“It’s these fucking trucks stopping in the middle of the street while they unload that causes this fucking foul-up,” the driver fumed. He rolled down his window and shouted, “What the fucking hell’s the matter with you, you anemic asshole? Can’t you carry those pissy little boxes a few extra yards instead of bringing the whole fucking city to a standstill?”
“You mind your fucking…” the culprit yelled back, but his comments were silenced as the cabbie rolled up his window again.
“Heat’s bad enough without goddamned assholes like him snarling us up. Jesus, lady, did you ever know heat like this in June before?” He mopped his bald pate with a very dirty red and white spotted handkerchief. “Now, if I was a metio… a metori… a weather forecaster, I’d say there was a fucking big storm coming.”
Jo’s head jerked up to look at him, her annoyance dissipating. Here was the perfect man in the street. She flicked her notepad open. “I’ve been told there could well be even a hurricane up here. What do you think?”
“A hurricane? Fucking hell, lady, this is New York, not goddamned Miami.” He revved the engine, moving the cab a few yards before braking again.
“Everyone thinks it’ll never happen to them; even people in Florida and on the Gulf Coast,” Jo said. “But it could. What about Gloria? New York was pretty lucky to escape her.”
“Bullshit! New York was damned unlucky she came so close. Won’t be another that near in a thousand years.”
Jo smiled to herself at his total conviction. “Just supposing there was a hurricane warning broadcast on radio and TV for the New York area, would you get yourself and your family out of the city?”
“Out of the city?” He strained his neck to give her an incredulous look in the rear-view mirror. “What the hell for? You taking me for a dumb bunny, or something?”
She had to laugh, he was so like the dropout, although, for all his bad language, so much the pleasanter personality. “No. I’m a journalist,” she confessed. “And I’m trying to get people’s reactions to the possibility of a hurricane hitting the city, for an article.”
“You want my opinion?” He still sounded incredulous.
“Yes.”
“You can have it in one word: fucking bullshit. Sorry, that’s two words. Both unprintable,” he added, straight-faced.
“Thanks. May I quote you?”
“Sure. If you change the wording a bit. Look…” he took a piece of cardboard from the glove compartment and held it over his shoulder. “Here’s my card. You can use my name, too. Al Muldoon.”
Park Avenue
Michael stood at the cocktail bar with his back to the door, fixing a drink, when she came in. “Hi there,” he said over his shoulder.
Jo frowned. He was home at least an hour early, and suddenly she had bad vibes.
He smiled very sweetly as he handed her a sherry on ice. “Let’s sit down, darling. Boy, has it been hot today!” He set his bourbon and soda beside the chair, sat and stretched out his legs.
“Michael? What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“Don’t play games with me. You have something on your mind. Oh, my God!” She started to her feet. “Where’s Owen Michael?” “In the den.”
“But he’s all right?”
It was Michael’s turn to frown. “Shouldn’t he be?”
Jo sat down again with a sigh of relief. “Just that he had a tummy ache on Monday. He’s been getting them kind of regularly. So I took him along to the clinic. Knapps was away, but Glenville saw him. Said he had a nervous stomach.”
“You never told me any of this,” Michael accused.
“Well, I didn’t want to bother you, unless it was serious. But if it isn’t Owen Michael…”
Michael gave as close to a sheepish grin as he was capable of. “It isn’t Owen Michael. Fact is, my love… I won’t be able to come to Eleuthera with you next month, after all.”
“Why not?”
“Well… I had to call the guys, of course, and tell them I wouldn’t be available for the Bermuda Race, and they were pretty upset.”
“They were, were they?” Jo said.
“I did tell you that we reckon we have a good chance of a trophy this year,” Michael explained. “But only if we have our best team. Sam and Larry flipped at the idea of me not skippering. Quite apart from being short of a crew member…”
“Are you going to tell me they can’t find a volunteer to race in Esmeralda? To Bermuda? Any of those guys up in Newport would jump at the chance.”
“Sweetheart…” He was still speaking very reasonably. “You can’t just take along any beach bum on a race like the Bermuda. Every crew member on that has to be part of a team, used to working together and…”
“No way! Absolutely no way, Michael. You made a solemn promise…”
“And on top of that, Sam says he’d rather not skipper in so important an event. It’s one thing round the cans on Long Island Sound, but out there on the ocean…”
Jo sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. “Well, if they can’t manage without you, they’ll just have to scratch.”
“Jo! It can’t be done. I’ve given them my word…”
“You’ve what?” She jumped up and stood glaring at him. “You’re not serious! So tell me, Michael Donnelly Junior, who do you intend breaking your promise to, your pals, or your wife and children?”
Suddenly he was on his feet too, standing over her, grinding his teeth in fury. “Goddamn it, you silly bitch,” he hissed through his teeth. “I’ve been trying to break it to you gently, trying to explain the predicament I’m in so you’d understand…”
“Understand? Of course I understand! That you’re a lying cheat.”
“Don’t you call me a liar,” he threatened.
“Then you tell me what you are. Did you really and truly intend to drop out of the race this year? Ever? In which case you are an extraordinarily weak-minded character. Or did you just play the yes-man to me to stop me filing for a divorce? Which unquestionably does make you a liar.”
She knew he wanted to hit her, but stood her ground, while the knuckles of his balled fists turned white — as white as the anger in his face.
Then he turned away, picked up his glass, drained it, and returned to the cocktail bar. “You really are the most selfish, self-centered, demanding bitch of a wife any poor sod could ever get landed with,” he remarked, quietly, affecting a calm belied by the rattle of the decanter on the rim of his glass.
“Really?” She sat down again. “Do you base that opinion on the fact that I am asking you to keep your promise to spend some of your non-working hours with your family? And to take a vacation with them, for the first time in eight years? Do you realize Owen Michael and Tamsin cannot remember ever having vacationed with their father? Or do you sincerely believe that a husband and father should be permitted to break any promises to his family without recriminations of any kind? Perhaps I’m still somewhat naïve about marriage relationships in the States. Back in England, that sort of male chauvinism died with Queen Victoria.”
“I guess it’s your training as a journalist which enables you to twist what people say to suit your purpose,” he retorted. “Well, I warn you, it won’t wash with me. I agreed to holiday with you this year, all things being equal. But I can’t let the guys down, and I don’t mean to.” He drained his second drink and slammed the glass down on the counter. “If you can’t understand that, then that’s it. I see no point in trying any more. I’m obviously wasting my time. In future, I’ll just please myself–and the children. This atmosphere you repeatedly create is certainly having a bad effect on them. Nervous tummy? You’re goddamned right Owen Michael has a nervous tummy. Who wouldn’t in his circumstances?” He opened the door. “I’ll be in the study if the children want me; I’ve some phone calls to make.”
Jo realized her mouth was open, and closed it. She was too stunned to think for a moment. Vaguely she wondered if Michael really believed what he’d
said… or if perhaps it was true, and it was all her fault. Either way, it was hard to see how the situation could continue. But the alternative was just as hard to imagine. It had been easy a fortnight ago, in a fit of fury, to say that she was going to Tom Wilson when her head was spinning with physical as well as mental grievances; there had been little time to think of the stark realities of divorce. Now, sitting alone in silence, she tried to visualize the possible outcome. The children having to grow up in two separate homes, each parent at least subconsciously trying to best the other with extravagant presents to them, while the kids themselves, like so many others she knew in such circumstances, learned to play one against the other, becoming rude and aggressive in their demands, knowing that the parent at issue dared not scold or chastise them lest they run to the other for ‘protection’. And what of the Donnellys? Babs and Big Mike, Belle, Marcia and Dale? She had come, over the past eleven years, to regard them as her family, because she liked them all so much. But in a matter of ‘sides’ — as she had reminded herself before — they would have to be loyal to Michael, even if they knew he might be in the wrong! So where did that leave her? Ostracized? By both family and mutual friends, struggling, on a dramatically reduced income, to retain popularity with the children.
Her earlier anger and resentment was replaced by self-recrimination. How the hell had she been stupid enough to marry Michael in the first place? She had known of his drive for kicks from the day she met him. In her innocence she had imagined that would slacken off after marriage, that he would become a real family man like his father. Now she knew better, should she consider giving up her career to do as he asked, and devote her time to being wife and mother? But if she did that, and the relationship continued to deteriorate, she would be left with absolutely nothing. Homeless, friendless, and jobless — that would be ridiculous.
The door burst open and Tamsin ran in with a wail. “Mommy, I can’t understand my math problem, and Owen Michael won’t help me.”
“Let’s see if I can, Baby.” Jo drained her glass and followed the child from the room, grateful for the distraction.
That night Michael reeled into the bedroom as high as a kite, waking Jo from a deep sleep. Having thrown his clothes all over the room, he clambered into bed and immediately fumbled for her breasts. She pushed him away but he came on, grabbing her arm and twisting it painfully.
“What’s the matter, then?” he demanded, his voice thick and slurred. “Have you let that silly quarrel upset you? Come on, girl, forget it.”
“No way. Get out of here and leave me alone. You stink.” The waterbed sloshed alarmingly as she struggled away from his reach until finally she was on the floor, and he was lying diagonally across the bed looking down at her, laughing.
There was no way she could get back into bed without virtually being raped — so she took the only alternative, rushed naked through the door and down the corridor to the spare bedroom, locking it behind her before climbing into one of the single beds. Michael didn’t try to follow her —he was probably already asleep.
Next morning Jo woke late and hurried back to their bedroom to dress. Michael was out cold, snoring, mouth wide-open, disheveled hair over his face. She looked down at him and shuddered.
Key West, Florida
Mark Hammond leaned against the wall of the telephone booth. “Well,” he said. “That was Barbara. She’s fizzling so fast someone could have pulled a plug. I don’t figure it, old buddy. What kind of sea temperature do you have up there?”
“25C,’ Richard told him. “It’s climbing.”
“Well, there isn’t a water temperature under 261/2°C anywhere south of Bermuda. So both Anthony and Barbara spawned, became hurricanes pretty quickly, and now have fizzled again.”
“There’s some jet stream activity,” Richard told him.
“Yeah. But not enough. I just don’t get it. Anyway, I’ll be with you tomorrow, we can talk about it then.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sure. I told you I was coming up for a day or two this month.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Richard said.
“Come again?”
“Looking forward to seeing you,” Richard said. “It’s just that I have a rather important lunch date then.”
“So, I won’t get there until afternoon. See you then. Maybe you’ll have worked out what’s happening. By my book, both those storms should have been biggies.”
“So maybe there’ll be a real biggie this summer,” Richard said. “Give you something to spot. See you.” He was on too much of a high to care about hurricanes right that minute, even if he knew he should. He had encountered JC in the elevator only yesterday afternoon, and the great man had remarked, “Where’s all this hurricane activity you promised us, Richard? Seems the goddamned things can’t get off the ground. Or do I mean the sea? Haw, haw, haw. But it’d make people more interested in these chats of yours if we were to have something to hang them on to. Right?”
The old fool appeared to think he could conjure them out of thin air, Richard thought. But JC’s excesses didn’t really matter; tomorrow he was lunching with Jo Donnelly. So she was a married woman. But then, once upon a time he had been a married man.
JUNE: The Last Two Weeks
THURSDAY 15 JUNE
East 57th Street
Richard Connors replaced the telephone and switched on his television screen: he had the morning off, and Julian was doing the ten o’clock forecast. Julian was coming along well — even if there was nothing to report. There was another tropical storm, just off Martinique, and this one was being named Christopher, but Richard didn’t expect it to do much — it was already small and tight, and yet without hurricane force winds. It was being the damnedest spring, the hottest in New York for some time, and with summer only a few days away — and yet muted hurricane activity. A summer, he realized, which could leave him with egg all over his face, as he had confidently predicted, on the air as well as to his superiors, that there would be several major storms this year.
A summer which could end with him on his way back to Florida!
His ebullience of half an hour ago had faded, as it had a habit of doing when he found himself trapped in the minute apartment which was all he had been able to find. The fact was, he wasn’t a homemaker, at least on his own. He had moved in here a fortnight ago, and boxes of books remained stacked in a corner waiting for him to put up shelves. The place would look less bare when he had hung his pictures, but he didn’t want to do that until he had redecorated the room — he couldn’t live with that hideous shade of orange, and he hadn’t even decided what color would be an improvement. He leaned over and took a can of Budweiser from the box beside him, pulled the ring, and gulped a couple of mouthfuls. The bedroom had been easy to fix; he’d spent most of his time on it, working at odd hours, and felt quite pleased with himself. It had been his first attempt at Do-It-Yourself. He had also got his music center working; it had been difficult to get the speakers in just the right positions in such a small area and he had had to be satisfied with a compromise — but he’d hardly listened to them: good music needed to be shared.
Bedrooms also needed to be shared. When Pam had finally walked off with that over-muscled piece of charred flesh, and they’d agreed to split, he’d been quite keen to sample independence again, have only himself to please, and get away from the constant emotional strain and bickering of a dead marriage. He had visualized himself as the happy bachelor, dating pretty girls when the mood took him, or staying late at the studio if he chose without feeling he was giving Pam an excuse for spending the night out with some pick-up. He had conjured up pictures of cozy evenings alone with his sort of music, his kind of TV program, hamburger in one hand and beer in the other — comfortable and contented. Well, just about every evening since moving in he had had his music, his TV, his beer and his hamburger available — but what the hell had happened to the contentment? He’d pondered over the question long enough to know the answer: he was lonely fo
r a woman. What about the pretty girls? The NABS building was stuffed with them, everyone eyeing him over their typewriters or round their coffee machines, offering him a lay any time. Closer at hand, there was Jayme, just dying to get him between the sheets.
The trouble was that he was too damned choosy, and he was not really into one-night stands. He wanted the same woman there, every night, to talk with, discuss the day. Someone with common sense and intelligence. Companionship was what he was after, even more than sex. A companion to eat with, walk with, go to the theatre or art exhibition with, and still be a pleasure to sleep with. He had met only one woman since coming to New York who could fill that bill. A married woman with children. To get her, he would have to play his image to the hilt. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that, with Josephine Donnelly. But at least they were lunching together. He could feel his way.
They ordered pizzas, salad and Frascati again, as if they were both consciously trying to recreate the rapport of their first meal here. It was too hot for the English two-piece she had been wearing on the previous occasion, but Richard loved her in the crisp pale turquoise cotton dress, with its full skirt. Loved her? That was ridiculous; he hardly knew her.
“…interviews. When school finishes for the summer…” He let her chat on, hardly listening, just watching her. She seemed more brittle than the last time they’d met — tired, perhaps.
A word sank in. “Vacationing in Eleuthera? That’ll be fun.”
“It is,” she agreed. “All the family will be there… well, nearly all.” A shadow had passed over her face.
“But your kids will be there with you,” he prompted. “You never did tell me their names.”
“Owen Michael and Tamsin.”
“Cute. How old are they?”
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