Then the rain began, almost deafening in its intensity. Families that had made their way to the exit huddled together just inside the tent, then pulled back as the wind changed direction and the rain blew sideways in at them. A slim woman in her fifties folded her program into a makeshift rain hat, but no one attempted to leave. First, the rain plummeted in sheets, then it turned to hail, dimpling the tent and covering the lawn in what, in the glow of the colored tent lights, looked like a surreal Christmas tableau.
Inside, the acts continued, even as rain and hail poured down through the ceiling vent with each gust of wind. Anjo was alone, high above the ring. He approached the center of the high wire. A flash of blue light encircled the tent. An explosion followed, and the circus sizzled into silence. The tent was plunged into darkness. A child screamed. Most gasped. The band came to a chaotic halt. Moments later, the lights returned. Whiting scanned the audience, then looked up to the wire. The high wire was empty. People strained in their seats to see whether the tightrope walker had fallen. The spotlight found him, standing on his platform at the end of the wire. When Anjo raised his hand to wave, the crowd erupted into jittery, but relieved, applause.
The second act ended forty minutes early without a single animal routine. When the ensemble took its final bow, the hail and the worst of the lightning had moved eastward. But the heavy rain continued and made the waterlogged grounds muddy and treacherous.
Whiting hurried toward the exit and reached behind the stands to grab his umbrella. Someone had taken it. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed several programs and opened them over his head, then sprinted for the trailers.
He was soaked at once. Water poured down his neck. Mud slipped into his shoes. He slid on the stairs to Nikolai’s trailer as he pounded on the door. Sarah pulled it open wide. Her eyes were red; she’d obviously been crying.
“I want to talk with Nikolai.” He was so absorbed in his own mission that at first he did not even register her tears. Once he noticed, his mood swiftly changed. Had she and Nikolai argued? If so, why?
“The men are with the horses.”
“Have you been crying?” Her feelings concerned him far less than the cause of her tears.
Sarah wiped her eyes and raised her chin in defiance. “I’m fine.” Regaining herself, she added, “The horses were terrified from the storm. I think one or two broke out.”
Whiting studied her face a moment longer, then turned and headed toward the animals. A hundred yards away, lights shined on the chaotic scene. He stopped. One of the horses reared again and again as the men clotted around it and yelled instructions to one another. The scene verged on panic. He started forward again, then stopped. This is impossible. No matter how much he wanted to talk to Nikolai, he knew that this was not the night. He turned back toward Nikolai’s trailer, paused, then ran for his car. He felt strangely relieved.
Puffs of breath hung in front of him in the storm-chilled air. The hail was so thick beneath his feet he had the sensation of running on marbles. His knees hurt from the punishment, and he slipped several times. But he never slowed down.
When he got in his car, he turned the heat on full, but the first blast of air was cold against his wet skin. He switched the blower off and huddled over the steering wheel. The windows fogged, but he made no attempt to clean them. In the distance, he could see a line of taillights at the exit. Anger settled in.
He searched his glove box and back seat for something to help him dry off. Only tissues. At last he threw open his door and rushed to the trunk. He pulled out a blanket from the emergency kit, then hurried back to the driver’s seat. He wiped his face, but he blanket absorbed nothing.
“Damn them! Damn them both!” He slammed his fist against the dashboard and shouted until his voice broke and his throat burned with the effort. He pulled the blanket open and rubbed it through his dripping hair. The blanket seemed to have no weight at all. He bellowed at the ceiling of his car and gave himself a coughing fit. He opened the blanket to drape it across his shoulders, but it had been folded so long that it retained its creases and created a tent rather than a shawl. He jerked it tight across his shoulders. What kind of person would steal someone’s umbrella? He thought of Sarah’s face at Nikolai’s door. His expression hardened.
“She would do it just to make me look foolish.” He shivered and leaned back against his seat. After several minutes, his anger turned inward. “You’re being pathetic.” He sat up straighter in his seat and watched the line of cars below. One seemed to be stuck.
“You all had to rush out, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait for the finale. Couldn’t pick up your trash.” He thought about the bags of trash the children gathered after each performance—popcorn boxes, dirty diapers, soda cups.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” He furiously rubbed the fog from inside the windshield. “You think you’re all special! You think someone cares! But they don’t. Just go home! It doesn’t matter to anybody!” He threw his blanket onto the seat beside him.
“I will never leave my umbrella anywhere again! I will carry it with me, no matter what!”
He was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of loss. A drop of water fell from his forehead onto his lip and startled him. His windows had fogged again, making the line of taillights barely visible. The rain picked up, drummed on his car, sheeted over his windshield. He wiped the inside of the windows with the blanket, then threw it into the back seat. Although he could barely see through the lint and smear, he started his car and gunned the motor. He thought of them—Nikolai and Sarah—in Nikolai’s trailer together, alone.
“To hell with both of you!” He growled, slammed the car into first gear, and fishtailed down the hill. The storm threw itself at him. Ahead, he saw the unbroken line of blinking taillights as the drivers inched forward, applied their brakes, and pulled forward again. He wanted to pull around and spin mud on all of them. He leaned forward and peered at the darkness and rain. His windshield wipers were useless in the downpour.
“I’ve got to get out of here. Now!” He screamed to the other drivers, as though his rage would force them to move.
Two SUVs veered into line, cutting off the cars behind them. A chain reaction of brake lights and horns followed. Two lines of traffic merged into one, just before taking the rise onto the service road. Whiting inched forward in line. I should just ram into you!
When he was only six cars from the service road, a beige Buick careened into the line. A Volvo station wagon sped up to close the gap and the two cars collided. He heard the sounds: the crunch of metal, shattered glass. The pop of a headlamp and the sudden hiss of heat colliding with cold rain. He saw the Buick illuminated in the Volvo’s headlights; the people in the Volvo thrown back after the moment of impact, saw the woman passenger in the Volvo’s front seat raise her hands to her head seconds after the crash.
“Shit!” The damage to the cars was minor, but the mess, rancor, and aggravation was anything but. Two young couples from the Jeep ahead of him got out of their car. One couple rushed to the Buick, the other jogged toward the Volvo. The young man who stood outside the Volvo pulled his jacket over his head to shield himself from the downpour and signaled the Volvo driver to roll down his window. The other couple huddled nearer the Buick.
“They don’t need me,” he said. “They’d be running around asking for help if anyone was really hurt.”
He backed up slowly and eased around the Jeep. He wanted to turn right, to return to the highway, but the line of cars was hopelessly snarled. Two policemen in day-glo plastic ponchos were walking toward the accident.
“Perfect! How about the rest of us? We may as well just stay here all night!” Incensed, Whiting pulled left and around the cars. His tires kicked up gravel and ice, and his car slid back from the incline. He gunned the engine and pulled up the hill at an angle, spraying gravel and ice and mud into the air. He swerved and made a left, his rear tires shuddering to grab the asphalt. He was on a darkened road he had never taken.
The two-lane road was nothing like the well-lit service road he usually took. Within two hundred yards, it narrowed and grew noticeably rougher. He wasn’t sure if it would cut back to the highway, but he didn’t see anywhere to turn around. He alternately searched for road signs and checked his rear view mirror, hoping that some of the other cars had followed him. Seeing no one behind, he turned his full attention to the road ahead.
A small sign on the right indicated that he was leaving county maintenance. The road twisted and dipped. The shoulder was little more than debris. Brush and weeds crowded both sides to the edge of the asphalt. He again considered turning back, but now he was afraid he’d pull into a ditch in the darkness.
Whiting tried to calm himself. “Don’t worry. This is a perfectly acceptable road. It must make its way back to the highway sooner or later.” He checked the gauges on the dashboard. “You’re in no hurry. Plenty of gas. Slow down. Just relax.”
The road swung to the right, away from the direction of the highway. Whiting sat up straighter and adjusted his rear-view mirror. The night and the road erased his fierce anger. He reproached himself for not offering assistance at the accident. What if someone from the hospital saw me leave? Then he thought about how hard it was to see in the rain, and he dismissed the idea almost as quickly. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard. Twenty minutes had elapsed since the last time he checked.
“Well, you certainly saved yourself some time by taking this road!” He switched on the radio. The classical station he usually listened to was playing Philip Glass. “Oh that’s just what I need!” The grating composition made him push back against his seat. He stretched his arms and made fists around the steering wheel. A strong chill seized him. Goose flesh pimpled his arms. With every movement a different cold patch made him shiver. His clothes were soaking and he was freezing despite the heater.
“God damn it, I’ll be sick tomorrow.” He accelerated in bursts. Two, then three times he punished the engine by pushing the pedal and letting up. The road wound further to the right, further from the highway. With each mile, his anxiety increased. I have to do something—turn around, retrace my route. He passed a larger road that cut straight to the left and slammed on his brakes. His car skidded and angled sideways on the wet road. Shaken, he stared out the windshield. He waited several moments before backing up. When he came to the junction of the two roads, he spun to the left and jammed the accelerator. Gravel sprayed from his rear tires. At first, the car paused in place, then hurtled forward. The road dipped, and the bottom of the car thumped violently. He glanced at this dash. No warning lights came on. He pressed down harder on the accelerator. At least I’m going in the right direction.
Although this road was wider, it was rougher than the one he left behind and, sheltered by trees, was so dark he could barely see. Whiting cracked his window for air. All at once, his front tire caught a rut off the road. He stopped too quickly, killing the engine. Seconds later he realized he was on a low road high with rushing water. The brown water roiled in the beam of his headlights and the road was lost under the muddy foam.
He turned the key. The engine would not turn over. Whiting put his hand on the door handle, but hesitated. Is the water getting higher? He reached over quickly and locked his doors, then leaned forward in his seat and tried to get a better view—he couldn’t be sure.
I need air! He rolled down his window and took several quick breaths. His breathing was shallow, and he felt as though he could not get enough oxygen. The rain beat down on the car and the road and added to the sounds of rushing water. He tried to start the car again. The headlights dimmed when he turned the key in the ignition. He switched them off and was plunged into total darkness. Moments later, he switched them on again and watched the roiling brown water.
“You have to conserve the battery.” He took a deep breath and switched the lights off once again.
Whiting sat still, listening. He thought about all times he’d heard the weatherman warn about flash floods and the danger of driving when you can’t see the road. Maybe this is a stream, a river even. He tried to calculate his location based on how long he’d been driving and how many twists and turns the road had made. Maybe I’m near the Meramec. Maybe that’s the river, rising right in front of me. The rhythmic sheets of rain swept over his windows like great inarticulate hands seeking entry. He couldn’t decide what to do next.
He rolled his window shut. Lowered it for more air, then closed it again. He checked the other windows to be sure they were tightly closed. Will the door seals hold? He shifted his feet and heard the squish of water in the carpet, then twisted in his seat and felt the driver’s floorboard. He couldn’t see the carpet, but when he pressed his fingers into the pile, they came back wet. His heart gulped a beat. Then he remembered that he had been drenched when he entered his car.
“It’s just the rain, just the rain.” Whiting reached over and felt the carpet on the passenger’s side. It, too, was wet, but not waterlogged. He retried the ignition without success.
“You can stay afloat if the car washes away. Just don’t panic and you’ll be able to do it.” He twisted in his seat to peer out the back window. “The water might not be at the back of the car yet. If you have to, you can climb into the back seat and escape through the back window.” He could swim, but not well.
“You could run up the road.” He climbed with some effort into the back seat. Both the seat and carpet were dry. He cracked the back window for air. The darkness was total. The torrential downpour had eased into a steady rain. Water rushed on all sides, but Whiting couldn’t determine how much of the noise came from the rain. He cocked his head and tried to decide whether the water was rising or simply flowing around his tires. It occurred to him that his car might be moving in the darkness. He jumped up and down on the back seat to see whether he could make his car rock. Reassured that his car was stationary, at least for the time being, he abandoned his plan to crawl out the rear window.
He placed his hands on the driver’s headrest, but instead of pulling himself forward, he lay his head down on the back of the seat: he knew the car would not start, knew that no one would hear the horn, even if it worked. He pulled the emergency blanket from the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders.
“There’s nothing you can do now. It’s best to stop trying. Take it easy.” It was the tone and address he might use on his hospital rounds. He pulled the blanket tighter with his left hand, then lowered his head and made the sign of the cross with his right hand.
“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit ….” His lids grew heavy. “I thank you for today, and I ….” His mind wandered back to the circus. Where is Nikolai? Sarah? What are they doing at this moment? Are they together? “I ask Your blessings and forgiveness.” He leaned his head against the window and gathered the blanket at his throat. The sounds of the water and rain flowed together, but they no longer frightened him. They were far away. At last he drifted off to sleep.
A sharp report at Whiting’s left ear woke him and he sat up with a start. He had no idea where he was. His head throbbed and his arms and hands trembled uncontrollably. A boy pressed his face to the car window, only inches from his own. Whiting lunged to his right as the boy pounded on the side window with the handle of a long silver flashlight. With each strike of the handle, Whiting was sure the glass would shatter.
“Mister. Mister! Are you all right?”
Whiting’s mind was a jumble. Every movement pained him.
“You all right in there?” the boy asked again, his voice muffled by the glass.
Whiting stared blankly back at him and pulled his blanket tighter. The boy made a circular gesture with his arm.
“Roll down your window so we can talk.”
Whiting was suddenly afraid. What if I’m being ambushed? He turned quickly in his seat to see whether anyone else stood outside his car. Again the boy made the circular motion.
“Roll down your window.”
>
He cast a quick glance around and cracked his window an inch.
“You all right?” the boy repeated.
Whiting didn’t answer.
“You get caught in the flood?”
All at once, he remembered the previous night; he sat up straighter in his seat. “I took a wrong turn and my car died.” He remembered leaving the circus, his missing umbrella, the storm. Whiting unlocked his door so he could get out and talk, stretch his legs.
“Don’t!” yelled the boy.
Whiting slammed down the door lock again.
“You’ll let water and mud in. I’m going to get my dad.” The boy turned and ran down the gravel road. Whiting watched him through his rearview mirror, until he disappeared down a side path.
After fifteen or twenty minutes, a dirty white pickup truck pulled up behind the car. A burly man in overalls and waders jumped from the cab and strode over to the car. Whiting rolled down his window a couple of inches and peered out.
“Stay there. I’ll pull you out.” The man waded slowly back to his truck, pulling his feet in long strides through the brown water and mud. Whiting watched through the back window as he climbed into the truck’s cab and moved some gears. A thick metal cable at the front of the truck began to uncoil. He jumped down, took the cable in his hand, and walked it back to Whiting’s car.
“Put her in neutral and take off the brake.”
Whiting wrestled out of his blanket and scrambled over the front seat. He took the car out of gear, then called, “Okay!”
The man worked noisily at the rear of the car. “I’m going to pull you out. Don’t do anything. Just sit there.” Whiting nodded. “Car in neutral?” He nodded again, and raised his hand from the gearshift so the man could see for himself. “Have you outta’ there in a minute or two.”
Dancing with Gravity Page 30