O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [113]
Damned ribs were really sore! “The beautiful ingathering of Kerrs for Thanksgiving, Amanda’s steadfastness, and my cleansing sail to Immigrant Reef have carried us, one and all, past a new threshold. No . . . no, please let me finish. After the incredible downwind run, I had the chance to talk something over with my brothers.”
“It is so nice that you’re talking things over with them,” Daisy said.
“Lochinvar! What did the poet write? ‘Set every threadbare sail, give her to the god of storms, the lightning and the gale, etc.’ We learned that although the Butterfly came up short, it did tell us that some kind of split-winged keel will work. I mean to challenge for the right to defend America’s Cup!”
“Dear God!” Daisy cried.
“Challenge every goddamned yachtsman in the goddamned New York Yacht Club—”
“But Horace,” Daisy interrupted, “all the Lochinvars were built in Scotland, and the rules committee disallows foreign-built boats for the trials.”
Amanda had reached the end of her father’s speech long before he delivered it. He thumped out his words as though he were Patrick Henry in the Virginia House of Burgesses.
“We shall launch a new series of racing yachts, built in America and carrying the name Amanda K. And let me tell you, the Constable yard is as good as any with this type hull.”
Daisy grasped at whatever there was to grasp at. Amanda walked to the French doors, closed them, and locked them.
“The Kerr family over Thanksgiving,” she said, “were very nice people, members of an astonishingly successful family, here and in Scotland.”
“And our name will be carved on the cup!”
“Father, you are babbling.”
“Don’t you speak to your father that way.”
“Hardly babbling. Daisy, I think our daughter is overcome by the moment.”
“I am not worthy of the honor,” Amanda said.
Horace laughed. “Hell, daughter! You were the Kerr from the moment you were born.”
“Father, there is no kingdom of Kerr except in your frightening mind.”
“Do not dare to speak to your father in this manner, particularly in his present condition,” Daisy declared.
“You’ve been pounding me all my life, and all my life I’ve known the reason. The truth, Father?”
“This is no time for truth,” Daisy said, throwing her hands in the air.
“The truth is that you have blown me up out of all human dimension for the simple reason that I’m your lone surviving child, the only one left you feel is worthy to ensure your immortality!”
Horace Kerr gasped and flung his head back as wave after wave of shock ripped through him. The room seemed now a shallow empty box with high white walls and white ceiling and white floor and two fuzzy white fixtures before him.
Then.
Amazing how rapidly Horace Kerr recovered! No one caught him in a tactical surprise, no admiral, no labor union, no president. He mulled until the shock went along its way, then pointed to his humidor and wordlessly ordered Daisy to prepare him a cigar. He sucked in, grunted, and blew the smoke directly into Amanda’s face.
Daisy watched her daughter, unflinching. As for Horace, she had witnessed him at one time or another operate on every level of rage and intimidation. Dear Lord, she thought, he is entirely too calm.
Horace groaned as he stretched his hurting limbs and reorga-nized his mind into an art form of cold taunting cynicism.
“A little port, I think,” he said to Daisy. “Mmm, good stuff. Is there something you wish to tell me, Amanda? An abdication speech?”
“I haven’t sent Zachary off. He has a one-month furlough at the beginning of the new year. I am leaving Tobermory today to wait for him.”
“That’s marvelous!” Daisy cried.
“Go to your room, Daisy,” he commanded softly.
“No!” she answered.
Horace thought it out deliberately, poured another large jigger of port, and whacked it down. “I am hearing screechy sirens from hell, screaming Valkyries. So, we have a full-scale rebellion.” He laid down his next words, detached, with precision. “Glen know about this?”
“Yes.”
“No matter. You’ll be far too soiled for him or anyone of a proper family. Dirty pants. Do you think you can survive a fishwife