Transition
Page 24
So she forces herself to her feet. And it’s not as painful as she feared, although she’s incredibly sore. She can’t help glancing around furtively to make sure that Billy and Eddie aren’t still there, she half expects them to spring out of the tall grass, laughing, like horror-movie villains who have come back to life. And she probably wouldn’t be able to outrun them, not this time, not in this condition.
She locates her panties and shorts nearby and slips them on. She pulls the torn edges of her shirt together, covering herself, and that makes her feel a little more secure. As she stands there, trying to decide in which direction to walk, she feels that she’s going to be sick. She falls to her knees and heaves a few times, but nothing comes out. In a few minutes, it passes, and she feels a little better.
It’s over, she keeps telling herself, as she rises to her feet once more. It’s really over.
When she listens closely, she’s pretty sure that she hears traffic off in the distance, so she heads off in what she hopes is the right direction, although it’s difficult to tell for sure. Once I reach a road, she thinks, I’ll probably recognize where I am, even in the dark. And if I stick to the woods and fields, I should be able to get home without anybody seeing me. I’d be awfully embarrassed if anyone saw me like this.
But right now, whether anyone sees her or not, all she really wants to do is to go home. Nathan, she keeps thinking, as she trudges off into the night, I’m going to see Nathan. His name and image shine in her mind like guiding beacons.
Nathan will know what to do.
Nathan will make it better.
Transition
Book 2: Conflict
Part 4:
The Aftermath
2.4.1: Dallas
“You’re not lifting your elbows high enough out of the water, Jill.”
Megan Foster frowns and taps her foot impatiently on the raised lip of the pool. Jillian gets the impression that Megan is trying to look as serious and, perhaps, as imposing as she can. Which must be difficult when not only are you trying to tell an Olympic champion what to do, you stand less than five feet tall, and you’re only 13 years old.
“That’s as high as they go, Megan.” Jillian tries to keep the frustration out of her voice. I’ll be damned if I’ll let this little tyrant know that she’s getting to me, she thinks.
“Well, then maybe you’re not rolling your body enough. Watch how I do it.” Megan bends down and lays her clipboard on the tile floor. She hasn’t actually done anything with the clipboard yet; as far as Jillian can tell, Megan is carrying one only because Jago carries one. And to complete the picture, she’s wearing a whistle on a bright orange cord that hangs from her neck, just like Jago does. At least she hasn’t worked up the courage to actually blow the damn thing at me yet, Jillian thinks. I’ll put up with a lot, but if she blats that goddamn whistle at me, I’m outta here.
Straightening back up, Megan demonstrates her best elbow-lift through the air. “Notice how far I turn my body to the side,” she says. “Once you have the correct position, it’s easy to reach your elbow way up high. And it’s like you sorta dangle your hand and your forearm from your elbow. Make your elbow do the work. Let your hand and your forearm rest for a second.”
Jillian is relieved that Megan hasn’t actually jumped into the pool to demonstrate. As inadequate as it makes her feel to take instruction from the little twerp – she’s still in braces, for God’s sake – it’s even more embarrassing when the water nymph is actually in the pool with her. Megan moves through the water at frightening speed with seemingly no effort at all. Jillian has the impression that Megan could, literally, swim rings around her, if she wanted to.
Of course, Jillian thinks, embarrassing me was exactly Jago’s intention when he foisted the little horror on me. True, she’s good; she came in fourth in the Olympic trials for the 100-meter freestyle last month, missing an Olympic berth by less than a tenth of a second. But that doesn’t alleviate the humiliation of being bossed around by a 13-year-old monster.
At first, when she had slunk into Jago’s office a few days ago, properly contrite and repentant, Jillian had been surprised to find that Jago didn’t seem to be angry. He had, in fact, dismissed her apologies with a magnanimous wave. It is not important, he said; when we lose our temper, we all say things that we later regret. The important question is: Are you prepared to do some serious work?
I’ll do anything, she had said, hardly believing that he’d been able to put her harsh words behind him so easily. Whatever you think I should do. You know what’s best.
Here is your exercise schedule, he had said, pulling a lined sheet of paper from a drawer.
He’s been expecting me, she realized, with a start. He knew I’d crawl back to him.
A glance at the schedule revealed that it was incredibly demanding, and that it was heavily skewed toward swimming and weightlifting. Normally, she would have argued about the increased workload, especially since it was not accompanied by a corresponding reduction in cycling and running time. But she didn’t feel that she was in much of a position to complain. And besides, it’s only a little over a week until the trials, she reminded herself, and only a couple of months until the Olympics; I can put up with anything for that short period of time.
I’ve asked Truman Richards to work with you on your weight training, Jago had said, as she inspected the schedule. That was excellent, and no less than she had expected. Richards had been the strength coach of the football team for about a dozen years; now he ran a fashionable health club in nearby Turtle Creek.
And Megan Foster will work with you on your swimming, Jago had added, with the barest hint of a smile. And this time, she’d been forced to actually bite her lip as he stared at her impassively, daring her to react. If this was to be her punishment, a public humiliation at the hands of a child prodigy, then she would just have to take her medicine, bitter as it might be.
But now, after working with the terrible tyke for a few days, Jillian has to admit that she’s developed a grudging admiration for her. Sure, she’s really getting off on bossing me around, Jillian thinks, as she watches Megan demonstrate the correct form. But I can’t deny that she’s helping me; my speed has improved dramatically in just the few days that she’s been working with me. Which is hardly surprising, this being the first time in my entire life that I’ve ever seriously worked on my swimming.
“I think that one of the problems is that my arms are so sore,” Jillian says. “It’s not so much from the swimming, but lifting those fucking weights – pardon my language…”
“That’s okay, Jill,” Megan says, clearly annoyed. “I told you, I’ve heard it before.” She frowns. “I’m not a child, Jill.”
“Sorry, coach,” Jillian says, cheerfully. “I forgot.”
“Your arms will only be sore for a couple of days,” Megan points out, in her most coach-like tones. “And anyway, after tomorrow, you’re not to use weights until after the trials. We don’t want you to be sore for the big race, now do we?”
Megan bends down to retrieve her clipboard, and as she’s straightening back up Jillian grabs her legs and flips her into the pool. Megan comes up sputtering – “What do you think you’re doing? My clipboard! Where…” – but Jillian is wearing such an impish grin that Megan has to smile back. “You shouldn’t have done that, Jill,” she says, but without rancor.
“Race you to the other end and back,” Jillian says. And without waiting for a response, she shoves off the wall and begins to swim frantically toward the other end of the pool.
With Jillian looking the other way, Megan rolls her eyes and pushes off the wall. Her small form slashes through the water like a knife through warm butter. She’s almost even with Jillian by the time she reaches the far end, and with an expertly executed racing turn and a powerful push-off, she passes Jillian less than a third of the way back across the pool.
֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍
“You’re doing much better, Jill,” Megan
says, after she has observed Jillian perform various exercises for another hour.
She made Jillian swim with only one arm so that she could better concentrate on the mechanics of turning her body and lifting her elbows. She made Jillian turn her head to alternate sides with every other stroke so that she’d feel more comfortable breathing from either side in rough, open water. She even made Jillian work on her backstroke – and although she doesn’t want to give Megan the satisfaction of asking why, Jillian suspects that Jago recommended that Megan have her switch to the backstroke with a “bicycle” kick for a minute or so at the end of the swim to better acclimate her legs to a race-day situation, where a grueling bike ride follows the swim leg.
“I mean, not only is your form a zillion times better,” Megan continues, “but you just seem… I don’t know, it’s like you have a better feel for the water, or something. You just seem to be enjoying yourself more. You’re much more relaxed.”
Jillian considers this surprising appraisal. The change has crept up on her so slowly that she hasn’t even been aware of it. But at some point in the last few days, she’s started thinking of the water as less of a threat than a challenge.
“You better believe it, coach,” Jillian says. Maybe this kid isn’t so bad after all, she thinks. Sure, she takes herself too seriously. But then maybe I’ve been less than a perfect student. Hell, she’s only 13, she’s probably scared half to death of me. “I figure I’ll be the best woman swimmer in the world by about…” – she glances up at the clock on the wall over the pool – “…by about noon. So you better watch out, kid, ‘cause there might not be room enough in this pool for the two of us.”
“Jill, be serious, will you?” Megan says, but she laughs. “You still have a lot of work to do. I mean it,” she insists, as Jillian groans and rolls her eyes. “For one thing, you still move your legs too much. It’s not doing you any good. All you’re doing is tiring yourself out.”
“But my legs are so much stronger than my arms,” Jillian protests. “Why can’t I…”
“That’s just the point, Jill,” Megan interrupts. “Your legs are already strong enough. You use your legs to compensate for your lack of upper body strength.”
“Well, shit, coach, sounds like we’ve got ourselves a real problem here,” Jillian says, with mock seriousness. “What do you think we ought to do about it?”
Megan smiles, and Jillian gets the feeling that the kid is pleased that she didn’t bother to apologize for the obscenity this time, that Jillian might be starting to treat her less like a child and more like an equal. “What we’re going to do,” Megan announces, “is tie your ankles together so that you can’t kick your legs.”
“Oh my God,” Jillian groans. “I’ll drown. You’re trying to kill me.”
“Oh, Jill,” Megan laughs. “Don’t be such a baby.”
Jillian sticks out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout, and Megan splashes her with a handful of water. Sputtering with feigned anger, Jillian grabs Megan’s head and dunks her, holding her down below the surface for several seconds before releasing her.
They’re so engrossed in fooling around that neither of them notices that Jago Danziger has entered the room and is standing by the side of the pool.
But both of them notice when he blows the whistle that dangles from a bright orange cord that hangs from his neck and pierces the air with a shrill blast that echoes like a scream off the surface of the water and bounces around the bare, concrete walls of the large room.
֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍
“I am pleased to see that you have time for horseplay,” Jago says, as a thick silence descends on the room. “I assume this means that you have taught Jillian everything she needs to know, Miss Foster, and she is now as proficient a swimmer as you are, yes?”
“Coach Danziger, I… I’m sorry,” Megan stammers, suddenly very much a little girl again. “We weren’t…”
“Oh, hell, Megan, don’t apologize,” Jillian says – and Jago can’t help but notice that she sounds more amused than annoyed. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. We’ve been working our asses off. He’s just being an old sourpuss, aren’t you, Jago?”
“Young lady,” Jago responds sternly, “given your well-deserved reputation for avoiding work whenever possible, you will forgive me if I have trouble believing that you have been working as hard as you claim.”
“It’s true, Coach Danziger, really, she’s been doing great, you should see her! I mean…” – Megan blushes, seemingly taken aback by her own outburst – “…I mean, Jill’s really been working hard and she’s improved a whole lot already. Really.”
“I assume that, if you have time for play,” Jago observes, dryly, “you must feel that you have taught her all that she can learn, yes?”
Megan hangs her head. “No,” she admits, softly. “Not yet.”
“Hey, lighten up, Jago,” Jillian says. “Give the kid a break. She’s doing just fine. Why don’t you run off and bother someone else for a while? We’ve got work to do.”
“Jill!” Megan is aghast.
Jago raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. He turns, retrieves his clipboard, and walks crisply away from the pool.
But as soon as he is facing in the other direction, a smile creases his face. This is good, he thinks, they are defending each other, a bond is forming between them, just as I hoped. Perhaps some of Megan’s enthusiasm and willingness to work will rub off on Jillian. Maybe Megan will be able to coax Jillian into improving her swimming enough so that the elimination of the drafting rule will not hurt her chances so badly.
Maybe Jillian will still be able to win the race.
But maybe, Jago thinks glumly, the smile evaporating, maybe there is just not enough time. Maybe even an athlete as gifted as Jillian cannot overcome years of bad habits so quickly.
He shrugs. One of the hardest lessons that he’s had to learn is that the outcome of an event can’t be affected by worrying about it. At this point, Jillian’s chances depend on the strength of her will to win – which, Jago knows, is prodigious. As large, in fact, as her abhorrence of hard work.
Jillian, he thinks, I have done everything that I can do.
From now on, it is all up to you.
2.4.2: Kiroly
“Does the weather here never improve?” Ivan Petronovich wonders aloud as he walks creakily to the wooden railing. “It is nearly summer, Dimitri, but here it still feels like a Moscow winter. The wind slices clear through to my old bones.”
Dimitri Boronov holds the old man’s arm, half supporting him as they amble over to the fence. “It is good weather for training, Ivan,” he points out. “It is energizing, invigorating, good for the circulation. And the Institute is not a vacation resort. It is a place for hard work.”
When they reach the fence, Petronovich leans his cane against the rail, then he leans against the rail himself. Despite the Commissioner’s complaint about the wind, it is actually a relatively still morning, Dimitri thinks, and not especially cold for this time of year. Brightly colored spring flowers dot the meadow across the narrow road. A cacophony of bird songs floats through the crisp morning air.
“Much has happened since we last met, Dimitri. And yet it has only been – how long? Two, three weeks? It seems much longer.”
“Two weeks and three days, Ivan.”
Petronovich bellows a coarse laugh which quickly threatens to degenerate into a fit of coughing. He waves off Dimitri’s concern and quickly recovers. “It is nothing,” he insists. “Just the rattlings of an old man, Dimitri. Pay no attention.”
“I do not like the way that sounds, Ivan,” Dimitri says, full of concern. “Is there something that I can get for you?”
“Well yes, my boy, now that you mention it, there is something that you could offer me that would be of immeasurable comfort.” The old man’s eyes twinkle.
Dimitri smiles. “I am sorry, Ivan, but I did not bring the vodka with me. It is still back at the house.”
“You cannot order up gold medals as easily as you can order a drink, Ivan,” Dimitri says with a sigh. He shakes his head. “Nor will beating the Americans in the triathlon be as easy as it was to pull the wool over their eyes in Geneva.”
Petronovich beams. “You have heard of our recent agreement, then?”
“Who has not? It was on the front page of Novaya Gazeta, as I am sure you well know.”
“Then you must be aware,” Petronovich says, solemnly, “that despite your characterization, we did not ‘pull the wool’ over the eyes of anyone. We have ‘helped to ensure the purity of international athletics and diluted the influence of the multinational pharmaceutical interests,’ as I believe Novaya Gazeta explained it.”
Dimitri smiles. “I would have given anything to be at that meeting, Ivan,” he says. “You are still the master of negotiation. Age has not stolen your gifts.”
Petronovich waves the compliment away. “I would love to accept the credit, my boy – as, indeed, I have done at every opportunity. But between us, the American, Kennedy, knows so little about either athletics or international politics that it was really quite simple. He is a banker, Dimitri, a financier – can you imagine that? The Americans appointed a banker to head their Olympic Committee.” He snorts disgustedly. “It has worked out well for us, to be sure, but it is lunacy just the same, nothing more than a contemptible capitalist conceit.”
“Commissioner! You speak as though you were still a Communist.”
“And Dimitri,” Petronovich continues, ignoring the interruption, “you have not heard the best part yet. This is extraordinary.” He pulls a cigar from his coat, chomps off the tip, and spits it on the ground. Dimitri produces a lighter from his pocket, flips it open, and lights the cigar for Petronovich, who acknowledges the courtesy with a perfunctory nod.