“The sisters told us this morning. They’re moving us to New Mexico.”
“But why?” His hands were suddenly very cold.
“They have another mission there, a small hospital. They do a lot of work with poor children. They said it would be a good place for us.”
“When?” He fought a rising panic.
“Soon. A few weeks? The sisters wanted to make sure we agreed.”
“For how long?”
“I think forever, Father. We won’t be coming back.”
Whiting again felt the assault of his call with Mother Frances. He rose suddenly. “I have to go now. Really, it can’t wait.”
Anjo’s anxiety and confusion were written on his face. “Father, yes, of course. But will we talk again?”
I cannot stand this one more minute. “I have to go. Forgive me.”
Whiting rushed to the parking lot, afraid of being seen, of being stopped. Once away from the hospital, he drove aimlessly as he replayed his conversation with Mother Frances, considered the revelations from Anjo. If only I could have some peace. Some time to think. I need to sort this out. Something rose up in him—some longing—that he could not name. Where am I going? He drove across town without thinking, grounded by familiarity. He found himself back at the seminary where he had studied decades earlier.
The neighborhood was in transition. Some buildings showed signs of renovation—new wooden porches and double paned windows—while others remained boarded up. He turned down a side street to the seminary and parked.
How many years since my last visit? The chapel’s white clapboard face and arched wooden door were smaller than he remembered. The smell of incense and candle wax filled his nostrils even though he remained in his car. As he took in the scene through his windshield, he half expected his provincial to come rushing out, his wiry hair in disarray, his blue eyes wild with urgency and disapproval.
The first time Whiting had taken confession with Father O’Brien, the priest had given his penance instructions, then added, “Pray for me.” It was not the request itself, but its urgency that stayed with him. I prayed for him. Have prayed for him for years. And then, he realized, he had stopped praying weeks ago.
Whiting got out of his car and walked toward the chapel. His mind went to the cool, perfumed air inside. The votive candles that flickered in their red glass containers. Tears filled his eyes; he wanted to lean his face against the cool white walls, lose himself in the comfort and safety of the old building. He hurried up the steps, grabbed the door handle, and pulled. Locked. He tried again, tried another door, then went around to the side entrance. A large metal chain looped through its handles and ended with a padlock. He lifted the lock and felt its weight in his palm. His shoulders slumped.
If I ran away—if I died—who would care? The idea of extricating himself from his daily routine exhausted him. I don’t have the energy to run. Don’t have the will. Where would I go, even if I did?
He looked down the street at the rows of houses. People from the neighborhood used to come here for Mass. His mind went back to Father O’Brien with his silent rituals at the altar, the young altar boys in their cassocks, restless and ungainly as they waited on the priest, their movements in such contrast to the stillness of his own. He pictured the organist, an old man, an immigrant, who combed his hair straight back and always wore a three-piece suit, even in the heat of summer.
Two ancient priests moved across the quadrangle—one hunchbacked, the other in a wheelchair. Their pace was slow, painful. Whiting turned away. He wanted to run, but he needed to stay, to forgive himself everything, allow himself everything.
If I start running, I’ll pick up speed. I’ll go faster and faster. For blocks, or even miles. If I could just keep running, I could free myself of all my burdens—all my anxieties. The prayer from the Communion rite came to him and he said it aloud:
“Deliver us, Lord, from every evil, and grant us peace in our day. In your mercy keep us free from sin and protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ.”
When had religious scholars first come upon that idea? That God would shield His faithful from their anxious suffering, from the forces that tore at the heart and eroded the soul? He used to know the answer—he must have. But it escaped him now.
Nikolai. If only I had never met you. He stopped mid-sentence—withdrew the wish as quickly as he’d considered it. No. I was asleep. Only half alive. Even in the face of this suffering, it was better to be awake.
I have to find peace. Find my way again. But I have to talk with Nikolai. See him face to face. Leave nothing unsaid. I’ll see him tonight. After the special performance. We’ll talk then. Yes.
Whiting drove back to St. Theresa’s with new resolve. I should never have walked out of the tent that night. What if he was afraid, too? Wanted to be sure before he said anything? This idea came as a revelation. Why didn’t I see that before? Why was I so quick to react, so easily hurt?
He hurried from the parking lot to his office. With each step, his pace quickened. I’ve got to see Nikolai again. Tonight. The image of his mother stopped him. I promised I’d come for supper. “It doesn’t matter,” he said aloud. He hurried on. Who knows what Nikolai’s really thinking? We have to sort it out—before he leaves. Before it’s too late.
Whiting rushed past Carla without speaking and closed the door of his office behind him. He was breathing hard from exertion and emotion and took a few moments to compose himself. What can I say? What will make her understand? He folded his hands on his desk and closed his eyes. Images of Nikolai filled his head. He opened his eyes suddenly; he felt trapped by his obligations. After a beat, he jerked the phone from its cradle and dialed his mother’s number. I can’t see her. I have to be at the circus. That’s all there is to it.
As Lillian’s phone rang he devised his plan: I’ll start talking as soon as she answers—before she can even mention my visit. I won’t let her make me feel guilty. He cleared his throat. I’ll tell her I’m busy, keep it brief. He took a deep breath.
“Hello?” Lillian’s voice was thick, as though she had been sleeping.
“Mama. Hi. Listen, I only have a minute. Things are very busy here, but I need to cancel our dinner tonight.”
“Oh no, Sammy! Are you okay? Is anything wrong?” She exclaimed as though he’d called with terrible news in the middle of the night. Why does everything have to be so dramatic?
“Of course I’m all right. Why do you always expect the worst?” He bit his lip at his own impatience. “I’m sorry Mama, I’ve had a difficult day.”
“I could tell. I’ve always known you better than you know yourself.” Lillian was growing more alert.
“There’s nothing wrong, but I can’t come to dinner.”
“But why?” Her tone was pleading.
His stomach tightened, but he remained firm. “Mama, please. It really can’t be helped.” I have to be at the circus—nothing can get in the way. “I’m swamped at work.”
“It’s that circus, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “They have you doing too much, Sammy. Anybody can see that you’re doing the work of two people.”
Whiting breathed a deep sigh, which Lillian took as proof of her suspicions. “You sound so tired.”
She was right. He was exhausted.
“Really, Mama, I have so many things on my plate right now. I was here late last night … I have to work the weekend just to catch up. It can’t be helped.” The lies rolled off his tongue without thought or remorse.
“You still have to eat, Sammy. Maybe we could make it short?” He resented her persistence and silently reproached himself for letting down his guard. I need to end this call. “I’ll be here late. I’ll get a bite at the hospital.” Surely she must know I’m lying. “There’s nothing I can do about tonight, really.”
“Then what about Friday?”
“Not this weekend.” He could feel his mother’s disappointm
ent and disapproval. He needed to get off the phone.
Whiting projected his voice and turned his mouth from the receiver, as though addressing someone at his door. “Just a minute. I’ll be right there.” He turned back to the call. “Mama, I really have to go.”
“But I was hoping we could have a junk supper—something simple, before I have to pack.” He gripped the receiver tight.
“Pack? What are you talking about?”
“Well I can’t move unless I pack, now can I?” Her tone was mildly chiding, as though she found his question naïve.
“You’re moving again? When? Why?” Now he was alarmed. He tried to recall whether his mother had mentioned this before.
“You know as well as I do that it’s about Pumpkin.”
“Tell me again.” His jaw tightened.
“That terrible little boy upstairs. Tommy or Tubby or something like that. I told him not to pet her. I asked him nicely. But he wouldn’t listen. His mother never makes him mind. How can she? She’s in another world even when she’s in the same room with him. I think it’s drugs.”
“So Pumpkin bit the little boy?” His confusion gave way to anger.
“She hardly broke the skin. For God’s sake, Sammy. You sound as though I’m the criminal!”
“Those dogs don’t mind. I’ve told you that before.”
“You’re certainly not going to blame Pumpkin, I hope. Besides, she’d warned him before, and I’d warned him too. She’s so good, Sammy. She growled. But he wouldn’t listen.”
”When did this happen?”
“I guess the first time she snapped at him was maybe two weeks ago. But she only hit him with her nose.”
“Two weeks!”
“It’s not worth talking about. But I guess since I don’t see you anymore, it sounds worse than it is.”
“It’s too hard for you to control those dogs. The landlord said that—”
“Which is why I’m moving. I won’t have the pups tormented. And I won’t be treated like a criminal.”
“Where are you going? Don’t you think we should talk about it first? Find a place?” His mind raced. “Don’t you want me to help you move?”
“I’ve already talked to the new landlord. His son has a truck and does some moving on weekends. I don’t have that much; I should be fine.”
“So, what? Was I just going to come over and find you gone?” He was suddenly indignant over his imagined scene.
“Don’t be silly. When have I ever moved without letting you know?”
“You’ve made arrangements with complete strangers, and your son is the last to know.”
She let his remark pass. “By the way, I signed the lease in the name of Maureen Brant.”
“Maureen Brant? Who is Maureen Brant?” He was trembling with anger and frustration.
“Shhh! Don’t let everyone hear!”
He glanced in the direction of his imaginary interruption. “No one is here. They left.”
“Listen Sammy. This is a new start for me. Besides, it’s too easy for people to track you if you always use the same name.”
“Track you?” His head throbbed. He glanced at his watch, and considered going to his mother’s, to talk in person. “Mama, listen. Don’t do anything. Let’s talk about it first. You don’t want to do this.”
“I don’t want to go into it. It’s my right. And I choose to be somebody else.”
“But who would … what makes you think that someone wants to track you?” She ignored his question. “One more thing: I didn’t tell them I was ever married. So if anyone asks, well I guess you could be a relative, a cousin maybe. I don’t think that Maureen is religious enough to have her own audience with a priest.” She laughed at her own observation.
“Mama, listen. We have to talk this over. My schedule is terrible right now.” He already believed his own lie about demands at the hospital. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow night. I’ll come then. Just give me tonight. We’ll talk this all over, face to face. Will you do that for me? Will you wait?”
“You know I always want to see you. I wish I could see you every single night.”
“It’s only tomorrow night. It isn’t far away. Will you please just not make any decisions until then?”
“The decisions are made. Everything is in motion. You have to accept that.”
“Why did you do this? Why didn’t you talk to me first?” There was a long silence between them.
“What’s to say, Sammy?”
He listened hard, and wondered what she might be doing, or thinking. When she spoke again, her voice was cheerful, entreating. “Let’s not be sad, Sammy. We have so little time together.”
“Okay, listen. I’ll come over tomorrow night … I’ll bring something for supper. You don’t have to do anything. We can sit down and we’ll talk it all over then. But please, don’t do anything until then.”
“What should we have?”
“Let me surprise you.”
“Oh no, you already do so much. Why don’t I get the groceries? Then you can just come over.”
Whiting sighed deeply. “I’m happy to get dinner. You always cook.”
“Then you get the dessert. Something delicious and very bad for us. I’ll have the groceries delivered and we can fix dinner together when you come.”
“I’ll do it if you promise you won’t do all the cooking before I get there.”
“I’ll just get things ready. We can talk while we put it together. How’s that?”
“That’s wonderful.” His tone belied all the confusion and upset that he felt. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“You promise you won’t forget me, Sammy?”
“Mama, of course, I promise.”
Lillian hung up without saying goodbye.
Whiting placed his head in his hands. We have to have a serious conversation. She has to do something about those dogs. Could I talk her into getting rid of them? One of them at least? I can’t believe she’s moving again. “Where is she going?” She didn’t even tell me. He kneaded his temples to staunch the headache he knew was approaching. I’ll have to handle the situation carefully. “If I don’t, who knows what she might do?”
But that could wait. I’ll see her tomorrow night—sort out the idea of the move. He’d have at least twenty-four hours to organize his thoughts, figure out what to say to her. But tonight I’m going back to see Nikolai again.
Whiting arrived early for the performance, only to find Sarah’s car already on the grounds. There was no answer at Nikolai’s trailer. I can wait. Whiting bought a root beer sno-cone, then stepped to the entrance of the concession tent to watch some high school students playing touch football on the field below.
Two girls at the concession stand giggled. Even before he turned to look, Whiting was sure that Nikolai was there.
“You should have called me to join you sooner.” Nikolai, a sno-cone in hand, came to stand beside him. “I’ve just got time to give myself an ice headache and get ready for the show.”
Whiting had fantasized about what it would be like to see Nikolai again, but now that he was here, he suddenly felt unprepared. Everything that came to mind seemed wrong, or pathetic.
“Nikolai …” At last, he found his voice. “Nikolai, I want to talk with you. It’s important.”
The trapeze artist smiled, as though the exchange between them was casual, as though he did not see Whiting’s desperation.
“Not now, of course,” continued Whiting. “But after the show. I, we must talk. Please.”
Nikolai nodded. “Sure, Samuel, we’ll talk.” He dropped his cup into the trash barrel and disappeared behind the tent.
Whiting’s head throbbed as he tried to collect his thoughts. Some tremendous confrontation loomed—he was sure of it. Nikolai knows my feelings. But what does he feel? I have to know. He feared what might happen if Nikolai rejected him. That won’t happen. He considered Nikolai’s visit to his office, their late night encounters on the hill. Nikol
ai might find it difficult to come to terms with his feelings, but they’re real. They exist. The implications for his own life, his job, all of it, seemed insurmountable. No. It’s not impossible. I can work this out. He needed to think; he wanted to see Nikolai’s act—wanted to be there as soon as the circus was ended so that he and Nikolai could talk. How would Sarah react? She’ll want to stay, try to interfere. I won’t allow it. I’ll tell her to leave. Would Nikolai agree? That would be the first test. The enormity of what lay ahead made him desperate for the hours to pass.
The sky darkened. Thunder rumbled in short rolls far away. Lightning scissored the horizon. A sudden flash brightened the sky all around, followed instantaneously by a ferocious clap of thunder. Parents, students, and chaperones ran for shelter in the tent. Whiting took a seat high in the stands, away from the others. With each rumble of thunder, the tent walls trembled.
Whether from the storm or some other cause, the performers committed mistakes. At first, the problems were minor: the timing of one of the jugglers was off and ruined the handoff of pins. Then two acrobats collided while doing cartwheels across the ring, forcing ungraceful leaps to handstands. Next, one leg of the human pyramid gave way and the tumbler who was supposed to catapult over them overshot his mark and stumbled into the first row of seats. No one had been injured, but the acrobat and a middle-aged man in a golf shirt had collided in a loud and chaotic embrace. The tension on the floor of the tent after the collision was palpable. Even the clowns’ painted faces showed the strain.
By intermission, the sky was leaden. Lights for the concession stand and the exterior of the tent were turned on, but the heaviness of the air seemed to mute their effect. The wind picked up, gusted violently; the roll of tickets at the admissions table unfurled and rose like a viper in a sudden gust. Lightning flashed; the temperature plummeted. Roustabouts moved heaters into the animals’ trailers. A few families made their way to their cars to flee the approaching storm. Still others lingered outside the tent to study the sky.
The circus had recommenced only fifteen minutes when the wind howled with such constant ferocity that it swallowed the notes of the band. People turned their attention from the ring, and craned their necks to look out and under the tent flaps. More rose to go, their hurried exits adding to the cacophony. The tent appeared to breathe, inhaling and exhaling with each gust of wind.
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