Transition: Chapter 28 (The Longwharf)

They walk through the corridors in a stony silence, oblivious to the stares they attract from the few people who are up and about so late. They’re an odd couple: the tall, lumbering cowboy with anger chiseled into his rocky features; the slim, wet, athlete wearing shorts and a towel, her eyes cast down, her gait unsteady.

They wait for the elevator in silence. She begins to improvise a defense. He has no right to be upset with her, she hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s mistaken if he thinks that they were having some kind of orgy. He’s jumping to conclusions.

But then a sense of shame and humiliation overwhelms her. She had been sitting in the spa half naked, in mixed company, drunk as a skunk. It’s indefensible. She’ll simply have to throw herself on his mercy, endure whatever harsh and terrible things he’ll say. It will pass.

She holds on to that thought: He loves her, so it will pass.

When the elevator arrives, she can’t for the life of her remember what floor she’s on. She reaches for her key; for one terrifying moment she’s afraid that she’s lost it, that it slipped from her pocket, that it’s lying on the bottom of the spa. She’ll have to go back to the desk, her shame written all over her face, a marked woman, and beg for a key so she can slink back off to her room. And what if the same night manager is still on duty? Still dripping wet? How can she face him?

But the key is in her other pocket, and she withdraws it with a sigh of relief. But it’s just a strip of plastic, with nothing on it to indicate her room number. Looking at it somehow jogs her memory, and it comes to her in a flash: 723. Seventh floor. Press the button with the 7 on it. Up we go.

Why doesn’t he say anything? Is he going to wait until we get back to the room? Or is he just too angry to speak?

The ride up to the seventh floor is excruciatingly slow, the silent corridor to her room is devastatingly long. But finally they’re at the door. She races into the room and immediately runs into the bathroom, swinging the door closed behind her. Suddenly, she feels very ill, she’s going to be sick. In fact, she wants to be sick; maybe that will grant her a reprieve from the dreaded tongue-lashing that she knows she’s about to receive. And that she so richly deserves. She kneels by the toilet and retches violently, her insides churning. And then she’s very sick, heaving up great volumes of disgusting vomitus.

And then it’s over. She flushes the toilet, repeatedly. She runs some cold water over a washcloth and rests it on her face. She pulls off her shorts and towels herself dry. She’s surprised to realize that she feels almost human. Almost.

Slipping into the robe that she had left hanging in the bathroom earlier (thank God!), she opens the door slowly, trepidatiously, trying to appear even weaker and less steady than she actually feels. But the act is wasted: He’s standing by the window, looking out over the city, his arms folded, his back to her. She slips off the robe, crawls into bed, and pulls the sheets and blankets around her as tight as they will go.

For an eternity, neither of them speaks. She’s tempted to close her eyes and drift off to sleep. Maybe he’ll be gone when she wakes up. Maybe she’ll awaken to find that it had all been a bad dream. But realistically, she knows that falling asleep will merely postpone the inevitable.

What the hell. Might as well get it over with.

“Daddy?” A weak, thin voice; have pity on me, it says. Then, with all the sincerity she can muster: “Daddy, I’m sorry.” And, although the catch in her voice is a dramatic device, strictly for effect, that much is true: She is sorry. She’s made a spectacle of herself. She’s acted like a common drunk, a vulgar, shameless harlot. Words like slut, tramp, and even whore race though her mind, and she shudders in revulsion. Is that what he thinks of me? And I haven’t even done anything to deserve those names, not in a sexual sense.

But I know what he’s thinking.

I didn’t act like a Kendal.

I behaved like trash.

And, of course, he’s right.

“Daddy?” There’s still no response from the big man who broods darkly out over the city. His silence is killing her; she has to get him to speak. “Daddy, what are you doing here?” Did that come out right? Or did it sound too much like some kind of vague accusation? “I mean,” she adds hastily, “I thought that you and Mother were going to Europe.” But that’s not quite right either, that makes it sound like she was just waiting for them to leave so she could rip off her clothes and party. In fact, there’s nothing she can say that will sound right, nothing that will make it better.

She bites her lip in frustration. There’s nothing she can do. She’ll just have to wait until he’s ready.

“We were goin’ to Europe,” he finally says, in calm, measured tones. And although he speaks softly, there’s an anger in his deep, gravely voice that makes her cringe. “We were gonna refuel in New York,” he continues, evenly, “but New York was fogged in, so they sent us to Boston. Then Boston got fogged in, so we couldn’t leave. So your Ma called Stan Kennedy, and he sent a car around to get us.

“And so,” he continues, his voice steadily rising in volume and intensity, “and so we’re sittin’ around at Stan’s place, your Ma and me, and he’s tellin’ us about the race, and some of the things that happened... and about that TV show you were on...” His voice trails off.

The interview! She had forgotten all about that! Is that what he’s upset about? That his daughter cursed on the air? Maybe he’s not so angry about the scene in the spa after all...

Or, Jillian thinks, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, maybe he’s mad about both of those things.

“So,” the big man continues, still staring out the window into the night, “so your Ma and Stan start talking about all kinds of Paris stuff... nightclubs, boutiques, shit like that...” He pronounces it “booteeks,” with flowery exaggeration, almost a half-sneer, and Jillian has to suppress a nervous giggle.

“And Stan, he tells me that he thinks you’re staying at the Longwharf, and I’m gettin’ kinda antsy just settin’ around, and I start in to thinkin’, well, hell, why don’t I call a taxi and mosey on down to the hotel and see if I can’t find my little girl? Maybe I can buy her a drink.” He pauses, his mouth bunching as if he’s bitten into something sour, something that has left a bad taste.

“But when I get to the goddamn hotel,” he says, finally turning toward her, his voice cutting like a razor, his eyes flashing blue fire, “it looks like my little girl’s already had herself a whole goddamn mess of drinks. And she’s settin’ there with a whole pool full of guys, shakin’ her titties at ‘em, them just sittin’ around with their peckers hangin’ out, in front of God and everybody...” His voice catches, and he pauses, blinks back his anger.

Well, good, Jillian thinks, he’s getting it out. Now it can blow over. He won’t stay mad at me for long.

Or, at least, he never has before.

But then I’ve never seen him quite this angry before. Not at me, anyway.

“Daddy, I know how it looked,” she says, “but it’s not what you think.” Making excuses isn’t a good idea, she knows, it’ll only make him more upset. But she feels that she has to at least try to explain, if for no other reason than to get him talking again, let him flush the rest of it out of his system. “I was tired, and I had more to drink than I should have, and I know I shouldn’t have taken my shirt off, I don’t know what came over me. But Daddy, there was nothing going on. Nothing bad. Nobody touched me, Daddy. Nobody.”

“If you can’t hold your liquor any better than that, young lady, you need to stay away from the goddamn bar.” He sounds more disgusted than angry.

“I know it. I’m sorry.” She’s let him down; he’s disappointed in her. She feels like crying – and, indeed, an involuntary sniffle escapes her. But she knows that he’ll just interpret that as a sign of weakness, which will disappoint him even further.

She’ll just have to tough it out.

“I think maybe you’re gettin’ a little too big for your britches, young lady,” he says, gruffly. “If I had half an ounce of sense, I’d turn you over my knee and whup the fire out of you. In fact, if you was a boy, I’d take my belt off right now and tan your hide so bad that you wouldn’t be able to set for a week.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Jillian says with a sigh. “You know damn well that if I were a boy you wouldn’t even care if I took all my clothes off and screwed every girl in the hotel. You’d slap me on the back and tell me what a stud I was.”

Sudden anger flashes in his eyes, and he recoils as if he’s been shot. His mouth drops open in shock and amazement; then it snaps shut and he grits his teeth; then he opens it, and tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

She had meant it as a joke, an attempt to lighten up the atmosphere, but she regretted it as soon as she said it. He’s not taking it as a joke; he’s taking it as criticism, and Lord knows he’s not in the mood for that right now. Why didn’t I just keep my big mouth shut?

But then a slow and wondrous transformation begins. The corners of his mouth begin to twitch, and his eyes begin to soften, and... and is that the ghost of a smile trying to form? And suddenly, he throws his head back and laughs, a deep, resounding belly laugh. Tears well up in his eyes. He feels around for something to lean on, finds a chair, and sinks into it, still rocking with laughter.

Jillian closes her eyes and sighs deeply. It’s over. Somehow, she has managed to say the right thing. She’s her Daddy’s little girl again.

“My God, Jill,” the big man says when he can speak again, “you sure are one spunky little cuss.” He wipes the tears from his eyes, and chuckles. “And you’re probably right. I guess I was being a little hard on you. You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you, honey?”

“I’m a good girl, Daddy.” She’s very serious. It isn’t enough just to be let off the hook, to be forgiven. She has to make him understand. “I know that sometimes I do things that aren’t very bright. But I never want to do anything to make you ashamed of me.” And then the tears do come, but she wills them back, her eyes glistening. “I’m a good girl, Daddy,” she says again; and they both know what she means, but can’t say: I’m not promiscuous, Daddy. Your little girl hasn’t been screwing around.

“I know you are, sweetheart,” he says, gently. “And I’m not ashamed of you. I’m very, very proud of you.”

“Well,” she says, managing a weak smile, “At least Mother didn’t come with you.”

The big man rolls his eyes. “That would have been all she wrote,” he says, shaking his head. “She ain’t no pushover, like your old man. But hell, she and Stan were talking about all the museums she could go to, and all them fancy restaurants, and every other word was in French, which I sure as hell don’t parlay-voo, if you know what I mean, and so I just sorta slipped on out...”

“You’re not a pushover, Daddy,” Jillian whispers, letting her eyes drift closed. “You just love me.”

§ § § § § § § § § §

G.W. Kendal stands up, leans over, and kisses his daughter on the cheek. “I sure do love you, precious,” he says, with surprising tenderness. “More than anything.” He sighs, turns and faces the window, but continues to speak as he looks out over the city.

“I don’t know, Jill, sometimes I think that maybe I treated you too much like a boy when you was little. I know your Ma sure thinks so. And I gotta admit that it tickles me to see you whup everybody so bad in those triathlon races. But maybe your Ma’s right; maybe it’s time you started actin’ a little more, well... ladylike.” He says the word daintily, like it’s something with which he’s not quite comfortable. “You know, more refined. More... more... well, proper.”

He watches the traffic buzz by on the street below, bunching at the intersections, spreading out on the straightaways between the corners. At this late hour, the sidewalks are largely devoid of pedestrians; one small knot of people stands under an awning across the highway, in front of what looks like a bar or a small restaurant.

“I guess you probably think I got all the answers, angel. And I don’t guess I ever exactly discouraged you from thinkin’ that.” One of the people down by the bar keeps trying to hail a taxi, but they all whiz by, already occupied. “But it can be so danged hard trying to figure out what’s the right thing to do, sometimes.” I’m gonna be down on the street soon, he realizes, trying to hail a taxi just like that. What a pain. Maybe there’s some taxis waiting in front of the hotel?

“But I just want you to know, honey...” He turns toward her. She’s sound asleep. He grins. He considers himself to be a man of action, not of words, and he’s only rarely philosophical; so it’s kind of ironic that now, when he’s baring his soul to his daughter, she dozes off.

Maybe it’s for the best.

“I love you, Jillian,” he says, reaching down to touch her cheek; then he turns and quietly strides toward the door. She responds to the light touch sluggishly; her eyes flutter and almost open just as he reaches for the doorknob. Then, with a sigh, she shifts her weight and settles back to sleep. The door swings open. G.W. steps into the hallway.

“I love you too, Daddy,” she says, in a barely audible whisper. It doesn’t seem possible that she could be heard from the doorway, but her soft voice drifts into the quiet hall just as G.W. pulls the door shut. He smiles, nods. That’s what he wanted to hear.

The door clicks shut.