at St. Theresa’s for more than eight years. They’ll take good care of you. And,” his voice cracked, “God will be with you.” He pulled the bedside table closer and arranged his prayer book and holy oil.
“Let us pray.” He opened his prayer book, but the type swam as tears filled his eyes. He couldn’t read a word on the page. I can’t do this. He looked at Anjo. His head was bent, his eyes closed, waiting. This is what love looks like. Whiting closed the book and set it on the table. He took a deep breath and began the sacrament.
As soon as the rite was concluded, two nurses pulled back the curtain and prepared Rose for transport to the operating room. Anjo hovered anxiously nearby. He held his wife’s hand and walked beside her stretcher unt
il they reached a set of wide doors.
“I’m afraid this is as far as you can go.”
Anjo nodded up at the nurse, kissed Rose on the forehead, and backed away. He walked slowly toward the waiting room and collapsed into a chair.
“What am I going to do? What am I going to do?” He spoke as if thinking aloud and addressed his words to the floor as he twisted his cap.
Whiting was desperate to leave, but knew he couldn’t abandon Anjo. “Rose is in good hands. Trust in God to deliver her, to deliver your family.” I don’t even know what I’m saying. I need to get away from here. Somewhere quiet. Where I can think.
“I know that. I trust the sisters. It’s just that—” He looked nervously around the room. “The other thing. I mentioned it to you in the tent.” He put his head down, spoke haltingly. “I told you about one of the prisoners at the courthouse … the day of the rains ….”
Whiting registered the memory with his whole body as Nikolai’s reaction to the card came back to him. “Forgive me, Anjo, but I can’t stay.” I cannot stand this.
Anjo turned toward Whiting, made a move to stop him, but did not touch him. “Father, please. Listen to me. Years ago, we had a dictatorship in Brazil. I fought it. And when the trouble came to Central America, I helped there. It was the right thing to do. But I made a lot of enemies. The man I mentioned … he knows me. He recognized me. I’m sure of it. And he will tell others. These people, they never forget. They’ll come looking for me.” He rocked back and forth, almost imperceptibly. “And now … Rose’s injury … it changes everything.”
“Anjo, you’re safe here. The sisters will protect you.”
“You don’t understand. They are treacherous. What if the sisters are also in danger?”
“You’re worrying needlessly.”
Anjo turned back to studying in the floor. “We can’t leave here soon enough.”
“Don’t even think of going. You’re safe with the sisters.”
“But we’re all going, Father. Didn’t you know?”
“What? Where?” Whiting struggled to keep his voice steady, but he was sure it betrayed his emotion.
Dancing with Gravity Page 28