“There really wasn’t any reason to,” Sunshine says, in that same, small voice. It sounds curiously like she’s trying more to convince herself than Jillian. “Punishing him wouldn’t undo what he had done.”
“But Sunshine…” Once again, a wave of unreality sweeps over Jillian, and she lies back down on her pillow, dizzy. Talking to Sunshine is like walking through a West Texas dust storm – you never know when the wind is going to kick up and blow you around in random directions. “But Sunshine, if you lock the guy up, at least he won’t be able to do it again. I mean, aren’t you going to feel stupid if he does it to you again? And what if he attacks somebody else? How would you feel about that? You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”
“We believe in returning love for hate, Jill,” Sunshine explains, but it sounds to Jillian as though her heart’s not really in it. “If I were to seek revenge, I would be lowering myself to the level of what he’s done. I have to set an example for him so he can…”
“That’s the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard in my life,” Jill says, disgustedly. “That sounds like Nathan talking, not you. How do you feel about it?”
“Nathan says…”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what Nathan says. He wasn’t the one who got raped. I want to know what you feel. I want to hear you tell me that you honestly don’t want to see the son-of-a-bitch who raped you behind bars where he belongs. I want to hear you tell me that you wouldn’t like to cut off his balls and stuff them down his throat.”
“You don’t understand, Jill. We’re taught that…”
“Sunshine, stop feeding me that crap, will you?” Jillian says angrily. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t give a good goddamn what you’ve been taught or what Nathan or anybody else says. I want to know how you feel about it. I want to know why you’re afraid to admit that you’d like to strangle this guy with your bare hands. I want to know how the fuck you could have let yourself get buffaloed into not turning this slimeball over to the police.”
“Don’t be mad at me, Jill.”
“Fuck you. I’m not mad at you. I just want you to answer me.”
“I… I have these dreams, Jill,” Sunshine says, softly. “I keep having these dreams where Billy… he’s attacking me again. Only…”
“His name’s Billy?”
“Yes. Billy Barton. And in these dreams… I must have had them a dozen times since it happened. Sometimes they wake me up and I’m afraid to go back to sleep because I know that they’re just going to start up all over again. And it’s always different, but it’s always the same. We’re in the field, or we’re at the ashram, or we’re in town. Once, I was in the middle of a triathlon – I think it was the race tomorrow, because I remember thinking that Dallas didn’t look anything like I expected it to. But no matter where it is, it’s always the same. He comes after me. Sometimes he’s alone, sometimes he’s with his friend Eddie. Once he was with a whole bunch of people. Oh, God.” Sunshine moans, as if the memory of the dream is more painful than the memory of the event itself. “That was the worst. There must have been twenty of them.
“But the thing that all these dreams have in common is that I always get back at Billy, somehow. I’m always furious, raging mad, out of control. And I always get some kind of revenge. Sometimes I actually beat him with my fists. Sometimes I have some kind of a weapon, like a gun or a knife. Once – and this is going to sound really awful,” Sunshine says, sheepishly, “once I chopped off his head with an ax. It just rolled around, leering at me, even after I cut it off. I jumped up and down on it until it was nothing but a little puddle of blood.” Unexpectedly and incongruously, Sunshine laughs a nervous little laugh. “I know that must sound disgusting, Jill. I’m sorry.”
“For God’s sake, Sunshine, don’t apologize. If some son-of-a-bitch did that to me, I’d want to cut off his head and stomp on it too. It sure makes a whole lot more sense than that ‘returning love for hate’ shit.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I guess not. Explain it to me.”
Sunshine sighs. “Anger is a very destructive emotion, Jill. It creates powerful negative vibrations. It’s a deadly poison. I’m doing something to myself that’s far worse than what Billy did to me. And I don’t know how to stop it,” Sunshine says, sounding surprised at her failure. “I feel like it’s going to… to eat me up, to consume me. And I don’t know what to do about it. I just don’t know what to do.”
“What does Nathan say about it?”
“Oh, Nathan doesn’t know anything about it, Jill,” Sunshine says, her voice full of concern.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Jillian says. “I was beginning to think that he knew everything.”
“Well, you’re probably right,” Sunshine says, resignedly, either missing or ignoring Jillian’s sarcasm. “But I could never tell him, anyway. Even if he does know.”
“Why the hell not?”
“He’d be so disappointed in me,” Sunshine says sadly, after a long pause. “He’s done so much for me, and I feel like I’ve failed him so badly. I shouldn’t be experiencing this kind of uncontrollable anger at this stage of my development. I should be able to confront it and dispel it, to purge it from my body. To purify myself. But I can’t. And if I told Nathan what was happening…” She lets the thought trail off.
“What would he do?”
“I don’t know, Jill,” Sunshine says tremulously, and Jillian realizes that Sunshine is coming dangerously close to crying again. “But I’m afraid that if he realized how… how poor my spiritual development really is, that he might not want me to stay at the ashram.”
“That would probably be the best thing that could happen to you, Sunshine. Nathan has entirely too much influence on you. You need to get out of that place, do something on your own. Make your own decisions for a change.”
“I couldn’t make it without Nathan.”
“Bullshit,” Jillian snorts. “You’re just leaning on him, like a crutch. And you’re old enough to stand on your own two feet, for God’s sake. You’d be much better off without him. Believe me.”
“You’re wrong, Jill,” Sunshine says, quietly.
“I’m not wrong,” Jillian insists. “What would you do if Nathan got run over by a beer truck? You’d get by. It might be tough for a while, because you’re not used to thinking for yourself, but you’d make it if you had to. Think about it, Sunshine. What would you do if you never saw Nathan again?”
“I couldn’t survive without Nathan,” Sunshine says, with chilling matter-of-factness, a calm, dread certainty that permits no contradiction.
“You’d live,” Jillian says derisively.
“No,” Sunshine says with quiet finality. “I’d die. I wouldn’t want to live. Nathan is my entire life.”
Well then, you’re even more fucked up than I thought you were, Jillian thinks, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she rolls over on her side, facing away from Sunshine, and hopes that the conversation has ended so she can get a few hours of much-needed sleep.
And as she drifts off into a welcome oblivion, Jillian can hear the soft but unmistakable sound of Sunshine, lying in the next bed, softly crying herself to sleep.
Book 3
Preparation
Transition
Book 3: Preparation
Part 1:
The Trials
3.1.1: Dallas
“I trust that you’ve all had a chance to familiarize yourselves with the course.”
J. Stanton Kennedy surveys the group assembled before him in the small boathouse. Fifty of the best women triathletes in the country – perhaps in all the world – are hanging on his every word.
“We’re using the exact same course that was used for yesterday’s race,” he continues, “so there won’t be any surprises for those of you who watched that race. You have all been issued maps of the course, so you know that there is only one transition area, here.” He uses a long wooden pointer to
tap on a large map that hangs on the wall. “I suspect that most of you have already prepared your gear in the transition area, because the race starts in…” – he glances at his watch – “… oh dear, in less than an hour. I’ll try to keep this meeting as short as possible, as I suspect that some of you may wish to engage in various and sundry last-minute ministrations.”
A tall, slender woman with short, jet-black hair raises her hand. “The men are using the same course as we are, aren’t they?” she asks, somewhat argumentatively.
Kennedy nods, ignoring her tone. “The same course, precisely,” he confirms.
“I know it’s too late to do anything about it,” the woman continues, “but I just wanted to let you know that I don’t think that this staggered start is such a hot idea.” A number of other women murmur their concurrence. “Some of us are used to being right up at the front of the pack, and it’s not fair that we should have to muddle through the clutter that the guys are going to leave behind.”
“You’re not the first person to register that objection,” Kennedy points out. “And I don’t know that we will use this technique in the future. But please remember that our planning for this event was severely constrained by time limitations. I honestly feel that we did the best that we could under the circumstances. The marshals and the volunteers are aware of the situation, and I assure you that they will make every effort to clear the debris before it becomes a problem for you. Remember, the men have half an hour’s head start on you, so we should have enough time to clean up after them.”
“Until we catch up to them,” the woman mutters to general laughter.
“Can we talk drafting for a minute?” Carla Kwan interjects. “I want to make sure I understand the new rule completely.”
“Yes, indeed,” Kennedy says with a sardonic smile, “I was just about to get to that. I had, shall we say, a premonition that there would be a question about it.” He pauses to make sure that he remembers exactly how he decided to phrase what he’s about to say. “The drafting rule for this event,” he continues, “is really quite simple: There are no drafting restrictions in any portion of the race. You are free to draft in the bicycle leg with impunity, as has always been the case in the swim leg and the run leg. No one will be disqualified for drafting in any portion of today’s race. That’s really all there is to it.”
“Are there any other rule changes that we should know about?” Jillian inquires. The mention of drafting seems to have reminded her that perhaps she has not paid enough attention to the unique rules for this event.
“With the exception of the elimination of the drafting restriction,” Kennedy says, “there have been no rule changes whatsoever. However, you should be aware that all the rules will be strictly enforced, and that enforcement at this event may be somewhat more… stringent, shall we say, than that to which you may be accustomed from previous events.” He pauses for a moment to consider whether some meaning might have been obscured by his tortured syntax, but he decides to press on. “I understand that enforcement of various rules at some races has tended to be somewhat lax,” he adds. “You should be aware that such laxity will not prevail today.”
“Are you implying that some race directors haven’t been doing their jobs?” The same tall woman who asked the first question seems somewhat peeved yet again.
“No, no, no,” Kennedy says quickly. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply criticism of any kind. What I meant to say – and I apologize for not expressing myself more clearly – is simply that we will be able to enforce the rules more vigorously than may have been possible in the past. And because that capability is available to us, we intend to take advantage of it, to ensure that conditions are fair to all competitors.”
Kennedy smiles at the questioner, who still looks dubious. “I don’t get it,” she says. “Why can you enforce the rules so much better today?”
“First of all,” Kennedy explains, “the marshals do not have to spend any time watching for drafting violations, an activity that has consumed much time at previous events. And more to the point, there are only fifty of you to keep an eye on today – an even hundred, if you include the men – whereas most race directors have to contend with much larger fields. And the race is being televised, live. The kind people at ESPN have agreed to allow our officials complete access to the feeds from all of their cameras, so that we can supplement our extensive direct visual activity.”
“Can you give us…”
Kennedy holds up his hand, he’s not quite finished. “I might add that this strict enforcement of the rules is greatly to your benefit. The rules will be scrupulously enforced in Qen Phon, to the last letter, and the enforcement procedures at this race will allow you to prepare yourselves for the kind of scrutiny to which you will be subjected at that time. At least,” he corrects himself, “that three of you will be subjected to at that time.”
“Can you give us an example of a rule that you’re going to enforce more strictly today than in the past?”
“All of the rules will be enforced,” Kennedy says, firmly. “I’m afraid that I don’t have time to recount them all right now. But I assume that a group of professionals like yourselves are familiar with the rules.”
“Just one example,” the woman persists. “It might help us understand the kinds of things you’re talking about. So we don’t accidentally DQ ourselves.”
Kennedy frowns. The main reason that he avoided answering the question was so as not to reveal the depth of his ignorance of the rules. But now he’s trapped. Surely there must be one rules-related topic on which he can speak knowledgeably, even if briefly…
Just in time, a conversation that he recently overheard pops into his head.
“For example,” he says, with relief, “the rules about receiving outside assistance will be rigorously enforced. Anyone accepting any kind of unauthorized assistance will be disqualified. You may accept neither food nor drink from spectators or friends, nor may you receive any kind of physical assistance from them – nor from each other, for that matter. The race marshals and volunteers may be able to provide some limited assistance at times – for example, they will be available to provide a hand to help steady you when you emerge from the water. But if you fall during the bike or run legs, you will have to regain your footing entirely on your own, without assistance even from the marshals, or you will be disqualified.”
One of the women groans. “Why are you being such hard-asses?”
“The examples that I just gave reflect rules that have probably been in effect in every triathlon that you have ever entered,” he says, hoping that it’s true. “But as I have said, these rules, which may not have been so tightly enforced in the past, will be stringently enforced in the Olympics, so it only makes sense for us to stringently enforce them today.”
Kennedy holds up a hand as several women begin to speak out at once. “Please,” he says, “I’d like to call this meeting to a close so that those of you who still have things to do may do them. But ladies, can I have your attention for one more moment, please? Thank you.” Being able to speak without a microphone is a mixed blessing, he thinks. True, it contributes to the intimacy of the discussion. But if you have to raise your voice, it creates an impression that you’re not entirely in control.
“Before you leave this building,” he says, “be sure to visit the table by the exit and get your numbers, if you have not done so already. The starting line is to your left as you exit the building. The transition area is to your right. You will notice the temporary pavilions that have been constructed in the transition area – they are the men’s and the women’s changing areas, and are clearly labeled as such. It is now six sixteen. Your race begins precisely at seven, so please make sure that you give yourself enough time. And finally,” he concludes, “before I run off to start the men’s race, I’d like to wish all of you the very best of luck.”
But he can’t help being impressed by the determination that’s etched into the face of every w
oman in the room, which suggests to him that luck will not be the decisive factor in the race today.
3.1.2: Dallas
“Have you seen Sunshine anywhere?” Jillian asks, glancing around the boathouse while a volunteer grease-paints a number on her arm. “We came over here together this morning, but she took off somewhere and I haven’t seen her.”
Carla Kwan, next in line to be numbered, shakes her head. “I haven’t seen her either, Jill. Why? You think there’s a problem?”
Jillian sighs. “Knowing Sunshine, I wouldn’t be surprised. She didn’t know where any of her equipment was last night. Not even her bicycle. I hope she finds everything all right.”
“I hope she doesn’t.”
“Carla!”
“Oh come on, Jill,” Carla laughs. “That would mean just one less person to beat. Don’t tell me that you weren’t thinking that. Not even just a little?”
“Not even just a little, Carla. That’s terrible.” Why should I care how many people there are to beat? Jillian thinks. I’m going to beat all of them, no matter how many there are.
“You wouldn’t feel that way if you’d’ve seen her swim up in Boston,” Carla says, not chastised in the slightest. “Hell, she must’ve been out of the water maybe ten minutes ahead of me. I’ve never seen anything like it. Talk about discouraging.” She grins. “Of course, from your perspective at the back of the pack, I don’t guess ten minutes makes much of a difference one way or the other, does it?”
Ignoring the jibe, Jillian glances down at her arm. “Sixty-two?” she says, incredulously, reading the large, black digits that gleam dully below her shoulder. “Why am I number sixty-two?”
“The numbers were chosen at random. They don’t reflect seeding.” The woman who marked the number speaks as if she’s reading a prepared text; obviously, she had to give the same speech to some of the men an hour earlier. “The numbers in the women’s race start at fifty-one. Next,” she calls, gesturing to Carla.
Transition Page 38