Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  Washington beamed at her as they left the office. “That’ll be great, Mrs Donnelly, just great. And I’ll be sure to watch for that feature. Thank you, ma’am.”

  MONDAY 12 JUNE

  Grand Central Station

  Jo gazed around the cafeteria, looking for a likely subject, and saw one sitting alone at a green-painted, glass-topped table. “This seat taken?” she asked.

  The elderly woman smiled. “No. Sit down, honey. Feel free. Busy up here today.”

  “Railroad cafes usually are at this time of day, and especially this one.” Jo surreptitiously inspected the woman while she examined the menu: neatly permed white hair, framing a carefully made-up face, turquoise polyester pants and loose, flower-printed shirt. She tried to sum her up: lonely, probably widowed, not too much money… yes, this would be a likely subject. She closed the menu and asked the waitress for a chicken salad and coffee.

  “Salads are real good here,” the woman told her. “My name’s Lila Vail.”

  She was making it easy by being so friendly. “I’m Jo Donnelly.”

  “You eat here often?” Lila asked.

  “Not really. I live in New York.”

  “Well, so do I, right now. With my sister.” Lila giggled. “Her name’s Talma. But we call her Tootsie. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I would,” Jo agreed. “What location?”

  “One block south of East Houston. Where are you?”

  “Park Avenue, just off 48th.”

  Lila drank her coffee; their respective locations, Jo thought, socially as wide apart as Mayfair would be from Brixton in London, were threatening to end the interview before it began. “Can you remember a summer so hot so early?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure,” Lila said. “Only moved up here from Florida less than a year ago. When my Hughie died. Well, heck, Tootsie’s a widow too. It seemed right for us to get together, and she wouldn’t come down there. She can’t take the heat, right? So I thought I’d give the Big Apple a try for a couple of years. Right?”

  “Right,” Jo agreed again. She wanted to sound interested, but she was disappointed; she had been looking for the opinions of genuine New Yorkers. Still, having started… “Just like that weatherman on NABS. Do you ever watch him?”

  “You mean Richard Connors? When we’re at home, sure. I used to watch him on Miami TV, too.”

  “Of course you would have. He’s an expert on hurricanes, so they say.”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  “Did the thought of experiencing a hurricane ever bother you, in Florida?”

  “No way, my dear. As far as Hughie and I were concerned they were just so much hot air.” She threw back her head and laughed at her own joke.

  Jo tittered politely. “But if you had heard a hurricane warning and been told to evacuate, would you have left your home for a safer area?”

  “Oh, no! Safest place is your own home with shutters over the windows.” The older woman’s tone was condescending. “Might have a few trees down in the yard. Need to pick your washing in, too.” She laughed again.

  Jo ignored that one. “The most serious problem would be the surge of water…”

  “Our house was two miles from the sea. That never bothered us.”

  “But could you be sure it never would? In a really big hurricane the surge would penetrate much farther than that. There is no high ground in South Florida to stop it.”

  “Don’t you worry, my dear. I’ve lived in Florida for years. I know about hurricanes. And I can tell you there’s more crap — if you’ll pardon the expression — more crap talked about them down there than you’d believe possible. In all the years we were there we never had a problem.”

  “But did you have a hurricane?”

  “Of course we did. They have them all the time, in Florida.”

  Jo frowned. “I thought no major hurricane has hit Florida since 1949?”

  “That’s nonsense. Every year we had the warnings, and we put the shutters up and the wind blew and we had thunder and lightning and rain… if that’s not a hurricane, what is? But they never troubled us. But you know what gets people worked up and scared of them? Self-styled experts like that pretty-boy, Connors. Every June, there he was on Miami TV, telling us to prepare, and that at any time there could be this big storm, the storm of the century, he would say, and how it was going to do unimaginable damage… absolute crap. And now they tell me he’s gonna give a series of talks on hurricanes up here? What a waste of time.”

  There must be thousands of people down south who think like this, Jo thought. What a terrible problem for the authorities, if there was a severe storm, like a Category Five, or even a Three or Four, heading straight for all those high-rise condominiums, as Washington had pictured. But it was no use arguing with the old dear, or even getting annoyed because of her criticisms of Richard. She tried another tack. “Do you believe a hurricane could ever hit New York?”

  “New York? You’re putting me on.” Lila drained her coffee cup. Lonely she might be — Tootsie only really came alive when playing bridge — but the sort of chat this girl had to offer was a dead bore. She signaled the waitress for her check.

  “Yes, I must be getting along as well,” Jo agreed. “I found your comments very interesting, Lila. You know, I’m a journalist, and I’d like to write a feature on this subject — what people really think about hurricanes. Would you mind very much if I quote you?”

  Lila beamed, flushing with pleasure. “Mind? I’d be delighted. You let all those people know that Lila Vail thinks all this sensationalism over hurricanes is a load of crap. What paper do you work for?”

  “A magazine called Profiles.”

  “Never heard of it. But I’ll look out for it in the future. Nice meeting you, dear. Now, I must hurry; my train’s due in a few minutes. I’m going down to Philadelphia for a few days to stay with my daughter. ’Bye, dear.”

  “’Bye, Lila.” Poor, deluded old duck. Jo watched her making for the platform, small suitcase clutched firmly in her hand. But could she be right? Then her mind returned to all Richard had told her, and once more the possibility became frighteningly real.

  Park Avenue

  Florence was waiting at the elevator as Jo stepped out. “Just going to get Bert’s vacation jacket from the dry-cleaners and I’ll pick up the children from school on the way back. Be about half an hour.”

  “Are you going to Coney Island again this year?” It amazed Jo that so many New Yorkers spent their vacations on that unattractive strip to the south of the Narrows, so close to home.

  “Same as ever. Sometimes we talk about a change, but we always end up there. We like to get ourselves a good tan on the beach, once a year.” Stepping into the car she held the door open as she added, “A gentleman called. I said I thought you’d be home by four, and he said he’d call back. Didn’t leave a name.”

  “Thanks, Florence,” Jo said. “Can’t think who that could be.” Which was a lie. As it couldn’t be Ed — who would certainly have left his name and instructions for her to call him — it could just be Richard. She didn’t know if she wanted that or not. She knew she should congratulate him on being given the extra screen time, but she hadn’t as yet, because she felt guilty every time she thought of him, and remembered her mood after that silly row with Michael. How long ago that seemed… and it was only a couple of weeks.

  Her remote keyboard chattered away, in her office as she knocked the interview with Lila Vail into shape, but her eyes drifted repeatedly to the phone, willing it to buzz — it was 4.15.

  When it did, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She flicked the switch and Richard’s voice filled the room. “Hi there. Have you heard the good news?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Terrific. And I’ve started on my interviews with the ‘man in the street’. Got some useful reactions, too.”

  “Great. I’d love to hear them.”

  “I’m bashing them out now. I’ll send you copies.”

  “I rather tho
ught we might have a meeting,” he said. “My first chat is on Friday, and maybe I could work in some of the comments you’ve accumulated.”

  Jo waited.

  “We could get together for lunch,” Richard suggested.

  Jo stared at the phone. It was a totally sensible idea. They were sharing a project, and pooling ideas was obvious. So why did she again feel guilty? That was absurd in an adult career woman. “Why not?” she asked.

  “Well, what about tomorrow?”

  “No. I can’t make tomorrow. I could manage Thursday.”

  “Okay. Thursday would be great. Will you come along here, or shall we meet at that pizza place?”

  “I think the pizza place. About 12.30?”

  “I’ll be there.” There was a moment’s silence, as if he had considered saying something more, then he said, “See you.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, discovering herself to be slightly breathless.

  “Mommy, Mommy, I have a stomach ache.” Owen Michael stood in the doorway, his face a mask of misery.

  “Darling! I didn’t hear you come in. Just a moment. Yes,” she said, “Thursday at 12.30, Mr Connors. Goodbye.”

  There was a moment’s pause before Richard said, “Goodbye.” The phone went dead, and Jo turned to face a worried Florence.

  “It’s a fact Owen Michael ain’t too good,” she said. “Says he has a bellyache. That’s the third time this month. I guess he don’t like my cooking.”

  Jo put her arm round her son’s shoulders. “Where is the pain, sweetheart? Tell me.”

  “All over, in no particular place.”

  Jo could see this was no imaginary tummy ache; the boy’s eyes swam with tears which his ten-year-old pride was fighting to hold back. “Is it the same pain as the other day?”

  His chin bobbed up and down as he nodded.

  “Then I’m going to take you along to see Dr Knapps right now. Maybe he can tell us the problem and give you something to fix it.”

  The Mercy Clinic, Avenue of the Americas

  “Dr Knapps is on vacation, Mrs Donnelly, but Dr Glenville can see your son.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Jo responded. “Just as long as he can tell me what’s wrong.”

  They sat in the waiting room thumbing through dated journals for over half an hour, and inevitably, by the time they were called into the consulting room, Owen Michael’s pain was gone.

  Dr Glenville was one of the several partners who owned and operated the clinic, and with Dr Knapps he shared the pediatric section. He was a charming, elderly man, who smiled benevolently, though failing completely to conceal his tolerant skepticism. Owen Michael lay on the examination couch while the doctor pressed his abdomen and asked questions, then when he was satisfied, Dr Glenville said, “Hm. Let’s see. Your school year finishes in a couple of weeks, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir.” Owen Michael nodded politely.

  “So you’re about to begin your exams.”

  “On Monday, sir.”

  “Hoping for good grades, I guess?”

  Owen Michael grinned. “I hope so, sir.”

  “He’s starting High School in September,” Jo explained.

  “So you’ve been working extra hard. Exams can be tough, can’t they?” Owen Michael nodded vigorously.

  “Find any subject very difficult? How’s your math?”

  “Math is no problem. English grammar and literature are the worst.” Dr Glenville smiled, and nodded. “Not too difficult to diagnose a nervy young stomach at this time of year, is it?”

  “Well…” Jo hesitated. “He really was in pain, doctor. I know he was.”

  “Of course he was, Mrs Donnelly. Psychosomatic pain can be just as unbearable as the real thing. What we have to do is relax those stomach muscles. I’ll give you a prescription…” He sat at his desk and scrawled something indecipherable on a pad. “This’ll settle him down.”

  WEDNESDAY 14 JUNE

  52nd Street

  The two filing clerks Jo spoke to in the main Profiles office had never heard of Richard Connors, neither were they the slightest bit interested in hurricanes. Nor was the man on the newsstand from whom she usually bought a paper on the way to work. But when next morning Jo asked Nancy Duval, who was shaping her hair with expert snips of her scissors, the hairdresser gave a tremendous response.

  “I was in the Bahamas once,” Nancy said, “when there was a warning. God, I was scared.” The blonde curls bobbed up and down as the girl gesticulated at Jo in the mirror. “Took Bill hours, and three vodka Martinis, to calm me down. Gee, if one of those things ever hit New York…”

  “It’s highly improbable, of course,” Jo said, beginning to worry about the proximity of the scissors to her ears. “It would have to be the result of freak weather conditions. You know, an exceptionally hot, dry spring, raising the water temperatures way above normal, and…” She paused, to stare into the mirror, and watch the sweat beads gathering at Nancy’s mouth and temples, despite the air-conditioning in the salon.

  “Like this one now,” Nancy suggested.

  “There have been hot springs before,” Jo pointed out. “The chances must be a thousand to one against anything like that happening.”

  “I was always a sucker for long odds. My father gambled away a fortune on horses, always going for short odds, but you’d be amazed by the number of times I raked in the cash from outsiders. Thousand to one against it may be, but it still gives me the creeps to think about it.”

  The conversation was certainly slowing down the trimming job, but it was good for business, and Jo asked, “Do I guess right that, if there was a hurricane warning for New York, you’d leave?”

  “Leave? You can bet your goddamn ass I’d leave. I’d be leading them all the way out of town, ’cept I reckon no one would see my heels for dust.”

  “Bill might not want to go,” Jo suggested.

  “Correct. Bill will not want to move — but he will, even if I have to drag him away by the hair.”

  “And your three children…”

  “Yep. I’d throw them all in the car, lock the doors, and drive like crazy. There.” She stepped back. “That looks better.”

  Jo looked at the results in the mirror. She could have sworn the left side was shorter than the right, but she had been here long enough as it was. “Yes, that looks great. Thanks a million.”

  “Say, you vacation in the Bahamas, don’t you?” Nancy inquired. “You ever seen a hurricane?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jo replied, deciding against supporting Big Mike’s upgrading of their storm of three years earlier.

  New York City Library

  Jo’s Mercedes was in for a service, so she left the salon and walked down to the library; she needed some more youthful reactions. There was the usual assortment of people sitting or lounging on the steps. Most were in groups, but there was one young man, wearing a dirty sweatshirt and shorts, gym shoes and a broad-brimmed western style hat — through the band of which was stuck a hash pipe. He was sitting on the steps and reading a newspaper, and did not look up as she stood behind him. “You’re wasting your time, sister,” he said. “I don’t have ’em.”

  “Have what?” Jo inquired.

  “You ain’t taking a survey on Aids?”

  “As a matter of fact, no,” she said.

  At last he raised his head. He was quite a good-looking boy, early twenties, she estimated, spoiled only by the looseness of his mouth, the laziness in his eyes. “Well, what d’you know,” he said. “What do you know,” he repeated, as he inspected her from her ankles, slowly up the length of her summer skirt, which was inclined to sheerness in the afternoon sun, to her breasts. “Well, if you’re looking for a fuck, I guess we’ll have to use your place.” He grinned. “I ain’t got one.”

  Jo opened her mouth and then closed it again. She wished she had chosen someone else. But his reaction might be interesting. “My name is Josephine Donnelly,” she said. “I work for Profiles Magazine, and I am doing so
me research on hurricanes.”

  The young man leaned back and tilted his hat over his eyes. “Siddown,” he suggested.

  Jo hesitated, then chose a relatively clean piece of step. It was the middle of the afternoon and they were surrounded by at least a thousand people: but she was careful to keep out of arm’s reach.

  “You are something,” he remarked. “I like your feet.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You ever been in a hurricane?”

  “But I like your ass better. You know what I’d like to do to your ass?”

  “No,” she said. “What about the hurricane?”

  “Bit of breeze,” he said.

  “You’ve seen one?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t say I have. You gonna let me feel your tits?”

  “No,” she told him. “What would you do if you were told a hurricane was coming straight for New York?”

  “Nuts,” he declared.

  “It could happen.”

  He sat up again. “You gotta be dumb.”

  “Imagine it,” Jo recommended.

  He gazed at her for several seconds. “I’d stand out there in the rain and say, hallelujah.”

  “You’d be blown away by the wind.”

  “That I’d have to see. Like your tits.” He suddenly reached for her, and she had to leap to her feet. “You scared of men?”

  “I’d like to see that too,” Jo remarked. “You being blown away.” She hurried down the steps.

  She caught a cab; she was too angry to walk, and the heat was intense — the air-conditioning inside the automobile had little effect and she mopped her face with a Kleenex. Her skirt and blouse were damp and crumpled, and the waistband was saturated. Her contentment of the morning — how much had that had to do with the thought of lunching with Richard? — had quite dissipated beneath the insults of that vulgar lout.

  A haze lay over the city, and the avenues were like brick ovens, the high-rise buildings reflecting the heat on to the traffic and pedestrians, the stench of melting tar filling the air. Every few minutes dust and paper swirled up in a flurry of hot air and then subsided on people and cars as suddenly as it had started. A cacophony of motor horns screamed before their drivers’ frustrations and wheels rolled only a few feet before jerking against their brakes.