But I know what he’s thinking.
I didn’t act like a Kendal.
I behaved like trash.
And, of course, he’s right.
“Daddy?” There’s still no response from the big man who broods darkly out over the city. His silence is killing her; she has to get him to speak. “Daddy, what are you doing here?” Did that come out right? Or did it sound too much like some kind of vague accusation? “I mean,” she adds hastily, “I thought that you and Mother were going to Paris.” But that’s not quite right either, that makes it sound like she was just waiting for them to leave so she could rip off her clothes and party. In fact, there’s nothing she can say that will sound right, nothing that will make it better.
She bites her lip in frustration. There’s nothing she can do. She’ll just have to wait until he’s ready.
“We were goin’ to Paris,” he finally says, in calm, measured tones. And although he speaks softly, there’s an anger in his voice that makes her cringe. “We were gonna refuel in New York,” he continues, evenly, “but New York was fogged in, so they sent us to Boston. Then Boston got fogged in, so we couldn’t leave. So your Ma called Stan Kennedy and he sent a car around to get us.
“And so,” he continues, his voice steadily rising in volume and intensity, “we’re sittin’ around at Stan’s place, your Ma and me, and he’s tellin’ us about the race, and some of the things that happened… and about that TV show you were on…” His voice trails off.
The interview! She had forgotten all about that! Is that what he’s upset about? That his daughter cursed on the air? Maybe he’s not so angry about the scene in the spa after all.
Or, Jillian thinks, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, maybe he’s mad about both of those things.
“And so,” the big man continues, still staring out the window into the night, “your Ma and Stan start talking about all kinds of Paris stuff… nightclubs, boutiques, shit like that…” He pronounces it “booteeks,” with flowery exaggeration, almost a half-sneer, and Jillian has to suppress a nervous giggle.
“And Stan, he tells me that he thinks you’re staying at the Longwharf, and I’m gettin’ kinda antsy just settin’ around, and I start in to thinkin’, well, hell, why don’t I call a taxi and mosey on down to the hotel and see if I can’t find my little girl? Maybe I can buy her a drink.” He pauses, his mouth bunching as if he’s bitten into something sour, something that has left a bad taste.
“But when I get to the goddamn hotel,” he says, finally turning toward her, his voice cutting like a razor, his eyes flashing blue fire, “it looks like my little girl’s already had herself a whole goddamn mess of drinks. And she’s settin’ there with a whole pool full of guys, shakin’ her titties at ‘em, them just sittin’ around with their peckers hangin’ out, in front of God and everybody…” His voice catches, and he pauses to blink back his anger.
Well, good, Jillian thinks, he’s getting it out. Now it can blow over. He won’t stay mad at me for long.
Or, at least, he never has before.
But then I’ve never seen him quite this angry before. Not at me, anyway.
“Daddy, I know how it looked,” she says. “But it’s not what you think.” She knows that making excuses isn’t a good idea. It’ll only make him more upset. But she has to try to explain, if for no other reason than to get him talking again, let him flush the rest of it out of his system. “I was tired, and I had more to drink than I should have, and I know I shouldn’t have taken my shirt off. I don’t know what came over me. But Daddy, there was nothing going on. Nothing bad. Nobody touched me, Daddy. Nobody.”
“If you can’t hold your liquor any better than that, young lady, you need to stay away from the goddamn bar.” He sounds more disgusted than angry.
“I know it. I’m sorry.” She’s let him down. He’s disappointed in her. She feels like crying – and, indeed, an involuntary sniffle escapes her. But she knows that he’ll just interpret that as a sign of weakness, which will disappoint him even further.
She’ll just have to tough it out.
“I think maybe you’re gettin’ a little bit too big for your britches, young lady,” he says, gruffly. “If I had half an ounce of sense, I’d turn you over my knee and whup the fire out of you. In fact, if you was a boy, I’d take my belt off right now and tan your hide so bad that you wouldn’t be able to set for a week.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Jillian says with a sigh. “You know damn well that if I were a boy you wouldn’t even care if I took all my clothes off and screwed every girl in the hotel. You’d slap me on the back and tell me what a stud I was.”
Sudden anger flashes in his eyes, and he recoils as if he’s been shot. His mouth drops open in shock and amazement; then it snaps shut and he grits his teeth; then he opens it and tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
She had meant it as a joke, an attempt to lighten up the atmosphere, but she regretted it as soon as she said it. He’s not taking it as a joke, he’s taking it as criticism. And Lord knows he’s not in the mood for that right now. Why didn’t I just keep my big mouth shut?
But then a slow and wondrous transformation begins. The corners of his mouth begin to twitch, and his eyes begin to soften, and… and is that the ghost of a smile trying to form? And suddenly, he throws his head back and laughs, a deep, resounding belly laugh. Tears well up in his eyes. He feels around for something to lean on, finds a chair, and sinks into it, still rocking with laughter.
Jillian closes her eyes and sighs deeply. It’s over. Somehow, she managed to say the right thing. She’s Daddy’s little girl again.
“My God, Jill,” the big man says when he can finally speak. “You sure are one spunky little cuss.” He wipes the tears from his eyes and chuckles. “And you’re probably right. I guess I was being a little hard on you. You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you, honey?”
“I’m a good girl, Daddy.” She’s very serious. It isn’t enough just to be let off the hook, to be forgiven. She has to make him understand. “I know that sometimes I do things that aren’t very bright. But I never want to do anything to make you ashamed of me.” And then the tears do come, but she wills them back, her eyes glistening. “I’m a good girl, Daddy,” she says again; and they both know what she means, but can’t say: I’m not promiscuous, Daddy. Your little girl hasn’t been screwing around.
“I know you are, sweetheart,” he says, gently. “And I’m not ashamed of you. I’m very, very proud of you.”
“Well,” she says, managing a weak smile, “at least Mother didn’t come with you.”
The big man rolls his eyes. “That would have been all she wrote,” he says, shaking his head. “She ain’t no pushover like your old man. But hell, she and Stan were talking about all the museums she could go to and all them fancy restaurants, and every other word was in French, which I sure as hell don’t parlay-voo, if you know what I mean, and so I just sorta slipped on out…”
“You’re not a pushover, Daddy,” Jillian whispers, letting her eyes drift closed. “You just love me.”
֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍
G.W. Kendal stands up, leans over, and kisses his daughter on the cheek. “I sure do love you, precious,” he says, with surprising tenderness. “More than anything.” He sighs as he turns to look out the window at the city spread out before him.
“I don’t know, Jill, sometimes I think that maybe I treated you too much like a boy when you was little. I know your Ma sure thinks so. And I gotta admit that it tickles me to see you whup everybody so bad in those triathlon races. But maybe your Ma’s right; maybe it’s time you started actin’ a little more, well… ladylike.” He says the word daintily, like it’s something with which he’s not quite comfortable. “You know, more refined. More… more… well, proper.”
He watches the traffic buzz by on the street below, bunching at the intersections, spreading out on the straightaways between the corners. At this late hour, the sidewalks are largely devoid
of pedestrians; one small knot of people stands under an awning across the highway, in front of what looks like a bar or a small restaurant.
“I guess you probably think I got all the answers, angel. And I don’t guess I ever exactly discouraged you from thinkin’ that.” One of the people down by the bar keeps trying to hail a taxi, but they all whiz by, already occupied. “It can be so danged hard sometimes, trying to figure out what’s the right thing to do. But I just want you to know, honey…”
He turns toward her. She’s sound asleep. He grins. He considers himself to be a man of action, not of words, and he’s only rarely philosophical, so it’s kind of ironic that now, when he’s baring his soul to his daughter, she dozes off.
Maybe it’s for the best.
“I love you, Jillian,” he says. He reaches down and lightly touches her cheek, then he turns and quietly strides toward the door. She responds to the light touch sluggishly; her eyes flutter and almost open just as he reaches for the doorknob. Then, with a sigh, she shifts her weight and settles back to sleep. The door swings open. G.W. steps into the hallway.
“I love you too, Daddy,” she says, in a barely audible whisper. It doesn’t seem possible that she could be heard from the doorway, but her soft voice drifts into the quiet hall just as G.W. pulls the door shut behind him. He smiles, nods. That’s what he wanted to hear.
The door clicks shut.
Book 2
Conflict
Transition
Book 2: Conflict
Part 1:
The Alley
2.1.1: Sturdivant
Billy Barton is in the process of setting a personal record: He is literally getting thrown out of yet another bar, his third this evening.
“And I don’t want to see you in here again, Billy,” says Wendell Barton, the enormous and incongruously bespectacled owner of the Blind Ox, as Billy picks himself gingerly up off the gravel. “Cousin or no cousin, you got no business picking a fight in my club. You’re not welcome here no more.”
“Oh, shit, Wendell, you busted my hand all to hell. Look at it.” He holds up his left hand, the hand with which he had tried to break his fall as Cousin Wendell had tossed him unceremoniously into the parking lot; it’s covered with a fresh coating of sticky, dirty-red blood. Without the anesthetic benefit of the alcohol that courses through his veins, Billy might actually be in some pain.
“I oughta wipe it all over your fucking face, Wendell. That’s what I oughta do.” But what Billy actually does is to wipe the blood off on his jeans, where the fresh, crimson stains add a hint of color to the accumulations of dirt and grease. Even though Billy’s impressive beer-belly ensures that he’s not lacking in weight, Cousin Wendell has close to a foot and nearly a hundred pounds on him. Billy would have to be a lot drunker than he is now to pick a fight with somebody that much bigger than he is.
“Why don’t you just up and try it, Billy?” Wendell suggests amiably. He’s standing at the top of the three steps that lead to the back door of the Blind Ox, looking down at the gravel parking lot into which he had tossed Billy just a minute ago. “Come on,” he taunts, folding his arms and leaning back on the door frame. “Why don’t you and both of your asshole buddies all try it at the same time? Give it your best shot.”
Billy doesn’t even have to look around to know that his friends won’t be of any help at all. He knows that, although Eddie Sweeney and Stevie Hutchinson are always eager to join in when he picks a fight with someone smaller than himself, there’s no way in hell they’re even going to think about getting into a fight with Wendell Barton.
“I don’t need any help, shithead.” Billy swaggers, but he lacks the bravado to actually advance on his cousin, so he swaggers carefully in place. “I’ll cram your fucking balls down your fat face all by myself. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.”
“Billy,” Eddie Sweeney whispers, as he backs off to a safe distance. “Maybe we better go.”
But it’s too late. Wendell is already climbing down the stairs and walking heavily toward Billy – who, to Wendell’s apparent surprise, does not retreat an inch. Billy stiffens for the blow he knows he’s about to receive, but Wendell surprises him by grabbing him by the collar of his denim jacket, lifting him clean off the ground, and slamming him noisily and painfully into the side of a conveniently located pickup truck.
“Ooomph,” says Billy. But he is, at least, smart enough not to make it worse on himself by struggling.
“You ain’t got the best of me in a fight since we was six years old,” Wendell says, softly, his face an inch from Billy’s. “And you was cheating then. You’re just a good-for-nothing, loud-mouth drunk, Billy Barton, and I don’t want to see your ugly face in the Ox again. Ever.” He flips Billy to the ground as casually as another man might discard a cigarette butt. Billy screams as he tries to break his fall with his injured left hand. “And that goes for your scumbag friends, too,” Wendell adds, before he turns and lumbers back toward the stairs.
“Hey, Wendell,” Stevie Hutchinson calls after his retreating bulk, “that’s not fair. Me’n Eddie didn’t do nothing.” Wendell climbs the stairs and disappears into the Blind Ox; the door swings shut behind him. “It’s not fair,” Stevie whines again.
“Shut your fucking face, Stevie,” Billy says, as he lurches to his feet. “Why the fuck would anyone want to come to this piss-hole, anyhow?”
“Yeah, Stevie,” Eddie echoes, “why’d you wanna come here, anyway?” He giggles. “Me’n Billy ain’t gonna come here no more, are we Billy?”
“You can shut your face too, asshole,” Billy says dispassionately, unmoved by Eddie’s attempt to get back in his good graces. “Where were you when that go-rilla was messing me up, huh? What were you doing, peeing in your pants?”
“Gee, Billy,” Eddie says, “I didn’t think you needed any help.” He giggles. “You looked like you was taking care of him pretty good all by your lonesome.”
“Don’t wise off to me, you little turd,” Billy says, but without much vehemence. He looks himself over, takes stock of the situation. “What the fuck am I gonna do now?” he asks, to no one in particular. “I can’t go home looking like this.”
“Why don’t we head on over to the Federal?” Stevie suggests, helpfully. “Get us a cup of coffee, get you cleaned up?”
Billy responds with a grunt of assent and begins to stumble off into the darkness. “Where’s your fucking car, Stevie?”
“It’s the other way, Billy.” Stevie grabs Billy’s arm and guides him across the parking lot. Eddie grabs Billy’s other arm; the three musketeers stumble and weave their way to where Stevie Hutchinson’s ragged 1967 Chevrolet Biscayne stands waiting.
When they reach the car, Stevie tries to maneuver Billy around to the passenger side, but Billy shakes him off, opens the driver’s door, slides in behind the steering wheel, and slams the door shut behind him. “Gimme the keys,” he demands, thickly, holding his bloody hand out through the open window.
“I dunno, Billy,” Stevie says, uncertainly. “I don’t think you oughta drive. You’re in pretty rough shape.”
Without even looking around, Billy grabs Stevie by the collar of his jacket, and yanks, hard. Stevie yelps as the top of his head slams into the door frame. “Just gimme the fuckin’ keys, Stevie,” Billy says, tiredly.
“Okay, okay, leggo, Billy,” Stevie whines. Billy releases his hold. Stevie fumbles through his pockets, locates the keys, and hands them reluctantly to Billy. He runs around to the other side of the car and climbs in, glancing worriedly at Eddie, who has already ensconced himself safely in the back seat.
“Be careful, Billy,” Stevie begs, as Billy tries to start the protesting engine. “Don’t wreck it.”
“I can’t wreck this fucking heap if it don’t start, asshole,” Billy observes.
“Yeah, Stevie,” Eddie concurs, giggling. “He can’t wreck it if it don’t start.”
Finally, after about a dozen tries, the old car wheezes to life wi
th a weak but satisfying roar. And with a squeal of rubber and a shower of flying gravel, the battered Chevy begins to weave its way out of the parking lot and down Cohonsett Avenue toward three blocks of tired shops, two lanes of crumbling blacktop, and a solitary traffic light, all of which passes for the business district of the town of Sturdivant.
2.1.2: Route 169
Walker starts to worry as soon as Nathan drives past the turn-off.
It’s been a very long day – what with waking up in the wee hours of the morning, the long drive to the race, the unplanned detour to the TV studio, and the long drive back (lengthened by Nathan’s penchant for occasional spontaneous diversions) – and Walker is eagerly anticipating collapsing onto his futon and drifting off to sleep.
But now, when they’re just a few minutes from the ashram, Nathan whizzes right past Phillips Road and continues to drive down Route 169 toward Sturdivant.
What is he up to?
Sunshine turns her head, and Walker thinks that she’s going to ask Nathan what’s going on, which is good, because then he won’t have to. But it turns out that Sunshine hadn’t planned to say anything to Nathan, or maybe she just changed her mind. But at any rate she keeps turning her head until she’s looking at Walker, who’s sitting directly behind her. She raises an eyebrow at him, but Walker just shrugs and shakes his head. Then she glances over to Chastity, and Walker looks over to see how Chastity’s reacting to the missed turn. Chastity is meeting Sunshine’s eyes demurely, with an accusing look that seems to say: I’m not the slightest bit concerned, and you shouldn’t be, either; Nathan knows what’s best.
Transition Page 12