Page 21 - WTP Vol. VI #4

Inwardly, at least, she acknowledged her father’s devastation. Two years ago, a newly sober Jede- diah had hurried down the mountain from a rehabilitative retreat, ready to begin again; he’d fled the doctors’ nest after six months of painful restoration; he’d been fresh and shining, wings still damp, had returned home and discovered his bank accounts empty and his manager gone.
“Papa: Lochlan left no trail.”
A horse whinnied.
“D’you hear that?” the old man asked. The sound of the horse was soon accompanied by the clang of dolly-tracks being laid in the sand by the crew outside.
“The whale’s head emerged, and
Jedediah watched as the big eyes opened. They were black, bottomless, like windows to another world.”
She knew to ignore the question, pointed a finger at the lunch she’d brought, homemade sandwich- es and a thermos of good hot tea. “Eat,” she said. “I can’t stay long today.”
He did eat, but he was distracted, kept looking out the window, mesmerized first by the canvas doors to the wardrobe tent, flapping in the sea breeze, then by the sight of his sullen mother. The woman appeared aloof, as always, and this time she was no more than thirty years old. She whispered into a white stallion’s ear; she finished whatever it was she had to say to the animal, said something to the wrangler waiting nearby, then turned around slowly with a smirk across her face.
“Drink this.” Connie got out of her chair, placed a cup of tea into her father’s hands. She’d glanced out the window as she’d stood up, saw only the beach outside, the breaking waves and the whitecaps fur- ther out. Softly, she lay the palm of her hand against the old man’s face. “You still adaptin’ Moby-Dick, Papa?” She stared into his eyes. “Lochlan may be gone but your grandson’s definitely here.”
“I know.” He looked down at the little cot then took hold of his daughter’s hand. “I’m still here, too.”
~
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