Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  Ijaz rolls his eyes. “Gimme a break, Akaso, everybody knows who Jill Kendal is. She set a record in the marathon in the Olympics four years ago, back when she was still in high school. There was a big article about her in the Daily Campus last week, didn’t you see it?”

  “She is a student here? At SMU?”

  “Yes, Akaso, she’s a student here at SMU. You must have seen her on campus. Doesn’t she even look familiar?”

  Akaso stares at the television screen. The camera follows the tall blonde as she walks through a crowd, occasionally stopping to bend and stretch her legs. A dark-haired woman in a colorful outfit points a microphone at her; the blonde, apparently still trying to catch her breath, holds up a hand and keeps walking.

  “So, what do you think?” Ijaz goads. “You gonna ask her out?”

  But Akaso doesn’t respond, he just continues to stare at the screen.

  “Her daddy’s rich, owns an oil company or something like that,” Ijaz says helpfully. “I bet her weekly allowance is bigger than what most people in Qen Phon make in a year. If you went out with her, maybe you could get her to buy you some decent clothes.”

  Akaso glances at Ijaz, but Ijaz gets the feeling that Akaso hasn’t really heard him, which perhaps is just as well – he enjoys poking fun at Akaso, but he has the feeling that it might be a good idea not to carry it too far.

  Akaso turns back to stare at the television. He stands and walks a couple of steps closer to the screen, as if to get a better look at Jillian Kendal as the camera follows her through the crowd.

  To Ijaz, Akaso appears to be hypnotized. Suddenly, he feels a chill, and he immediately recognizes that it has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. Akaso is spooking him. Ijaz laughs to try to relieve the tension, but it doesn’t help. “Now, don’t go and do anything stupid, Akaso,” he says, trying to affect a lightheartedness that he does not feel.

  It’s a remark that Ijaz will remember, later, and always with the same kind of chill that he feels right now.

  1.1.9: Copley Square

  When Jillian first spots him, she’s pacing back and forth in front of Trinity Church, stopping every few strides to stretch her legs.

  A reporter, whom Jillian recognizes as the same pushy woman who tried to interview her in the transition area, keeps asking questions and trying to stick a microphone in her face. Just a minute, let me catch my breath, Jillian keeps saying – which is not nearly as harsh as what she really wants to say, but a large round man is pointing a video camera in her direction, and the camera sports a WSXR logo, which means that she might be on the air. So she manages to restrain herself.

  She stops walking, lifts her arms high in the air, twists to one side, then to the other, looks back over her shoulder… and that’s when she sees him walking toward her. She stops in mid-stretch, not quite sure that it’s really him. But when he grins and waves at her, she smiles in delight and runs to him. “Uncle Stan!” she shrieks, and she’s just about to throw her arms around him…

  But instead she pulls up short. “I better not,” she says. “You’re all dressed up and I’m all sweaty.” She leans forward, stands on her toes, and kisses him on the cheek. “What are you doing here?” She nearly squeals with excitement. “I haven’t seen you in ages! What a cool surprise!”

  “You think you’re surprised?” Kennedy chuckles. “I didn’t even know you were in the race until you crossed the finish line. I guess that congratulations are in order, my dear, for yet another outstanding performance on your part.”

  “Oh, Uncle Stan, you have no idea. It was a nightmare.” The change in Jillian’s demeanor, from exuberant to incensed, is instant. “The swim start was so messed up, half of us didn’t even know the race had started. And the goddamn lifeguards kept paddling all over the course! I had to keep dodging surfboards. I actually slammed into one of them, like I don’t have enough trouble swimming already. Didn’t anybody even train these people?”

  “Jillian, this might not be the best time…”

  “And the bike course, my God, worst I’ve ever seen. I don’t think they even bothered to mark half the intersections, I kept going the wrong way, it was ridiculous. It’s amazing that I even finished at all, I’m surprised that I’m not still out there, riding around in circles, trying to find the goddamn transition area…”

  “Jillian, perhaps we might go for a walk…”

  But Jillian is just getting started. “The race is hard enough all by itself,” she sputters. “We shouldn’t have to worry about getting lost, you know what I mean? Whoever set up the bike course is a fucking moron!”

  “Jillian!”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Stan,” Jillian says, not sounding sorry at all. “But whoever’s in charge of this fiasco is an incompetent… moron,” she says again, not being able to come up with a better word. “Somebody should take him out and shoot him, put him out of his misery.”

  “Her.”

  “Excuse me?” Jillian glances at the woman who has just spoken. Kennedy closes his eyes as if he’s in some pain.

  “Her,” the woman says. “Somebody should take her out and shoot her.”

  “Ummm… okay, whatever,” Jillian says. Puzzled, she glances at Kennedy to see if he might be able to help her figure out what’s going on – but not only are Kennedy’s eyes still closed, he now has a hand over them as well.

  “And if you’ll excuse me,” the woman continues, icily, “I need to go find somebody to put me out of my misery.” She turns sharply, stalks off, and disappears into a large green-and-white-striped tent in the middle of the Square. Jillian squints to read a sign that stands in front of the flap of canvas that covers the entrance to the tent. After a few seconds, she realizes that the sign says:

  Admin Tent

  Race Officials Only

  No Exceptions!

  Jillian groans. “Race director?” she guesses.

  “Quite so.” Kennedy sighs. He uncovers his eyes. And does a double take. “Is that thing on?” he asks with alarm.

  And when Jillian turns to see what has upset her Uncle Stan, she’s dismayed to find that she’s staring directly into the lens of a video camera that’s perched on the shoulder of a large, round man dressed in shabby jeans and a torn T-shirt.

  ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍

  “This is off the record,” Kennedy snaps. “I’m engaged in a personal conversation with the daughter of a close friend. It is most emphatically not for public consumption. If you have recorded our discussion…”

  This is just great, Leida thinks. I decide to make Jill Kendal the focus of my story, I drive thirty miles to interview her, and then I find out that world-class pompous asshole J. Stanton Kennedy thinks he’s her gatekeeper.

  But she maintains her composure and actually manages what she hopes is a warm smile. “Oh, no, we haven’t recorded anything,” she soothes. She looks at Jimmy for confirmation, but Jimmy appears to be distracted, as if he’s not really working, just following Leida around because he has nothing better to do. “I was just coming over to see if I could ask Jill a few questions about the race. But now you’ve got me curious,” she adds, adroitly changing the subject. “How do you happen to know Jill’s father?”

  Kennedy glances at the camera, and Leida can tell that he’s trying to decide whether to accept her assurances. Jimmy seems to be panning the camera absently, as if he’s waiting for something to happen that’s worthy of his attention.

  “Well,” Kennedy finally says, “it’s really quite simple. About… what, fifteen years ago? Anyway, many years ago, G.W. Kendal was in need of some capital to expand his awl bidness.” He suppresses a smirk, but Leida can see that he’s pleased with his imitation. “Unfortunately, he was unable to find a single banker in the entire state of Texas willing to finance his harebrained scheme…”

  “Oh, Uncle Stan…” Jillian seems to enjoy being teased; she laughs and pokes Kennedy in the ribs.

  “…so he came all the way up here to Boston,” Kenn
edy continues. “And somehow he managed to sweet-talk a young Vice President at Copley National out of a little more than two million dollars, if memory serves. I suppose that I have the somewhat dubious distinction of being one of the first victims of the legendary G.W. Kendal charm, because I…”

  “Kendal Oil!” Leida’s eyes grow wide as she makes the connection. “You’re the Kendal of Kendal Oil!”

  Jillian rolls her eyes. “Everybody makes that mistake. Kendall Oil has two L’s,” she points out, “and they’re a hell… they’re a whole lot bigger than we are.” She glances at the camera; like Kennedy, she’s apparently not convinced that it’s not recording. “We spell Kendal with one L. Daddy’s just the plain old G.W. Kendal Company.”

  “So you’re not really related?”

  Jillian blinks a couple of times. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, you called him ‘Uncle Stan.’”

  “Affectionate nickname,” Kennedy says. “I’ve known Jillian for… well, for about fifteen years. And as it happens, I haven’t seen her for quite some time, so if you’ll excuse us…”

  “But I have to ask Jillian some questions,” Leida says, hoping that she doesn’t sound desperate. “Just a couple of minutes, okay? Please?”

  “I’ll be back for the awards ceremony,” Jillian says, helpfully, as Kennedy grabs her arm and begins to lead her away. She shrugs as if to say, I’d love to stay and talk to you, but he’s bigger than I am, what can I do?

  “Great interview,” Jimmy says, as he and Leida watch Jillian and her Uncle Stan disappear into the crowd in the Square. He flips a couple of switches, the lights on the camera go out. “Positively scintillating.”

  Leida sighs. “Did you get anything at all?”

  “I got something,” Jimmy confirms, vaguely. “But it might not be any good. It’s tough to shoot while I’m trying to act like I’m not shooting, if you know what I mean.” He laughs, and Leida finds that it’s somehow comforting to find that they’re co-conspirators, on the same team, even if it’s only for a few minutes. “You wanna follow them?” Jimmy suggests, hopefully. “You never know what they might be up to. Maybe I’ll get a shot of them rolling around in the bushes or something.”

  Pointedly ignoring Jimmy’s implication, Leida just shakes her head. “Let her go,” she says. “I’ll catch up with her sooner or later.”

  And when I do, she thinks, Jillian Kendal will wish that she had talked to me when I wanted to talk to her.

  1.1.10: Copley National Bank Tower

  The door slides open not into an elevator lobby but directly into a spacious office, clad in dark wood paneling and tastefully lit by recessed lighting. Couches and chairs of various sizes, all covered in dark leather, divide the room into perhaps half a dozen cozy seating alcoves. Across the room, glasses hang by their stems over a dark, wooden bar. Around a corner, partially hidden behind a dividing wall, Jillian catches a glimpse of a round table with incongruously gleaming metal legs and a sparkling white top.

  “My God,” Jillian says. “Is this where you live?”

  “It feels like it, sometimes,” Kennedy admits. “But no, this happens to be my office.” As if to emphasize the point that this is a place of business, he saunters over to a massive wooden desk that stands off to the side and sits down behind it, his back to the ceiling-to-floor windows that look out over the Square. Then, perhaps to make the point that it’s his place of business, he slips off his shoes, leans back in the chair, and puts his heels on the desk.

  “Do you, like, own the building or something?” Jillian asks.

  “The bank owns the building.”

  “But you own the bank, right?”

  “I’m the president of the bank,” he corrects.

  Jillian shrugs. “Whatever.”

  “And technically,” Kennedy continues, not noticing – or, perhaps, not caring about – Jillian’s lack of interest, “as I am, of course, on a leave of absence, I’m not actually the president of the bank at this very moment.”

  “Aren’t you afraid that the real president will catch you with your feet on his desk?” Jillian teases.

  “No one uses this office other than me,” Kennedy says. “If I’m not here, no one uses this office at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Kennedy says matter-of-factly, as if that’s all the explanation that’s necessary.

  Jillian walks cautiously over to the wall of windows and finds herself staring down into what looks like a miniaturized version of Copley Square. At first she’s unable to make out even a single detail, it reminds her of squinting into an out-of-focus microscope in the biology lab. But then she recognizes a circle of green-and-white stripes in the middle of the Square, and she winces as she remembers Valerie Johnson stalking off into the admin tent. Race directors are a tight-knit group. Making an enemy of one of them could come back to haunt her someday.

  “I was standing exactly where you are standing now,” she hears Kennedy say softly, behind her, “when the first bomb went off. It rattled the windows.”

  Jillian has already taken a step back before she realizes that he’s talking about the marathon bombing. Then she feels silly and steps up to the window again. “I was in class when I heard about the bombing,” she says, as the memories flood back. “I called Daddy and told him to call you to make sure you were okay. But he had already done it.”

  “You never know when something absolutely horrible is going to happen,” Kennedy muses. Then he clears his throat, as if to signal that the moment is over, they don’t need to explore that topic any further.

  Runners are still pouring into the far corner of the Square, as Jillian knows they will be for several hours. She watches as the new arrivals somehow manage to melt smoothly into the already dense crowd. The human flow is hypnotic. She wants to say something, but she feels momentarily overwhelmed. “Hell of a view,” is all she can manage.

  “Oh, you get used to it after a while,” Kennedy says. It reminds Jillian of her mother saying, “What, this old thing?” when Jillian used to compliment her on her outfit. Which, of course, is why Jillian doesn’t do that anymore.

  “And pretty convenient, too,” she adds.

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, you sure didn’t have to go very far to watch me win the race.”

  Kennedy looks just the slightest bit abashed. “The truth of the matter is that I had no idea that you would be here today,” he admits. “Frankly, I was totally unaware that you competed in this sport.” He loosens his tie, unfastens the top button of his shirt. “But I suppose that, with your great talent in the marathon, the triathlon would hold a certain appeal for you. Does it offer you a greater challenge? Or is it just a change of pace?”

  “I’m sick of marathons,” Jillian says. Turning away from the windows, she walks slowly along a wall lined with paintings and photographs as she ambles in the general direction of Kennedy’s desk. “I haven’t had any real competition in years.”

  “Don’t tell me that you’re going to retire, at your young age,” Kennedy says, jovially. But then a realization strikes him and he turns instantly serious. “Good Lord,” he says, “you haven’t already retired, have you? You do plan to defend your title, do you not?”

  “I don’t think so, Uncle Stan. It’s so much work. And it’s so boring.”

  She stops to inspect an arrangement of half a dozen photographs in thin gold frames. The first photo features Kennedy shaking hands with the President of the United States; a few words that Jillian can’t make out are scrawled in a corner. The people shaking Kennedy’s hand in the other photos, Jillian decides, must be former U.S. presidents, a few of them even look vaguely familiar. The next group of photos also features Kennedy shaking hands, this time with people Jillian guesses to be foreign leaders, especially the ones dressed in traditional African or perhaps Arab garb. In a few of the photos, Kennedy is smoking a cigar. In one of them, a large man in a military uniform is smoking with him.

&nb
sp; A final group of photos is more eclectic. Some feature the familiar Kennedy-shaking-hands motif, others don’t include Kennedy at all. She recognizes Mel Gibson in a pose from the old Lethal Weapon movies, and there’s another old movie star, Beryl or Meryl something-or-other. She nearly overlooks a small black-and-white photo in an inappropriately elegant frame when it catches her eye. For a moment, she’s not sure what it is about the photo that looks familiar. But then she realizes that the young couple posing in front of the curved cattle horns that adorn the hood of the shiny white Cadillac are her parents. And that the blond child between them, staring insouciantly into the camera, is her.

  “I don’t even know where the next Olympics is going to be,” Jillian says, to emphasize the point that she’s not going to be in them. “Or even when they’re going to be, for that matter,” she adds, to drive the point home.

  “You must live in a cave,” Kennedy says, in what sounds like mock reproach, but it’s borderline, the chastisement could well be real. “The next Olympic Games,” he intones, “which will commence in just a few, all-too-short months, will be hosted by the charming and gracious island nation of Qen Phon. You must be the only person in the country who is not aware of that.”

  “Qen Phon.” Jillian flounces into an overstuffed chair that stands in the center of a small Oriental rug across the desk from her Uncle Stan. “Qen Phon,” she says again, scrunching her face, trying to will her brain to make a connection that’s not quite there.

  “To be more precise,” Kennedy continues, “Tanami, the capital city of Qen Phon and the center of the rich and varied culture of the island nation, will provide a glorious and memorable backdrop to the unparalleled excitement of these historic Olympic Games.” His words sound rehearsed, as if he’s quoting from a brochure.

  “Okay, I’m impressed,” Jillian says, with just a hint of sarcasm. She curls sideways, sinks further into the chair, and hooks both legs over one of its well-padded arms. “So how do you know so much about it?”

  “It’s all part of the job,” Kennedy says, diffidently.