The man strode back to his truck and seated himself in the cab. He pressed several gears, and the winch reversed. Whiting felt a sudden jolt when the cable went taut. The car shuddered. The motor of the winch whined. Then the car began a slow reverse. When the car was clear of the water, the man jumped down to disengage the cable.
Whiting bounded from his car and was suddenly ankle deep in mud and cold water. He lifted his foot and felt the mud pull at his shoe. He had to brace himself on the car door and rotate his ankle to get free. In the process, he splattered mud over much of his suit. He made his way to the rear of the car.
“I can’t thank you enough.” He glanced nervously toward the swirling brown water.
The man stared at him—a look that seemed to take his measure. The gesture stopped Whiting cold.
“I was at the convent last night. Well actually, I was at the circus…it’s being held on the convent grounds.” He smiled to show that he knew how odd the idea sounded. “But the traffic was so bad that I tried a different way to the highway.”
“This road don’t go to the highway.” The man’s tone suggested he wanted a better answer.
“Oh really? I didn’t know that.”
The man held Whiting’s gaze.
“So I saw this road and thought it might take me back, back to the highway, but it seems to have washed out.”
“Road always floods. It’s flat bottom.”
“I didn’t know. I’ve never been out this way.” Whiting felt like he was sinking. Everything he said made him sound suspect or ridiculous. Best to cut the conversation short.
“Well, as I said, I really appreciate your help. Please let me pay you for your efforts.” He pulled out his wallet, hoping he had enough cash.
The man again appraised Whiting with an unreadable expression.
“No charge.”
“If your son hadn’t come along, I don’t know what I’d have done. Can’t I give you something?”
“Pass it on,” said the man. He had moved away and was securing the cable to the front of his truck. Whiting had the feeling that the man, having rescued him, found that he didn’t really like him, and was reconsidering his effort.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Pass it on,” he said, louder. “You got yours, now help somebody else when they need it.”
Whiting thought of the patients at the hospital, the families in his support groups, Jerry, his mother and, then, the accident at the edge of the convent grounds flashed into his mind. It seemed that the man hadn’t answered him, but was instead reprimanding him for all his failures.
“I will pass it on. And thank you.” He extended his hand. The man wiped his palm on the front of his shirt and then shook Whiting’s hand.
“You know your way out?”
“I’ll just follow back the way I came.” When Whiting took hold of the door and was about to get back in his car, when he saw the muddy water line, a third of the way up his door. He jerked his hand back from the door, as though it had burned him. The man continued watching him. “I had no idea the water had gotten so high. I couldn’t see it.” He smiled apologetically as he offered this explanation.
“Make sure it starts.”
Whiting got back in his car. His shoes were caked with mud and dripped water over the pedals. When he turned the key, the engine did not turn over. He tried two more times.
“I’ll give you a lift back to the house. You can warm up, get some coffee, and call someone from there.”
Who can I call? There is no one. “It’s Wednesday.” A shock coursed through him as he realized that he was supposed to be at St. Theresa’s for a seven a.m. meeting. He checked his watch, then climbed into the truck.
The man looked at him sideways. “You got Triple A, don’t you?”
“What? Oh, yes, Triple A. Yes, I’ll call them.” Relieved, he looked at himself in the truck’s side mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his face sallow. A day’s growth of beard was mixed with mud. His clothes were badly wrinkled and his collar open.
I look homeless.
It was almost ten o’clock when Whiting entered the Pastoral Care office, head hammering and out of breath. Carla’s look of surprise at his entrance changed almost immediately to one of reproach.
“Where have you been? I’ve had a dozen calls already this morning!” The volume of her voice increased with each word. “And Sarah James was in here about ten minutes ago demanding to know where you were, as if I had any idea. And as far as these call-backs go—”
“Spare me the editorials. I’m not interested.” He was shaking as much from anger as from weakness.
She stopped short.
Instead of dissipating his anger, his declaration seemed to fuel it. “It’s your job to take messages. And if you can’t—or won’t—just say so. And I’ll get someone in here who will.”
The color drained from her face. Her expression hardened. “When Father Baricevic was here, he never—”
Whiting cut her off. “And that’s another thing. I’m sick and tired of hearing about Father Baricevic. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s gone. And like it or not, I’m the director of this department. Not Father Baricevic … and certainly not you.”
“How could I like it?” she crossed her arms. She was silent a moment, then pushed back from her desk. “You are an unlikable man.”
Even in the midst of his anger, her sentence stung. “We all have our crosses to bear.” He was struggling to contain himself. “We’re done here. I’ve got bigger problems than you to deal with. You are not a priority.” He turned toward his office, without his messages.
“Maybe the job’s too much for you.”
He stopped mid-stride and turned to face her. “And just what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re never here. You’re hardly doing what you’re supposed to do.”
“I’m sick of your policing and your criticisms. You’re a secretary. You have absolutely no idea what my job entails.” They were both shouting now.
“It’s supposed to be more than the circus. I can’t believe you’re getting away with it.”
He took a step towards her. He leaned in. “What the hell are you saying?”
“You don’t scare me. You think I don’t know, but I do. I’ve got you figured out.”
He heard the blood rushing in his ears. His arms shook. “That’s it! You’re out of here!”
“Ha. You can’t fire me. Father Baricevic would—”
He cut her off. “I can and will have you out of this department! Take a long break, take an early lunch, go to H.R., and apply for a transfer. Do whatever the hell you want, but get out of here!”
Her face radiated defiance. She wrenched open a desk drawer and grabbed her purse. As she rose, she shoved the drawer and glared, then stormed out of the office.
Whiting stood transfixed in the silence that followed. A wave of panic washed over him. He was sure that she was on her way to Human Resources to report him. Should I run after her? No! I’m rid of her at last. His anger and indignation took control, and he grabbed the messages from her desk, turned to his office and slammed the door.
Once at his desk, he cradled his head in his hands. His eyes hurt; his temples squeezed. His whole body ached from sleeping in the car. The light glared; he was suddenly nauseous. I need to leave. He made a move toward the phone to call Human Resources and tell them he was ill, but stopped in mid-gesture. Did anyone see me as I came in? He remembered what Carla had said about Sarah. What did she want? I can’t stand to hear another word about her and Nikolai … but, maybe I should call her. Just in case …. But again, he stopped himself. No, I don’t care what she has to say. I’m through with her, too. “I need to go home.” The idea overwhelmed him. Will Carla come back? Do I care? He was an observer, watching an accident he was causing and waiting for the impact.
Whiting decided to make rounds—to refocus through structure. He took a small stack of index cards from his t
op drawer and placed them inside his breast pocket, then got up to go. As he passed Carla’s desk, he paused and considered leaving a note in case she returned. The phone rang and startled him. His nerves were frayed. If that’s Sarah … Well, I can’t deal with her right now. Can’t deal with anything else. He left the Pastoral Care office and made his way to the Admitting office to retrieve the list of patients. He needed his life to stabilize; he wanted his life back.
Whiting avoided his office—and Sarah’s—for most of the day. He returned to Pastoral Care only once to get a file for a one-thirty meeting. Visiting patients had helped. He was calmer now, focused on the rote duties of a typical workday. He heard the office phones ringing even before he pushed open the door, but he ignored them as he retrieved a folder and left again.
Just before three-o’clock, he returned to Pastoral Care to find one of the hospital chaplains manning the phones at Carla’s desk.
“Just a minute, please, he’s just come in.” She held her hand over the receiver when she saw him enter. “Father Whiting, this call is for you. They say it’s urgent.” He took a step toward the desk, then reconsidered.
“Who is it?” He thought immediately of Carla.
“Frank somebody. He’s called several times. Hold on, I’ll ask.”
“Never mind. I’ll take it on my phone.” This will be about Carla. He crossed to his office and closed the door behind him. Once inside, he took a deep breath and tried to collect his thoughts before picking up the receiver.
“This is Father Whiting. How may I help you?”
“Father Whiting? Samuel Whiting?” The caller sounded like an older man. He did not recognize the voice, but heard a great deal of tension in it.
“Yes, this is Father Samuel Whiting. Who’s calling?” He hoped he sounded sufficiently brusque.
“Father … I don’t know how to say this. Please forgive me. But … it’s about your mother.”
Whiting was suddenly cold.
“Father? Are you there?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t sure whether he’d actually said the word aloud.
“Have the police contacted you?”
Whiting’s concern turned to alarm. What had his mother—or her dogs—done this time?
“The police? Who is this?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”
The man at the other end struggled to go on. He sounded as though he’d been crying. Whiting’s heart tore. Has someone hurt my mother?
“My name is Francis Patterson. My wife and I own Frankie’s Market where your mother shops.”
Whiting waited, head bowed.
“She said you were coming for dinner tonight. She called in an order for three packs of short ribs, a liter of Coke, and some Lorna Doones. She wanted to be sure we could deliver in time …” his voice caught. “… in time to cook supper.”
As if taking dictation, Whiting wrote the grocery order on his desk pad. His hand trembled so violently he set his pencil back on the desk.
“When we got there, she didn’t answer the door. Jim—he’s our delivery guy—knocked and knocked. Her dogs barked … whined and howled really … but she didn’t come … and neither did they. Jim got worried. Your mother is almost always home. He finally broke out one of the windows and went in. He found her on the floor beside her bed.” The man was talking faster now, crying freely. “We’re so sorry, Father. Your mother was good to us.”
Whiting cocked his head at this last sentence. Why is this man apologizing? Is she upset about the broken window? “Is my mother there with you now?”
“Oh, no, Father. Of course not.”
“So you’re not calling from her house?”
“I’m at the store. Jim is the one who talked with the paramedics and the police. I went by with one of my sons. My oldest boy took over his deliveries, and I brought Jim back to the store. We’re all real upset.”
“I’ll call my mother. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Whiting felt as though he were floating. His voice sounded tinny to his ear.
“Father … I don’t think you understand. Your mother … your mother has passed away.” He spoke slowly. His tone was comforting. “I’m sure the police will call soon. They were still at your mother’s apartment when we left.”
“There must be some mistake.” He thought he should leave, go to his mother’s house and straighten everything out. But he needed to keep this man on the phone. What did he say his name was? He stretched the phone cord as far as it would go as he paced his office. He squeezed his hand into a fist and then released it.
“Where are they taking her? Did you tell them I work at St. Theresa’s? I’ll call the Emergency—”
“Father, she’s not there. The police are taking care of it.” The man waited. “There’s no mistake, Father. I’m sorry.”
“I have to go now. I have to go to my mother’s house.”
“Father … I think you’re in shock. Stop. Please. You need to listen to me.”
Whiting sat down in his chair, as if the man had just ordered him to do so.
“Tell me again. What happened?” He struggled to listen.
“Your mother had a heart attack. She’s gone.” The man’s voice softened. “She didn’t suffer, Father. They said it was very quick.”
“I should go over there.”
“They called the coroner. The police are taking care of everything. I have the officer’s name.”
The man kept talking, but Whiting could make no sense of what he said. When he roused himself, the man was mid-sentence.
“But Lillian, I mean your mother, she told us all about you and your work at St. Theresa’s. She was so proud of you, Father. But you knew that, I’m sure. Anyway, I don’t want to interfere, but I figured you’d want to know as soon as possible.” There was another long pause. “I’m sorry, Father. God bless you both.”
Whiting looked at the clock on his wall. It was exactly three o’clock—the hour of dark dreams, the hour of suffering. But his worst hour was three in the morning—middle of the night, when the world was vulnerable and asleep. He always thought the call would come then. The ring shattering the silence. His heart racing. Bad news at the other end of the line. Catastrophe. Everything changed in an instant. But this news had come in daylight.
Whiting set the phone in its cradle with the care of someone handling explosives. He covered his face with his hands because that’s what one does. He thought he might sob, but he, and the room around him, were silent. The news was still entering him—still traveling to his heart and brain—its dark energy expanding inside him. The pressure in his chest was so intense that he thought his heart would pop. He pressed his hand to his chest but his hand shook so violently that he could not feel his heartbeat. He gasped, suppressed it, and squeezed his eyes shut.
At last Whiting rose from his desk. His legs were leaden, his gait stiff. He crossed to the outer office. The young chaplain, again on the phone, made a move to address him, but stopped short when she saw his face. He waved her off and walked out of the office. Once in the hallway, he wanted to break into a run, but his legs would not obey. He needed a place to sit. He needed someone to come to him, to take this away. To take everything away. He needed someone to listen. Someone to take over. All of his movements felt alien. He stumbled into the hospital chapel as if in a dream.
The wooden doors closed noisily behind him. There should be no noise. The empty chapel smelled of incense and of wax. Votive candles—evidence of the worried and the faithful—flickered at the feet of several statues. He approached the altar, automatically genuflected, then moved to the statue of the Virgin Mary. He lowered himself onto the kneeler one knee at a time and crossed himself. He needed a rite to follow, something outside himself. He tried to collect his thoughts—to replay the conversation with Frank Patterson—but no matter how hard he tried, he could hardly remember it. I should have been the one to find her. I could have done something.
He had a fleeting thought that the call had been a hoax,
and he decided that he must call his mother. She would answer the phone. She would be fine, if only he would call. Or, no, he would go over to her apartment. If he saw her, then she could not pretend to be dead. He braced his arms against the front of the kneeler and tried to stand, but he felt as though unseen hands forced him back down. He lay his head on the prayer rail. The edge of the cool, smooth wood pressed into his cheek and he knew that it was true: his mother was … he could not even bear to think the word—not yet.
An image of Lillian came to him. She was cooking dinner as she sat in a kitchen chair before the stove. A small, lone sound escaped from the back of this throat. He pressed his fingers to his lids to keep the tears inside. He had always believed that the body could endure a great deal, but if the spirit was broken—was left unprotected and allowed to shatter—then there would be no hope. There was no sin greater than despair.
He took a deep breath and looked around the chapel. Its very ordinariness was strange. Shouldn’t there be damage? Shouldn’t people be running down the halls? How could his mother have died without his even knowing? Without anyone knowing? As a child he had always felt—even somehow, believed—that when she died, the world would die with her. Trees would wither and curl. The world would be consumed in hot wind and blinding light. He closed his eyes and saw the destruction, heard the howling wind rush past his ears. He opened his eyes with a start. The chapel was quiet.
What to do? He located an empty votive dish before the statue of the Blessed Virgin and dropped a candle inside. Scratched away the wax near the wick. Focused all his attention on the candle. It was suddenly of the greatest importance that the candle light well, that it burn brightly. Then he lit the wick. It caught the flame at once, flickered briefly, and then held steady.
Whiting bowed his head and tried to pray, or, if not to pray, then at least to concentrate, to think of his mother, to recall some ordinary action. To see her in the present. The image of his mother falling played before his eyes. Did she feel pain? Call out? Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He moaned and swayed back and forth until he was afraid he would collapse. He forced the images of her suffering from his consciousness, but they returned; he forced them away again and again.
Dancing with Gravity Page 31