Ransom X Page 4

  Chapter 2 The Talk

  Not far away, at Legacy’s destination, a study session of the highest priority was going on. Three teenage girls “studied” with second-year French books open flat in front of them.

  “Nothing leaves this room, I mean it.” Lane wasn’t going to budge when it came to confidentiality. “I’ll have your dad go federal on anyone that tells.”

  Giggles, shrieks and gasps, the recurring staples of the adolescent conversation rang down the halls of the large, turn-of-the-century apartment. Lane leveled a weighted stare at Chessapeake, or Chess, a bright young girl who, like the true masters of her namesake, had an intellect and intensity that asserted itself onto the world in a playful way. As carefree as she was, she had a competitive streak in her that was totally her father: she liked to win. Her emotions shone out of her eyes unfiltered by any of the baggage of adulthood, beaming beacons, ice blue, lighting up with the promise of a secret about to be told.

  Trisha rushed into the silence like running water pulled a by fifteen year-olds hormonal gravity, “Let your dad interrogate me any day, please.”

  “Your dad is hot. Deal with it.” Lane switched into a civil tone, her father was a lawyer.

  “It’s not her fault.” Trisha’s exuberance could be explained argued and acquitted.

  Chess scowled at her friends, but the pinched expression could not possibly hold. Chess had a natural warm smile. She’d practiced it in the mirror for hours as a child. At fourteen she had perfected a series of facial expressions that could neutralize the sternest teacher at ten paces. The smile that Lane’s comments about her dad had brought to life was filled with retribution and pride. Chess let her fingers dial an invisible phone.

  “Pick up the truth phone.”

  Lane picked up an invisible receiver. “I’ve got it.” Chess let her words trickle out pointedly. “My father is not subject of our conversation, n’est-ce pas? He is not the boy you made out with in the audio isolation cubes in French class is he? Shouldn’t we be talking about him?”

  “Non, non, non. Il etait un garcon; ton pere est un vrai homme.”

  Chess stood and let her fingers run along the wallpaper as she strolled around Lane. There was little beyond the walls of the lovingly decorated, somehow frozen-in-time quality to the apartment. Despite the loss of her mother suffered by she and her father, the walls had echoed more of her laughter than the floors had drunk her tears in the years she’d spent growing up here. Her thoughts slowed her gait until Lane was ready to burst waiting for her to talk. Chess used the anticipation to let out with:

  “Est-ce que ton petit-ami – grand?”

  The delivery was perfect, “Is your little friend, big?” a squeal of laughter blanketed the room, and for a moment there were no French textbooks, there was no nation of France at all. The world disappeared outside and the three teenage girls wrapped themselves in a blanket of nonsense. The embroidery at the top read ‘best friends forever’ and it was warm underneath.

  After a moment it was time to get back to the task, but the nonsense hadn’t passed.

  “Your top is dipping open. Or are you trying to impress us with your cleavage?”

  Chess looked down, she was wearing a sweater, not a single cleave in sight.

  “Actually, I was talking about myself.” It was Lane that was blossoming quickly and her private school outfit had been modified to invite notice.

  Trisha threw a quick signal at Lane and both of them checked the clock. “Why do you keep checking the time?”

  “Pas de raison.” Lane’s watch beeped.

  Chess saw that it was approaching six. Both of the girls were looking at the front door. They knew it would open soon. A wall clock started to chime and at exactly six the latches on the door began sliding open. Trisha’s fingers twisted nervously in her hair. Three clicks, then they were open. Martin walked in pulling his coat off in one motion.

  “Dad.”

  He lit up hearing Chess' voice. It was a total transformation, like every bit of social energy he could gather was for her. His baby girl brought out every ounce of charm Legacy had – wooden, yet still a thousand times softer than the cold steel he so closely carried to his heart.

  “Bonjour!” Trisha chimed in quickly. She extended her hand and Martin watched it for a moment before awkwardly shaking it. The father checked off his daughter with a glance.

  “We’re studying French.” Chess was used to filling in the gaps with Legacy.

  “Really?”

  “Oui. Actually, it’s bonsoir!” Lane walked up to Martin. “And they kiss hello, in France.” She leaned in and stole a cautious peck on his cheek.

  Martin turned immediately to his daughter, awkwardness hung in the air until he spoke.

  “Well if we are going to adopt French customs from now on, you can’t give me any trouble for doing this.” He kissed both of Chess' cheeks then scrubbed the top of her head with his knuckles with a half-smile on his face.

  Trisha swooned audibly; Lane pushed the back of Chess' sweater. “Your daughter has a question to ask, monsieur.”

  “I was going to wait until dinner, but I guess that this is the best time.” She shifted weight back and forth on her brown penny loafers.

  “Whatever it is, yes.” Martin tapped her on the head with the newspaper he carried in his hand, then swiveled and headed down the hall.

  “I want to go on a date, a triple date with my best friends.”

  Martin stopped, a slow glance over his shoulder, “With boys?”

  “That’s what a date is dad.”

  As dry as the martini that was being delayed because of this conversation darted the response.

  “Fine, you know the deal.”

  “That’s not fair, it puts all the responsibility on me.”

  Lane chimed in, “what deal?”

  Martin resumed a measured step toward the study door at the end of the hallway. He intoned his answer to the girls.

  “If Chess chooses a boy and he hurts her, I’ll end up in jail for what comes next.” The hum continued from Legacy; he loved being home, where the threats stayed in the family. “Make sure he’s the right boy, a mature choice, and we’ll be fine.” When Martin reached the end of the hall, he closed the study door behind him cutting off any reply.

  A truck could be driven through the silence, but it wouldn’t be loud enough to drown the peals of laughter that burst out of Trisha and Lane the moment the door latched behind Legacy.

  It wasn’t ridicule, but Chess blushed a deep red in front of her friends. Chess charged after her father, “I’m going to talk to him. He will say yes.”

  “He already said yes.”

  “He will say yes the way I want him to say yes.” She crossed the floor, clop clop clop, all the way to the study. The door closed behind her.

  Trisha swooned staring at the study door, “My dad would never go to jail for me.”

  Music was coming from a stereo near a high-backed chair. The rattle of ice in a glass and the radiator at a steady volume alternating between hiss and click drowned out the noise of the door latching, or at least they should have. She had to catch him off balance.

  Three careful paces into the room, Legacy spoke. A deep voice, “Is this boy the one you’re going to marry?”

  “Dad!” Chess screeched. “Are you trying to humiliate me? Those are my friends, they all date.”

  She realized the weakness of her argument and saw her chances slipping away, then her mind landed on a trump card.

  “You can’t keep treating me like a child. If you do I’ll resent you later –”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I read it in a magazine.”

  “I can’t argue with that. I relent.”

  Chess started for the door, victorious, the only thing missing was lip-gloss and she dug into her pocket to make the necessary re-application before greeting her friends with a smile.

  Che
ss was only steps away from the door.

  Legacy thought back to his former training at special ops, and the days when nobody turned their backs on him. He was a black eagle interrogator, the top one percent of the top one percent: meaning he got almost every one of his “clients” to break. Very few of the methods he had used in the past would be appropriate for a fourteen year old girl that he loved so dearly. Still­…

  SQUEEEK. His chair produced a painfully drawn out creak that stopped Chess in her tracks. The message was delivered: it wasn’t over.

  “If you are ready for dating then you’re ready for the talk.”

  Chess willed her feet to bolt out the door, but they stood still. “What talk?” she asked.

  He looked over his glass waiting – Chess circled the comment like it was bait, not willing to commit. Her eyes slid to a sidelong glance.

  “Every girl,” he continued haltingly “who is dating, needs to have a frank conversation with their dad about all of the things that go on between men and women –”

  “You mean?”

  Legacy tilted his head to the side neither confirming nor denying the content of the conversation waiting on her next words.

  “I’m not ready.” She looked unabashedly horrified, defeated, and, totally wigged out. Legacy turned away. She muttered on her way out. “This isn’t over, I’ll be back when I – argh - I may never date.”

  When the door clicked back in place, shutting behind Chess, Legacy’s relief couldn’t be contained, “Good,” he thought.

  He’d bought himself maybe six more months of childhood. He looked at a picture on his desk of Chess in the sixth grade. She had her mother’s smile. He never wanted to lose her. Everything she did warmed his heart to its current temperature, livable.

  At the same time, Chess brought with her a sense of loss that stung him to the core. She was so much like her mother.