“I even thought you might be in love with Nikolai.” She gave a rueful laugh. “I wanted to hurt you—so I did.”
She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. He watched as her shoulders rose and lowered with each breath. At that moment, she was the very embodiment of misery, of deep and exhausting self-pity. He made no move to comfort her. It was as if the woman crying before him was a stranger. No. Not a stranger. He remembered the woman outside the Duomo after the dog bite. She looked to me for help, but I only stood at a distance. I was too absorbed in my own shock to do anything. I could not move beyond myself—could not reach out to someone that needed me.
“Forgiveness,” he murmured.
Sarah took the tissues from her eyes. She had stopped crying, if only for the moment. “What? What did you say?”
“Forgiveness.” His voice broke. “Forgiveness.”
Whiting slept fitfully. His mother was gone, and Nikolai would soon be gone, too. The circus, and all the joy and pain it brought him, was moving on. The performance was over. But was it all a performance? What was the truth? How much was in my head? How much was real?
He forced himself to return to the conversations and images that he had tried so hard to suppress. For months, Nikolai had been the epicenter of his life. The depth and power of the love he felt had amazed him. Stunned him. But had it been love, really? And if so, what kind of love? To what end? Cui bono?
His eyes darkened as he thought back over all that had happened. It was real. It must have been. But the more he searched for something he could hold on to, the more he realized how little of substance had really passed between he and Nikolai. It had all been an illusion—lit by fireflies and circus lights. There was nothing there.
Whiting lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Like a man waking from a high fever, he was weak, disoriented. Tears rolled across his cheeks and into his ears. He wiped his eyes and nose on his pillow. With each second that passed, he was reentering his life, moving back to the existence he had known, moving further away from the fantastic, impassioned place he had inhabited. In the end Nikolai would be an idea, an idea only, and that would leave too. And Whiting knew that he would be left to confront all that he had done, to face all the ways that he had failed. He struggled against hating himself, struggled not to grieve. “Forgiveness,” he whispered.
At four-thirty a.m. he knew he could not fall back to sleep. He felt thick; his body ached. They have taken down the tent. They will be leaving. Perhaps they are already gone. “I need to go.” See them leave. “Say goodbye to Nikolai.” See him one last time.
He threw back his covers. He sat a few moments on the side of his bed, registering the soreness of his eyes, his stomach, his back. Absolute loneliness seized him. I must do this. He looked toward his window, hoping for the first grey light of sunrise. He bent forward, leaned on his elbows, and pushed his palms deep into his eyes. He thought about the circus pulling away, receding into the distance.
“I’ve got to go there.” He moved quickly from the bedroom to shower and change.
It was still dark when Whiting pulled onto the grounds of the motherhouse. The roustabouts worked in the distance, their efforts illuminated by a circle of parked cars, headlights on. The main tent was already down. A dozen men worked in tandem as they tied the tent to the bed of a tractor-trailer. Two others scrubbed large plastic buckets, releasing the burning odor of bleach.
“Tent coming down!”
The call came from over Whiting’s shoulder. Backs bent, half a dozen men bunched their weight against the poles of the concession tent and walked them down and out with long strides. The tent held the memory of its shape for a moment, then spread across the ground like a parachute. The men reemerged from beneath the vinyl. They worked in silence as they made their way around the perimeter, twisting the poles so that they could be pulled out, folding the vinyl skin over on itself again and again, smoothing it into a coherent rectangle. The men carried the poles to the waiting truck. One roustabout, eyes red and puffy from a night of too much whiskey and too little sleep, collected the metal stakes that held the ropes.
Whiting headed toward the performers’ encampment. Many of the trailers had their interior lights on, their diesel engines idling. He angled toward Nikolai’s, his heart hammering. “I can do this.” I don’t have any choice. He could not even think what he might say, although he had thought of little else during his drive to the motherhouse. After circling the darkened trailer, he knocked and waited. Maybe he’s with the others tearing down the tent?
In the silence that followed, he eyed the door and wondered whether it was unlocked. He moved toward the handle, but instead of trying it, he knocked again. Someone was moving inside. The voice was unlovely, but it was a woman’s voice. She was pulling on clothes as she shuffled to the door. Whiting blanched. Not Sarah. Please. Not Sarah.
“What?” Alyiana glowered through the opened door.
They looked at one another in silence for what seemed to Whiting to be a very long time. She looked tired and not at all pleased to see him.
“Alyiana.” He struggled to keep his voice level. “I’d like to speak to Nikolai.” Whiting took a step up to the trailer—he could hardly believe his own audacity.
“Well, he’s not here.” She did not hide her irritation or try to stop him.
Entering the trailer seemed a trespass, but he could not stop himself. Boxes and clothes were strewn about. A woman’s clothes. Her clothes. Whiting had no idea what he was seeing, but he found the situation both embarrassing and riveting. He turned back to Alyiana.
“Are you storing your things in his trailer for the move?”
“It’s mine now. The trailer’s mine.”
“What happened to Nikolai?”
Alyiana’s sour mood filled the space between them. “He is not coming with us.” She scowled and then crossed her arms. She looked haggard in the light.
“He’s staying?”
“The bastard is joining another circus. He left last night.” Her anger sizzled like a branding iron doused in water.
“Wait a minute. He’s gone? But why?”
“New Mexico is a desert,” she said, mimicking Nikolai’s accent. “Talk to the nuns if you want answers.”
Whiting was silent. “Forgive me for intruding.” He turned from the trailer. Alyiana slammed the door behind him before he was even off the steps.
Gone? Without a word? A bitter taste rose to the back of his throat as he tried to sort out the meaning of Nikolai’s silence. It is the worst of what you feared. It was all in your head. “All of it.” And you made a fool of yourself. He felt hollow, punished. But he did not turn away from the pain. “I deserve this.” I brought it on myself.
As he passed the trailer that belonged to Joseph and Leah, Joseph opened his door and stepped out.
“Good morning, Father. You came to see us off?” Then he paused. “Father, is everything all right? Are you all right?”
Whiting roused himself from his thoughts, waved off the question. “I came to say goodbye. But it looks like I’m too late. Some of the performers … they’re already gone.”
“Yeah. Some left last night—the clowns for sure. They want to drive straight through, but they’ve got five drivers to take shifts.”
“And the others?”
“Which others?”
“Nikolai ….” It took all his effort to continue. “I just spoke to Alyiana. She was in his trailer.”
Joseph nodded at the news. “Yeah, I heard. She wasn’t happy.” He shook his head. “He left last night—Emil took him to the airport.”
“Why? Where’s he going?” He did not know what else to say.
“Somewhere in Spain. He has a cousin in a circus there.” He looked past Whiting to the men loading the trucks. “Anyway, good to see you Father. I’m glad you stopped by.” They shook hands and then Joseph jogged toward the tractor-trailers. One of the semis was already heading down the hill.
Wh
iting watched the others at a distance. He felt useless. Out of place. Someone could come up behind me now, grab me by the shoulder and call me a trespasser. They could tell me to leave and they’d be right. “I am a stranger here.” I always was.
He bowed his head. “Forgive me, dear God, for all that I have done. For all that I have failed to do. Could I really have been such a fool? Help me, please, to find the truth. And most of all, help me … no matter the cost … to find my way back to You.”
As Whiting raised his head and opened his eyes, he saw Mother Frances—wearing a grave expression—and Sister Mary Alice hurrying toward him. Mother Frances’s head was lowered as she listened to the other nun. Still, she kept her eyes trained on Whiting. His stomach tightened. I’m not welcome here. I shouldn’t have come. He waited for her to close the last few feet between them. I may as well face this now. She whispered something to the other nun and Sister Mary Alice hurried away.
“Mother Frances, we need to talk about why I was dismissed.”
“Later, Father. My priority is to get these people off safely.”
Now that Whiting had found his courage, he pressed forward. “I understand that Nikolai is already gone.”
“Father, Nikolai is in no danger. But others are.”
“And you’re letting them leave in a caravan?”
“We’ve been getting the refugees away all through the summer. But somehow you failed to notice.”
Whiting heard her rebuke. It was true. Just as he had not seen his mother’s illness, he had not noticed the gradual thinning in the ranks of performers and roustabouts. He chewed the inside of his mouth as he considered how to continue. “Mother Frances, I need to talk with you about Nikolai.”
“Father, Nikolai is not the issue. Anjo is.” She lowered her voice. “I understand he came to you for help.”
“What? No.” Their conversation in the E.R. suddenly came back to him. But so much happened that day. And then my mother’s death. His head swam as he tried to remember it all, to keep it in order.
“He came to you for help. I know he did. You must tell me what he said.” She stepped closer. “He was identified by a prisoner at the courthouse. Father, Anjo has disappeared. We’re afraid he’s being pursued, that he’s been kidnapped—or worse.”
“Wait, disappeared? What do you mean?”
“Gone without a word. Rose is distraught. Their son is inconsolable.”
Whiting stared at Mother Frances. The enormity of his failure to serve was too big to grasp and it hadn’t even begun to sink in.
Just then, Sister Mary Alice came running back toward them. She pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to the Mother Superior. Mother Frances glanced at it and handed it to Whiting.
“Here. Nikolai told me to give this to you as soon as possible.”
The envelope was addressed to him: Samuel. He tore open the envelope and pulled out the folded slip of paper.
You know Thérèse, but I know Rilke …
“God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear:
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.”
Go, Samuel. Be a priest.
N.
Whiting stared at Nikolai’s handwriting. He read the words again and then twice more. His tears broke free, coursed down his face, and he quickly wiped them away.
“Is it about Anjo?” asked Mother Frances.
Whiting shook his head. He folded the paper and put it away, inside the breast pocket of his coat. In the distance, Leah handed Joseph a cup of coffee. Dogs barked, and a horse whinnied as it was led into a trailer. He looked back at Mother Frances.
“Father, please,” she said. “What is it?”
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with emotion. “Answered prayers.”
SIX MONTHS LATER
“I wake and you are here. I can reach out and touch your face, but I still think I must be dreaming.” “This is far from a dream. And far from over.”
“You came for me.”
“How could I not?” Father Whiting pulled his sweater closer against the quickly cooling night air. He had lost a considerable amount of weight since leaving St. Louis. And the sweater, now too large for him, tended to drop off one shoulder.
“You risked so much to find me. Now, here we are, and I have nothing to offer you.” Anjo’s voice broke; he could say no more.
“I believe God will deliver us.”
The footfalls of the soldiers on the bridge above gave way to the gunning motors of jeeps. The planks creaked under the weight of the artillery. Father Whiting, his face brown with dust and sun, pulled Anjo deeper into the shadows as the soldiers broke into double-time overhead. With each heavy trespass above, rust flaked from the aging metal pylons and rained their dank wreckage on his hair, his clothes, down the neck of his shirt.
“Do you think those are government forces? Or more insurgents?” Anjo whispered.
“Who knows? Both sides wait for their enemy to pass, then they cross. It’s insanity.” He pulled a torn and dirty blanket across Anjo’s shoulders. It was damp, almost clammy to the touch. Like everything else in this jungle. Things rust or rot, but they never dry. “Try to rest. We’ll move again when the soldiers are gone.”
“Tell me again, Father. Rose … my son … they are safe?”
“Don’t worry. The sisters will protect them.”
“The sisters—they understand why I ran away? Why I came back here to Nicaragua?”
“Yes, they know.”
“I thought if I came back, if I made a stand, I could lead them away from Rose, away from my son. Father, they would hurt them just to get to me. They would stop at nothing. I tried to keep everyone from danger. Keep them safe.”
“Don’t worry. Everyone understands.”
“I want my son to grow up unafraid. But here, it is not possible. Even now. Even after so long. He is better in America, even if—” He muffled a cough. “I’ve made such a mess of things.”
“You acted out of love.”
Beads of sweat gathered on Anjo’s face. “You’re a good man, Father.”
Whiting exhaled slowly, bit the inside of his mouth as he considered Anjo’s words.
Anjo leaned heavily against the priest. “These are not the days of the circus.”
“No,” Whiting murmured and offered a half smile in the darkness.
“Sometimes I think I hear the music. Just a few bars,” Anjo continued. “It’s enough to dream on.”
His head dropped and he slumped forward. Whiting lowered him gently, letting his head rest in his lap. Fresh blood seeped through the dressing on Anjo’s abdomen. Father Whiting leaned forward and made the sign of the cross on the man’s forehead.
“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.”
Anjo opened his eyes slowly. “Am I’m going to die?”
Father Whiting brushed the hair from Anjo’s temples. Wiped the dirt and sweat from his cheeks, his jaw.
“Anjo, you’re not going to die. You’re going to live. Both of us … we’re going to live.”
Author’s Notes
The quotation and poems used in Dancing with Gravity have long inspired me. To read these and other works by Pedro Arrupe, Rilke, and St. Thérèse, see below:
Pedro Arrupe
- “Love Will Decide Everything” by Kevin F. Burke, America magazine, November 12, 2007.
- http://www.ame
ricamagazine.org/content/article.cfm?article_id=10386
- Pedro Arrupe: Essential Writings (Modern Spiritual Masters Series), Pedro Arrupe and Kevin F. Burke, Orbis Books, 2004.
St. Thérèse
To Live of Love
- http://www.catholicfirst.com/thefaith/catholicclassics/sttherese/poemsofsttherese02.html#TO%20LIVE%20OF%20LOVE
- Poems of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, translated by Alan Bancroft, HarperCollins, New York, 997.
Rainer Maria Rilke
- Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy, New York: Riverhead Books,1996.
- http://simplyblessed.heartsdeesire.com/2010/01/12/the-book-of-monastic-life-i59-rainer-maria-rilke/
About the Author
Anene Tressler is an award-winning fiction and poetry writer whose work has appeared in Best of Writers at Work anthology, The Distillery, Treasure House, Currents, River Blossoms Lit Magazine, and Word Wright’s. While at University of Missouri-St. Louis, she won the English Department’s annual prizes for fiction and for poetry. She has studied with Richard Bausch at Johns Hopkins, Nicholas Delbanco at Breadloaf, Claire Messud at Sewanee, Lorrie Moore at Vermont Studio Center, and Robert Olmstead at Rappahannock. She holds undergraduate degrees in Communications and Nursing from Saint Louis University, and Masters Degrees from Washington University and the University of Missouri, St. Louis. She also teaches scriptwriting and media writing as an adjunct professor in the School of Communications at Webster University.
About Blank Slate Press
Blank Slate Press, formed in 2010, seeks to discover, nurture, publish and promote new literary voices from the greater Saint Louis region. To learn more, please visit www.blankslatepress.com
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