Chapter 31
Corey signed up for every airline and scoured their websites for cheap flights, while Kyle acquainted himself with the weekend rhythms of the I-95 corridor, learning the optimal times to depart, when to skirt certain metropolitan areas, and the perfect rest stops to break up his drives. His commitment to driving annoyed her—he never called it a fear of flying—since it was such a colossal waste of time. God forbid if she ever did get some money in her pocket and wanted to take a trip with him somewhere. Would she have to fire tranquilizer darts into his neck? Still, in the grand scheme of things, it was a minor hindrance, and as she couldn’t even afford the cheap flights she had subscribed to, that left the bulk of the travel to him, so she kept her mouth shut during their calendar synchronizing sessions.
She pitched a set of dates in October that he shot down.
“I promised Kirby I’d take her to New York Comic Con that weekend.”
Corey had heard plenty about Kyle’s fifteen-year old daughter. Kirby’s passion was comic books, and she was a budding illustrator, always drawing and painting. When Kyle wasn’t with Corey or on the road for Paratus Risk Solutions, he was taking her to comic book conventions all over New England. She was brave enough to bring her portfolio along, Kyle confided, but not brave enough to actually show it to a professional. He was always the one to accompany her, because he didn’t push and was content to walk behind her as she paced up and down the aisles, never quite working up the nerve.
“Max would just march over to one of the artist’s tables and demand they look at her work,” Kyle told her, “so I’m the plus one.” It the closest thing to a negative comment she had ever heard Kyle make about his ex-wife, Maxine.
Before Corey could stop herself, she blurted, “Maybe I could tag along.”
An awkward silence hung over the line. She instantly regretted suggesting it.
“I’m sorry,” she backpedalled. “That’s father-daughter time…”
“No! I’m just surprised, is all. It would be perfect actually.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s neutral ground.”
“Like churches in Highlander?”
“See?” said Kyle. “You’ll fit right in.”
“Does she even know about me?”
“I’ve let slip that I’m dating.”
“Oh, we’re ‘dating?’”
“I’m just giving her a long glide path to get accustomed to the idea.”
“This is going to ambush her.”
“I’ll bring her fully up to speed before then.”
“She’s going to hate me.”
“Why would she hate you?”
“Because I’m not…I don’t know. Shit, now I’m nervous. I can be nervous, okay?”
“My ex-wife remarried and I’ve been single forever. My daughter is nothing if not fair.”
“Reasonable, teenagers are not. I don’t recall walking around in a blindfold and carrying the scales of justice at that age.”
“Give her a chance.”
“I fully intend to give her a chance. It’s her giving me a chance I’m worried about.”
So it was with a mix of anticipation at seeing Kyle and dread at meeting his daughter that Corey found herself on the train heading back to New York City. She rode the escalators up from Penn Station to the West 33rd Street, and as wired as she was, decided to walk rather than inching in a taxi to the Javits Center. Navigating around the passersby on the street, overnight bag slung over her shoulder, she felt a new flavor of self-consciousness, quite apart from her usual who-in-this-crowd-is looking-at-me minor celebrity woes.
I shouldn’t even be here. This is a terrible mistake. I’m ambushing this poor girl. She’s going to hate me. Then we’re all going to spend the night crammed into a hotel suite together. And I won’t have any alone time with Kyle anyway. This is a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t even be here…
The entrances to the Javits were choked with cosplayers. There were plenty of ubiquitous costumes she recognized—Deadpools and Harley Quinns—and some she didn’t recognize at all. There were people with incredibly elaborate outfits, massive wingspans, fake weaponry of impossible size—rifles and swords as large as the person carrying them—and a universe of creatures. Elves, orcs, angels, demons, monsters, and robots. And the hybrids and mash-ups were infinite: Game of Thrones characters dressed as characters from The Office, someone in Iron Man armor but sporting Captain America’s colors, an entire ensemble of people dressed as medieval versions of the Justice League. A sea of little girls dressed as Wonder Woman, a sea of boys dressed as Spider-Man. A pink Darth Vader. She recognized plenty of characters from video games—twenty years on touring buses gave her a passing familiarity with gaming—but there were tons of characters that she’d never seen before. And there were sexy versions of everything—women dressed in skin tight leotards. Sexy superheroes. Sexy Mario Brothers. Sexy Disney princesses. The convention center was a congregation of peacocks, meeting in real life for a dizzying, dazzling display of fandom. She couldn’t help but smile. This was Woodstock for nerds. Better yet, it was Lollapalooza or Lilith Fair. An annual gathering in real life where fans could dress up in their favorite freak flag and then fly.
This, she could appreciate.
The best part: no one gave a shit about a forty-one year old woman dressed in boots, jeans, and a leather jacket.
She knew comic conventions were big business, drawing tens of thousands of people, and in the case of the biggest cons, hundreds of thousands to a venue. There were massive booths for video game companies, TV networks, movie studios, and toy manufacturers. It didn’t matter anymore if you weren’t even tangentially aligned with geek culture—you promoted at a con if you could. Yet cons had started in the 1960’s and 1970’s by middle-aged men in rundown hotel ballrooms, signing autographs for the first and second generations of comic books fans. Even though comic book conventions distanced themselves more and more each year from their pen and ink, four-color roots, every con still had an Artist’s Alley. It may have been off to the side, or stuck in the basement, or in an alcove as far away as possible from the main convention hall, but there was always a place where comic artists and writers rented booths to sketch, meet their fans, and sell their wares. She followed the signs toward it.
As soon as she entered Artist’s Alley, her lip curled up in an appreciative sneer. It reminded her of stapling zines by hand. Of posting DIY flyers to telephone poles. Of playing small rock clubs, not arenas. She felt at home.
This was the punk rock of the con.
And this was where she had agreed to meet Kyle and his daughter.
She pulled out her phone and texted him.
Where are you?
Artist’s Alley.
Just walked in.
Be right there!
She tried to look cool and nonchalant, but realized that craning her neck and scanning past the elaborately dressed cosplayers was decidedly uncool. Then, there was a break in the sea of fans and there he was. Her face broke into a wide smile and she thrust up her hand and waved, then instantly pulled it back down again. She wanted to rush him, throw her arms around his neck, and kiss him right there on the floor, but beside him shuffled a fifteen year old girl who wore a tee shirt that read CAPTAIN BITCH. Kirby’s face looked equal parts thrilled and mortified. She was tall and thin with long, straight hair, and carried a portfolio under arm.
Kyle strode right for Corey and swept her into a big, seemingly chaste hug, but kissed her neck outside of his daughter’s view. As he did so, she looked up at the large fluorescent lights for a moment. She closed her eyes and her lips parted in a smile.
Then it was back down to earth, back down to business.
“Kirby,” said Kyle, “this is my friend Corey.”
Kirby smirked and looked down at her feet. “Friend?”
“Well,” he said, chuckling and rubbing the back of his neck, “you know…”
Corey decided to take the teenaged bull by the horns. She stepped forward and thrust out her hand. “Hi, Kirby. I’m Corey Lyondell. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Um, I’ve read a lot about you.”
“Don’t believe a word of it. Unless it’s good. Then it’s the gospel.”
Kirby looked up and caught Corey’s eye, and her tentative grin turned into a goofy smile, then just as quickly it was overcome by a reddening in her cheeks, and she looked down at her shoes again.
“So,” said Corey, trying to sound chipper, “what have you guys been up to?”
“Wearing holes in the carpet,” said Kyle.
“Dad.”
“What?” To Corey, he said, “We’re marching up and down the aisles, but we’re still working up the nerve to show some of these artists Kirby’s work.”
“Dude!” said Corey. She smacked his arm. “You can’t push a creator until they’re ready! We get shy too, you know.”
“You?” said Kirby. “You’re, like, a literal rock star…”
“I’m a rock star when I work myself up to it. The rest of the time, I’m a terrified, neurotic mess who fiercely guards her privacy while simultaneously wondering if anyone even gives a shit what I have to say. Basically, I swing between monstrous ego and bottomless insecurity.”
“I’d settle for quiet confidence,” said Kirby.
“Wouldn’t we all, kid,” said Corey. “Here,” she said, beckoning to the portfolio, “let’s have it.”
She looked at her father and seemed to clench it beneath her arm even tighter. In that moment, Corey knew her. Corey had been her once. Burning with passion, but terrified to express it. She’d clutched her first guitar that same way.
She just needed a little push, and who better?
“Come on, I’m not going to run off with it. And I’m not going to embarrass you like your lame ass father.”
“You realize I can hear you, right?” said Kyle.
Kirby handed it over, squirming on the spot and looking for the exits.
Corey opened the portfolio and was stunned. She had expected decent line work, drawings of superheroes reminiscent of her namesake, Jack “King” Kirby, the all-father of comics illustration. Or something in the style of anime, a favorite of young women. She had not expected watercolors. There were lush, evocative female figures and lithe men in dreamlike settings.
“This is like some David Mack or Alex Maleev-level shit.”
“You know who they are?” gaped Kirby.
“You know who they are?” echoed Kyle.
“I get around. Look, you need to come with me right now.” When Kyle moved to follow, Corey put her hand on his chest. “And you need to hang back.”
Suddenly, Kirby no longer looked seasick on the deck of a swaying ship. She beamed. Buoyant, eager.
“What is happening?” said Kyle.
“You’re going to let me steal your daughter for a while, and you’re going to be anywhere else.” She put her arm around Kirby, who now looked dangerously happy. “Cool, Kirby?”
“Cool,” said Kirby.
“Ciao, Dad,” said Corey with a wink, then steered Kirby away.
“Ciao, Dad,” said Kirby, looking back over her shoulder.
“Ciao?” said Kyle.