Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  Wishing that she were somewhere else, Jillian shakes her head in disbelief and covers her eyes with her hands. How could Sunshine have messed up something as simple as starting a race?

  When she cautiously uncovers her eyes to assess the damage, Jillian is surprised to find that no one is shouting at Sunshine, no one is casting dirty looks in her direction, no one is gesticulating wildly at her and castigating her for her erratic performance. I guess they all figure that Sunshine did it on purpose, Jillian thinks, that it was the riders’ own fault that they weren’t paying enough attention. And I guess if I had been in the race, my only thought would have been to get the hell out of the starting area, not to figure out why the start was such a mess.

  Off to her right, a rider angrily throws his bike off the course, its spokes hopelessly bent. Another, limping badly, wheels his bike toward the changing room; the sight of his bloody knee makes Jillian wince. But these appear to be the only casualties, and in less than a minute, the last of the bicycles rolls out of the starting area and onto the course.

  Jillian walks over to Sunshine and stands beside her. She’s going to be really embarrassed by the mess she created, Jillian thinks. I need to reassure her that everything turned out alright, that it wasn’t her fault, that nobody blames her for the confusion. That she did a great job.

  In other words, I need to lie my ass off.

  But to Jillian’s surprise, Sunshine doesn’t seem to be in need of reassurance at all. Instead, her eyes sparkle as she watches the last of the cyclists lean into the first turn and disappear from view. “That was fun!” she says enthusiastically; and then, noticing that Jillian is standing next to her, she repeats, “That was fun,” but more subdued, as if embarrassed at having been caught enjoying herself. She smiles shyly at Jillian. “The strange thing is that I don’t even remember shooting the gun,” she adds, puzzled. “But I guess I did, because everyone started like they were supposed to.”

  Well, Jillian thinks, not exactly like they were supposed to. “It was one of the most… remarkable jobs of starting a race I’ve ever seen,” she says.

  “I can’t really take any credit for it,” Sunshine protests. But although she seems to be trying to stop, she’s still smiling. “I just said the first thing that came into my head. It was like it wasn’t even me talking, like I was watching somebody else do it instead of doing it myself. Really. I was barely even aware of what I was doing.”

  “I could tell,” Jillian says, matching Sunshine’s smile with a grin of her own. “I could tell.”

  3.2.15: Falconi Internazionale Tour of Champions, Day 17

  In Wilmington, a freak storm threatens to force the cancellation of the Tri-State Tri-Athlon. A summer squall whips up the Delaware River into mini-whitecaps, rendering the usually placid waters much too rough for safe swimming, even discounting the obvious danger from lightning.

  The race management team from Tri-State Beer huddles in the Tri-State BeerVan, downing the better part of a keg of Tri-Lite while deciding whether to cancel the race. Athletes and spectators sit uncomfortably in their steamy cars or huddle under the few available shelters, the first gust of wind having ripped apart the huge tent that had dominated the riverfront parking lot until just a few minutes after the onset of the storm.

  Finally, after more than half an hour of soggy deliberations, the committee makes the only reasonable decision, the same decision that they probably would have made much sooner without the aid of the keg of Tri-Lite: They vote unanimously to cancel the event. Only a few, scattered groans greet the inevitable announcement that booms over the speaker system which, unaccountably, still works.

  Half an hour later, the parking lot is largely deserted, as fans and triathletes alike make their way home.

  Fifteen minutes after that, the rain stops abruptly, the wind calms to a gentle breeze, and the sun breaks through the clouds, all at the same time, as though God has suddenly and dramatically changed his mind.

  The race management team curses their bad luck, imagining the recriminations they will have to face for prematurely scrapping the biggest and costliest public relations event of the Tri-State Beer advertising year.

  But Sunshine and Jillian grab their swimsuits, quickly slip them on in the empty changing room, and run into the suddenly becalmed river waters.

  “It’s cold!” Jillian screams, as she plunges into the river. “God, I feel like I should be wearing a wetsuit!”

  “It’s invigorating,” Sunshine calls back. “C’mon, swim to the turnaround buoy with me.”

  “I’m only supposed to swim a mile today,” Jillian calls back. She’s already having trouble keeping pace with Sunshine, who glides effortlessly through the water, as if riding on some submerged current that carries her lazily upstream. Jillian grins at her own words. All week, she’s been nagging Sunshine to push past the strict mileage limits that D’Antani’s plan prescribes – but that was, of course, only when they were running or cycling. She never has any inclination to swim one stroke more than is absolutely necessary.

  “We’ll just swim there,” Sunshine shouts. “We won’t swim back. That’s only a little over a mile.”

  “How will we get back here? I’m not going to run barefoot.”

  “The van will follow us,” Sunshine points out. Which, Jillian knows, is undoubtedly true. No matter where they go – whether running, biking, or swimming – the Falconi van shadows them relentlessly. When they left their hotel in Des Moines for a Big Mac, the van, somehow, tracked them down. When they slipped out the back door of the Holiday Inn in Kansas City and ran off to see a movie, the van was sitting by the curb, idling patiently for them, when they emerged from the theater.

  But this time, Jillian thinks, this time we’ll lose them, and we’ll have to swim back. That would be just my luck.

  But when she glances over to the shore, she spots the faithful vehicle rolling slowly down the road, following their progress like a loyal puppy. And when they round the buoy and head for shore, the van pulls into a nearby parking lot and waits for them. And by the time they struggle up onto the grassy bank, the two attendants – Chuck and Dave? Frank and Dan? – are waiting with helping hands and warm towels.

  “We’ve set up an event for you, if you’re interested,” one of them – Chuck? – says, as he helps Jillian into the van. The van attendants – “keepers,” as Jillian calls them – have maintained an unobtrusive presence during the entire tour, coordinating the women’s appearances, handing out promotional literature and products, but remaining strictly aloof from the personal activities of their charges. Jillian wonders if the keepers are simply too busy, or uninterested, or if they’ve been instructed – by Gianni? – not to get involved with the women, not to offer them any distractions.

  “What kind of event?” Jillian asks, as she dries her hair.

  “Well, you know there are still a lot of people lining the run route, waiting for the runners, and…”

  “But the race was canceled,” Jillian points out, puzzled.

  “True,” the other keeper – Dan? – concedes. “But a lot of folks don’t know that yet. People are still just showing up, expecting the runners to pass by soon. The security committee was going to drive around in a speaker truck to tell everyone that the race was called off, but now that the weather’s cleared up, we thought it might be nice if you and Miss O’Malley ran at least part of the route.”

  “You mean, just me and Sunshine? What for? These people are expecting a race, not just the two of us. They’ll laugh us off the course.”

  “We think,” Dave (?) volunteers, “that they’ll be really happy to see you. There’s been a lot of interest in you two, especially now that the Olympics have started. The local papers have been playing up…”

  “The Olympics have started already?” Sunshine is surprised.

  “They started last night,” Jillian points out, patiently. God, sometimes it’s like Sunshine lives in another world all her own. How could she have missed hearin
g about the opening ceremonies?

  Sunshine is confused. “But we still have a couple of races left, don’t we? I mean, we’re not going to miss the Olympics or anything, are we?”

  “Sunshine,” Jillian points out, “our race isn’t until the next to last day of the Olympics. We’ve got lots of time. And Daddy’s sending a plane for us, remember? So we’ll get you to the race on time, I promise.”

  “How about it, ladies?” Frank (?) asks. “I’ve got the director of security on hold…” – he holds up a phone for emphasis – “… and I’ve got to tell him right now what you guys want to do.”

  Sunshine looks at Jillian and Jillian looks at Sunshine and they both shrug their shoulders at the same time. “Sure, why not,” Sunshine says, taking Jillian by surprise, as it’s the first time that Sunshine has ever ventured to speak for the two of them. And she’s certainly never volunteered to do something that had no purpose other than to garner publicity.

  And that’s how it has come to pass that Jillian Kendal and Sunshine O’Malley are running through the winding roads of the Brandywine Valley, side by side, waving to the crowd – which, while it’s not as dense as it might have been under better conditions, is by no means sparse. They run seven miles out, then they turn around and run the seven miles back. To Jillian’s surprise, many of the same people still line the route as they return, clapping and cheering, waving American flags, yelling their encouragement. Children sit perched on their parents’ shoulders. A local high school band strikes up the theme from “Chariots of Fire” as they run by.

  We’re an event, Jillian thinks. We’re a real, honest-to-God event.

  It’s the first time since the accident that Jillian has run as far as fourteen miles, and she’s pleased with the results. She’s a little tired, but her knee has held up just fine, without so much as a twinge of protest, just as if it had never been hurt at all. And it’s no easy jog, either; Jillian picks up the pace on the way back, and she’s pleased to see that Sunshine is clearly laboring to keep up with her.

  I will be in shape for the Olympics, Jillian realizes, excitedly, concretizing the thought that she’s been afraid to verbalize over the last few days. It won’t be the easiest race of my life, but I can do it.

  I can race.

  I can win.

  “That was a good workout!” Jillian enthuses, as they cross the finish line, side by side, holding hands as they break the tape. “A really good workout!”

  “That was fun!” Sunshine counters, waving to the small but vocal crowd that greets them at the finish line. “That was a lot of fun!”

  3.2.16: New York

  “It is a slap in the face, if you want to know,” Jago fumes. His anger flows through the hundreds of miles of phone lines and cell towers just as clearly as if he were next door. “After all that I have done for them, this is the reward I get. There is no justice, even in America.”

  “Jago, what going on? Jesus, what time is it?” The late-afternoon sun filters through the drapes, bathing the small room in soft light, but not revealing anything that tells her the time. “I’m meeting some reporters for dinner at six. I told the desk to wake me up at five-thirty, but…”

  “You were asleep?”

  “Yeah, but it’s okay, I had to get up…”

  “Why are you asleep in the middle of the afternoon? Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong, I just needed a little nap is all. But what time is it? And what are you so steamed up about?”

  “It is three o’clock,” Jago says. “And I am sorry to have woken you, but this is…”

  “Three o’clock?” Jillian is confused. “How can that be? I didn’t even lie down until three-thirty. What day is it?”

  “It is three here in Dallas, so it is four in New York,” Jago explains. “Are you awake enough for me to…”

  “Oh, shit,” Jillian groans. “You mean I only slept for half an hour?” New York, she thinks. So that’s where I am.

  “Jillian, we can discuss your sleeping patterns some other time, yes?” Jago says, testily. “I have something important that I must discuss with you now. I want you to hear it from me before you hear it from anyone else. Especially,” he groans, “if you are about to meet with reporters. They will know about it somehow, do not ask me how, they have their ways. The vultures.”

  There’s a silence so lengthy that Jillian wonders if Jago is still there. She sits up, leans groggily against the headboard, and stretches her arms as best she can with the phone cradled against her shoulder.

  “You do know,” Jago finally says, his voice moderately under control, “that I have been trying to arrange for Sunshine to study with me at SMU.”

  “So you said.”

  “I met with the Board of Regents today,” Jago says, his voice brittle, ice cold.

  “Already? That was fast.”

  “And they… they laughed at me, Jillian. Not out loud, but they might as well have. They took one look at her records – such as they are – and they treated me as though I were crazy. As if I were wasting their precious time by just bringing such a suggestion before them. As if Sunshine were not good enough to associate with them and their precious children. They treated me like dirt, Jillian, like one of their servants.” His voice breaks, and Jillian, horrified, thinks that he’s going to cry. “I have never been treated like that, never, not ever in my entire life,” he says, his voice quaking with anger. “Not even in Czechoslovakia. Not even in Russia. Never.”

  “What did Daddy say?” Jillian asks, hesitantly. Surely, she thinks, Daddy would have stood up for Jago, and for Sunshine as well, wouldn’t he have? There should be some advantages to having your father on the Board of Regents of your school.

  “He was not at the meeting,” Jago sighs. “He is out of town on business. You are right,” he adds quickly, as though Jillian has spoken, “I should have waited for him to return before I brought this before the Board. It is all my fault.”

  “Couldn’t you bring it up again when he gets back?”

  “It would be very difficult to get the Board to reverse a decision like this, Jillian. It would require much arm-twisting on your father’s part. And even then, it might not be possible. I do not know that I wish to ask your father to help me fight a battle that may already be lost.”

  “Don’t give up hope, Coach,” Jillian soothes, as she tries to decide whether she wants to wake up completely or to go back to sleep. What would happen if she drifted off with the phone still on her shoulder? Would it slip off after a while? Would she hear Jago if he decided to start talking again?

  “There is one condition under which the Board will allow Sunshine to attend SMU,” Jago finally says. His voice is so small that Jillian wonders if she’s losing the connection.

  “Which is…” she prompts.

  “Sunshine will be allowed to attend SMU, with a full athletic scholarship,” Jago says with terrifying evenness, “only if she wins a gold medal.”

  “You mean…” A gold medal. They’ll let Sunshine into SMU, Jillian realizes, only if she beats me. They’ll give Jago a new protégé only if she can prove that she’s better than his old one.

  Suddenly, the cobwebs are gone, she’s as wide awake as she’s ever been. “Are you going to tell Sunshine?”

  “I have done so already,” Jago says, his voice growing hollow and distant. “I spoke with her just before I spoke with you. Since she is the one most directly affected by this… this outrage, I felt that she should know first.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Very little,” Jago says, despairingly. “She thanked me politely for my efforts, but she says that she does not think she wants to attend SMU anyway. She will have to talk to Nathan about it. Perhaps if she wins a gold medal, she says, she will take it as a sign that she is meant to attend SMU. A sign, Jillian.” Jago is clearly disgusted. “She is waiting for a sign. As if the matter were entirely out of her control. Like the weather.”

  Jillian pauses, but
for only a few seconds, before she asks the question to which she needs an immediate answer: “Do you want her to win a gold medal?”

  She can almost hear Jago thinking on the other end of the line. “I would like for both of you to win gold medals,” he says carefully. “I do not know what to think,” he admits. “I do not know how to feel. I ask for your understanding.”

  ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍

  Sure, Jillian thinks a few minutes later, after the conversation has finally ground to an uncomfortable conclusion. Sure, I understand. I understand that when you had to break the news, you called her first. I understand that she’s three years younger than me. I understand that she has more raw talent – and less of an idea of what to do with it – than anyone you’ve ever met. I understand that you’re excited about the possibility of working with her, even if she doesn’t give a flip about the chance to work with you.

  Yeah, Jago, I understand, she thinks bitterly.

  I understand that I’d better be really careful about taking any pre-race advice from you, you son of a bitch.

  Book 4

  Danger

  Transition

  Book 4: Danger

  Part 1:

  The Parents

  4.1.1: Hartford

  “What do we do if they don’t show up?”

  “They’ll show up.”

  “But what if they don’t?” Jillian shakes her head in disgust. “I knew that we should have told the guys to stick around with the van. I just knew it.”

  “They’ll be here, Jill.” Calmly.

  “But what if they don’t?” Jillian persists. “We’re stranded out here in the middle of nowhere. I don’t even have the slightest idea of where we are.”

  “We’re not out in the middle of nowhere, Jill,” Sunshine points out, with patience that only serves to heighten Jillian’s annoyance. “It’s a long drive from Pierce’s Bridge. They’re just running a little late, is all.”