Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  Jillian is clearly puzzled. “Why would a banker have to know so much about the Olympics?”

  Now it’s Kennedy’s turn to be puzzled. “Surely, Jillian,” he says, cautiously, “you are aware that I serve as Executive Director of the United States Olympic Committee.”

  “Very funny,” Jillian says. But when she glances at Kennedy, his expression suggests that he’s not trying to be funny at all. In one smooth motion her legs slide off the arm of the chair, she uncurls and sits up straight. “Oh. My. God. You’re serious.”

  “Jillian, don’t tell me that you didn’t know…”

  “But Uncle Stan, you’re just a banker. I mean, you’re not a coach or anything like that. Stop smirking at me!” she adds, indignantly.

  “Jillian, forgive me. You are quite right. I do know much too little about sports. I won’t argue with you about that. But I am a businessman, and the Olympics is a business.” He treats her to what anyone else would regard as a condescending smile. “So now you understand why I will be especially disappointed if you do not represent your country in the Games this year, yes? Is it too late for you to try out for the triathlon? I suppose that I should be more familiar with the schedule, but…”

  “The Olympic triathlon?” Jillian snorts derisively. “It’s way too short for me. I’m a marathoner, not a fuh… not a sprinter.” She shakes her head slowly. “Head of the USOC. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that Daddy didn’t tell me. I can’t… I can’t…”

  And then, out of nowhere, it pops into her head, the idea that changes everything.

  “I know!” Her face lights up, and she bounces to her feet. “Why don’t you just add the Ironman-distance triathlon to the Olympics? Then I could win another gold medal!”

  “As it happens,” Kennedy says with a sigh, “I’ve just finished explaining to Valerie Johnson why another variety of triathlon cannot possibly be added to the Olympics at this time.”

  Jillian leans forward, her palms on the desk, an unmistakable gleam in her eyes. “It’s the only way you’re going to get me back into the Olympics, Uncle Stan,” she points out, mischievously. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Jillian, at this late date, you can’t seriously expect…”

  “I’d be the first person ever to win gold medals in both the marathon and the triathlon! I’d be in all the history books, and… Why are you looking at me like that?”

  And Kennedy is indeed staring at her in a most peculiar way. He slides his feet off the desk. He sits upright, almost stiffly, in his chair. His eyes take on a clouded, far-away look. He furrows his brow. An uneasy pensiveness creeps into his expression, mixed with a dose of incredulity, as if he’s having trouble believing the direction of his own thoughts.

  “You can do it, can’t you? Daddy always says that you can do anything,” Jillian teases.

  When Kennedy finally speaks, it’s with exaggerated deliberateness, as if he’s not entirely certain that he wants to give voice to these particular words. “It… it just might be… possible,” he says. He looks at her and blinks. He seems to be slightly dazed. “Now, don’t go and get your hopes up… I can’t promise you anything, mind you. It must be the longest of long shots… but I just might be able to…”

  When the phone buzzes, Jillian is more than a little annoyed, even more so because Kennedy appears to be relieved. “You just might be able to do what,” she prompts, but Kennedy has already pressed the speaker button.

  “Mr. Kennedy, this is Carl, downstairs,” a voice says. And then the voice adds, heatedly, “Get your hands off the phone, young lady!” Which makes no sense at all.

  Then there’s another voice, louder but at a slight distance from the phone. It’s definitely female, with more than a hint of a German accent, she’s saying something like, Take your hands off me, you stupid little man!

  Then there are thumping noises, abrupt and angry, like a scuffle. And then the voices take turns getting louder and softer, as if the scufflers are playing tug-of-war with the phone.

  Kennedy rises to his feet, as if to offer assistance. “Carl? Are you all right?”

  Jillian leans closer to the phone. “Kristin? Is that you?” It must be Kristin, Britte doesn’t speak to me at all.

  “Don’t make me come around there, young lady!” Carl shouts, but it sounds as though he’s no longer speaking directly into the phone. Kristin seems to have the upper hand, she’s shrieking into the mouthpiece, her voice is so loud that it buzzes and crackles with distortion.

  And then perhaps Carl has made good on his threat and has come out from behind his desk, because it sounds like he and Kristin are wrestling for the phone again. Kristin’s voice has become less distinct, but Jillian hears her well enough, and the effect is dramatic. She turns and bolts for the elevator, leaving her Uncle Stan to try to make sense of what he’s heard.

  It takes a few seconds for Kristin’s words to register, and then Kennedy races to get to the elevator before the door slides shut, because he’s pretty sure that he heard Kristin say: Jillian, come quick! They are trying to steal the race from you!

  1.1.11: Copley Square

  “No, Val, I am not questioning your authority,” says the tall man with the long face and the receding hairline. “Far from it,” he adds, lowering his head so he can better peer at Valerie over his reading glasses. “I just think that you shouldn’t make a decision like this until you have more information, that’s all.”

  “More information?” Valerie barks. “What other information do I need? The incident occurred in sight of a race marshal. The marshal reported the incident to the Race Director – me. The penalty for endangerment is disqualification. And as Race Director, the only way I can discharge my responsibility is to impose the penalty. Now, tell me, Gordon, exactly why is it that you think you have anything to say about my decision?”

  Sitting directly across a long, wobbly table from Valerie Johnson, Gordon Cromartie makes a conscious effort not to wither under the intensity of the verbal barrage. I am, after all, the Chairman of the Race Committee, he thinks. But I will not get into a pissing contest with the Race Director by saying that out loud. He risks a quick glance at the half-dozen other members of the Committee, who are all sitting around the table, and who all seem to be intent on studying whatever pamphlets and flyers happen to be in front of them. “It’s just that the penalty is so… so severe, Valerie,” Gordon says, haltingly. “I would think that you might want to wait until you’ve heard both sides of the story.”

  “Damn it, Gordon!” Valerie pounds on the table, which shakes as if it might collapse. Several of the committee members draw back in alarm. A styrofoam cup of coffee spills, but Gordon seems to be the only one at the table who notices. “You know as well as I do that if this wasn’t Jill Kendal we wouldn’t even be having this discussion,” Valerie snarls. “Why should we treat her any different from anybody else?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Valerie leans over the table, grabs a thin book, and flips through its pages. After a few seconds, she begins to recite in a loud voice. “No participant shall commit any dangerous act,” she says, her voice rising in both volume and pitch, “which could cause injury to any participant. Any violation of this section shall result in disqualification.” She throws the book across the length of the table; it skitters across the surface and launches out over the far edge. “What more do you want, Gordon?”

  “Val, please.” Gordon holds up his hands in what he hopes will be seen as a gesture of conciliation, rather than surrender. “Let’s discuss this calmly, like rational human beings. I think we all agree that if Jill Kendal is guilty of the infraction she’s accused of, she should be disqualified, regardless of who she…”

  “Infraction, my ass! Don’t you give me any of your weasel words, Gordon. She could have killed that poor girl, and you’re so chicken-shit that you want me to let her get away with it. Well, I’ll be damned if…”

  “What the hell is going on in here!”

>   Gordon turns in the direction of the wounded howl, and there stands Jillian Kendal, the tent flap behind her still bouncing from what appears to have been a forceful entrance. She is breathless, her face a bright shade of red from exertion, or perhaps indignation.

  Valerie leaps to her feet. “Jill Kendal, you can just turn around and march your ass right back out of this tent,” she says, angrily. “This meeting is no business of yours.”

  “No business of mine?” Jillian’s flush deepens, and her features tighten. “Kristin says that you’re trying to get me disqualified, and you’re telling me that it’s none of my business?” She covers the short distance that separates her from Valerie in a few long strides; and then the two women stand eye to eye, inches apart, like two prizefighters getting final instructions for the main event.

  Gordon can’t help but notice that Valerie does not retreat. “Disqualifications are decided by the Race Director, with the advice of the Race Committee. Triathletes are notified of the decisions – which, as you know, are final and are not subject to appeal.” Valerie’s eyes are hard and cold, her features frozen. Her words spill out in short, clipped bursts. “Triathletes are not consulted as part of the decision process. Even if the triathlete in question happens to be a prima donna named Jillian Kendal.”

  For a few long seconds, the silence in the tent is punctuated only by Jillian’s labored breathing. I’m sure as hell not going to be the first one to speak, Gordon thinks, as he settles back into his chair. To his right, Gina Danovicz, a wisp of a woman with a gaunt face and long, stringy hair, clears her throat as if she’s going to speak, then apparently thinks better of it.

  Jillian finally breaks the silence. “What am I accused of?” she asks in a half-growl. “At least tell me what I’m supposed to have done!” The two women stare at each other without blinking.

  What the hell. Gordon sighs. “Val, Jill, please,” he says hesitantly, not entirely convinced that assuming the role of peacemaker is such a good idea. He takes a deep breath. “Jill,” he says, “one of the race marshals reported that you interfered with another participant, a woman…”

  “Gordon!” Valerie says sharply. “What the hell do you think you’re…”

  “A woman,” Gordon continues, raising his voice over Valerie’s, “by the name of Sunshine…” – he consults a pad of paper on the table in front of him – “…Sunshine O’Malley. The marshal says that you…”

  “Interfered with her?” Jillian is incredulous. “What the fuck are you talking about? She tripped! She tripped over a goddamn camera stand! Some asshole set up a goddamn camera stand right in the middle of the fucking road, and she tripped over the goddamn thing.”

  “The marshal claims that you pushed her, Jill,” Gordon says, gamely trying to hold his ground. “And there really is no need for that kind of language. If we can all calm down…”

  But instead, everyone begins to talk at once.

  “Pushed her! How can you accuse me of such a…”

  “Gordon, you have absolutely no right to discuss this with…”

  “Look, why don’t we try to get some more information so we can…”

  “People, please, they can hear this outside, this is becoming…”

  “QUIET!” Gordon’s shout somehow transcends the din. “Everybody just SHUT UP! That’s better,” he adds, as the noise winds down. “Now, can we talk one at a time like civilized human beings?”

  “What about the other people at the aid station?” Jillian demands. “What did they have to say? And what about Sunshine? Did you even talk to her?”

  Gordon allows the embarrassed silence to drag on for what is probably only a few seconds, but which seems much longer. Finally, realizing that nobody else is going to say anything, he clears his throat. “Actually,” he says, “we haven’t heard from anyone other than the marshal about the incident. We were just discussing whether or not we should try to get additional information when you… when you interrupted us.”

  The deafening silence descends once again.

  To Gordon, Jillian looks both uneasy and bewildered at the same time. She looks at Val, she looks at Gordon, she looks at the rest of the Race Committee. And then, judging by the sudden smirk on her face, she figures something out.

  “Ohhhh,” Jillian says, with a slow nod, “I get it.” She turns to Valerie. “Now I understand. The committee wants more information, but you want to DQ me without even talking to anyone else, am I right?”

  “The decision of the Race Director is final,” Valerie says, defensively. “We don’t need to talk to anyone else. That’s not the way we operate.”

  “Val, look,” Jillian says, suddenly serene. “I’m sorry about what I said. I was way out of line, and I apologize. But you have no right to take the race away from me just because…”

  “How dare you accuse me of such a thing,” Valerie hisses. “If you think I’m going to stand here and let you impugn my integrity like that…”

  “Ummm, excuse me, ladies.” To Gordon’s surprise, Gina Danovicz seems to have found her voice. “We’re all a little bit in the dark here. What happened before? What are you referring to, Jill?”

  “It’s not important,” Valerie snaps. “Don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s trying to confuse the issue, turn this into some kind of personal thing. This is exactly why we don’t allow triathletes to participate in these discussions.” She turns to Gordon as if for his support, and Gordon is surprised to see a kind of pleading in her expression that was not at all in evidence just a few seconds earlier. The meeting, Gordon realizes, is getting away from her.

  “How can we make a rational decision in this kind of emotional atmosphere?” Valerie looks around the table with noticeable desperation, leading Gordon to think that he might actually feel sorry for her if she hadn’t been so overbearing just a few minutes ago. “And the fact of the matter is,” Valerie continues, “that a race marshal saw Jill Kendal push the O’Malley woman and cause her to fall. And ultimately it is my responsibility and my responsibility alone, to…”

  “She didn’t push me.”

  The voice is so soft that, at first, Gordon isn’t really sure that he heard anything at all. But then he realizes that something has indeed been said, and that the words have been spoken by a young red-haired woman who must have slipped into the tent unnoticed in the commotion.

  “Jill didn’t push me,” the redhead says. “I tripped. I tripped over a camera stand.”

  “Sunshine!” Jillian races over and hugs the shorter woman, then pulls back as Sunshine gasps in pain. “Oh, no,” Jillian says, “How stupid of me! Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m still a little sore,” Sunshine admits. “But I’m fine. Really, I am. I’ve got a couple of bruises, but they’re not bad. The photographer’s the one who really got hurt.”

  “Serves him right for setting that stupid thing up in the middle of the road,” Jillian laughs.

  Sunshine doesn’t join in the laughter. In fact, Gordon gets the impression that Sunshine doesn’t laugh much at all. Her face seems to be permanently set in an expression of intent earnestness, not so much ill-humored as humorless.

  “He didn’t mean to cause any harm, Jill,” Sunshine says. “He was just doing his job.” She speaks as if the subject is of great importance to her.

  “Excuse me?” Gordon holds up a hand for attention and clears his throat again. “I take it that you are Sunshine O’Malley?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.” She speaks formally, as if she’s being questioned in court.

  “Well, young lady,” Gordon continues, “we’re all relieved to see that you seem to be alright. We heard about the nasty spill you took. In fact, we were discussing it just as you walked in.”

  “I know,” Sunshine says. “I heard.”

  “Am I to understand, then…” – he glances significantly at Valerie – “…that Jill Kendal was not responsible for your mishap? Are you one-hundred-percent certain about this? Beyond any doubt? This is extremely impor
tant, Miss O’Malley. Take your time.”

  “Oh, yes sir,” Sunshine interrupts. “I’m sure of it. Jill was all the way on the other side of the camera stand when I tripped. It wasn’t really anybody’s fault; it just happened.” She looks at Jillian, and the barest ghost of a smile creases her face. “In fact, sir, Jill was trying to help me. She was showing me how to run faster than I ever thought I could. I’m sure that she would never do anything to hurt me.”

  Jillian returns the smile. “And you were doing so well, too. I was so proud of you. Was this your first triathlon?”

  Sunshine’s smile grows – or, rather, it brightens to something approaching what Gordon suspects, on a more expressive face, might be called a smile. “I’ve never been in any kind of real race before,” she says apologetically. “I don’t believe in competition. Nathan teaches us…”

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Gordon breaks in. “I’m sure you two have a great deal to talk about. But the committee still has some issues to discuss. So, if there are no objections…” He glances around the table, his eyes finally resting on Valerie’s. “I think we can consider this matter closed.”

  Valerie returns his gaze coolly, but does not speak.

  “Thank you, ladies,” Gordon continues. “And now, if you’ll excuse us,” he adds, gesturing in the direction of the exit with what he hopes is some measure of restored authority.

  ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍

  “Wait for me outside,” Jillian whispers to Sunshine. Then she walks slowly over to Valerie, who stands stiffly, her arms folded, her head lowered.

  “Val,” Jillian whispers tentatively, and touches her lightly on the forearm.

  Valerie stares at Jillian’s hand for a few seconds. Then she looks up and glares at Jillian through narrowed eyes.

  “Val,” Jillian says again, tugging on Valerie’s arm ever so slightly. “C’mon, let’s move over to where it’s more private.”

  Valerie draws her head back and eyes Jillian warily. “Why?” She glances down at Jillian’s hand again, as if she can’t quite believe that Jillian is actually touching her. “What are you up to?”