Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  “Dolphin Point,” she shouted. “Mr and Mrs Donnelly. You know Mr and Mrs Donnelly.”

  “Ah guess ah do,” the girl said. “They was in here yesserday, lookin’ for messages.”

  “Well, I have a message for them,” Jo said.

  “But they ain’ heah today,” the girl pointed out, patiently. “They don’ come in every day.”

  “I know that,” Jo said, with equal patience. “But Josh Albain lives just round the corner from the post office. Will you give him the message, and he can take it out to the house.”

  “Well, ah will, if ah sees him.”

  “You’ll see him,” Jo said with determined optimism. “Will you ask him to tell Mr Donnelly that all is well, and that we will be down next Monday.”

  “Next Monday,” the girl said. “Who’s callin’?”

  “Just say Jo.”

  “Jo? You a boy?”

  “No,” Jo said. “I’m a woman.”

  “I di’n’ think you sounded like a boy,” the girl agreed.

  “I’m Josephine Donnelly. You must remember me. For God’s sake I’ve been in your office often enough.”

  “Well, hi, Mis’ Donnelly. Why you di’n say so right off? Sure I goin’ give Josh the message. Sure.”

  “Thank you,” Jo said, and hung up. She felt exhausted.

  But she called Marcia. Marcia had been in touch throughout the weekend, asking if there was anything she could do to help; Jo hadn’t taken her up because she just wanted to be alone. But she had to tell her the good news.

  “Oh, sweetie, that is just marvelous,” Marcia trilled. “I am so happy. Can I go visit the boy?”

  “He’d love it.”

  “I’ll do that. And listen, you going to have a meal with Benny and me?”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “How about tonight? We can have it here. We’re winning, slowly. We actually have one room finished.”

  “Ah… May I give it a day or two more, Marcia? I’m very tired.”

  “Sure, sweetie, sure. You just give me a call when you’re in the mood.”

  Jo replaced the phone, and stood by the lounge window looking down at the Manhattan traffic. The brief spurt of almost manic happiness and energy had departed as suddenly as it had come. Now she felt somehow disoriented from all the busy life down there; her whole body felt limp. She knew she was still exhausted by fear and emotional trauma and by her anger and bitter resentment at Michael’s attitude. He had telephoned on Saturday to ask how the surgery had gone, and had pointed out that, as all was well, she had been behaving hysterically. Then he had presumably gone to sea with his boat; according to the newspapers the race had started on time on Sunday. He was having the time of his life while his only son was fighting the biggest battle of his life, so far.

  What a swine! How could she have married him? More important, how could she stay married to him? She slumped into the soft white cushions of the settee and lay back — numbed. Jumbled thoughts flashed to mind, then vanished. She could hear herself assuring Babs and Big Mike that she wouldn’t consider divorce — but it didn’t seem possible not to.

  To divorce, apart from the children, would mean Richard. What about Richard? They were lovers, but he had never mentioned marriage. For her to mention the word divorce might send him running a mile. So that would prove him to be a cad. She didn’t want to have to take the risk of finding that out. In her present situation he was the only rock to which she could cling. If he wasn’t already off her — she had promised to call him as soon as she felt up to it… and that had been Friday night. But she still didn’t feel up to it.

  She had hardly eaten for three days. Now she opened a can of soup and had an apple, which made her feel slightly better. Then it was time to return to the hospital where Owen Michael was sitting up watching TV, and, apart from his pallor, looking almost normal again. She almost wanted to cry again with relief.

  That evening she curled on Nana’s beanbag, half watching whatever appeared on the screen, dozing off periodically, relieved by Owen Michael’s progress but increasingly disturbed by thoughts of the horrendous complications involved in the breakdown of her marriage. It would be bad enough going through a divorce if one didn’t have children, but what the split would do to Owen Michael and Tamsin she dreaded to think. And for all that Babs and Big Mike had seemed very upset by Michael going on with the race regardless of Owen Michael’s illness, she still doubted if they’d ever forgive her if she broke her word.

  The phone buzzed insistently, above the noise of a big shoot-out on TV.

  It was Richard. “Mrs Donnelly?” he asked, formally.

  “Oh, hi.” Immediately her spirits lifted.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sweetheart! How have you been? I’ve been half out of my mind with worry. I know I’m chancing my arm, but I just had to call. How’s the boy?”

  She told him about Owen Michael’s recovery, and how she really had not felt up to doing anything over the weekend but visiting him. Deliberately she never mentioned a word about Michael, but when she had finished he said, “Hold on a minute. Where does your husband figure in all this? Don’t tell me he’s gone out and left you alone?”

  “Gone out!” she exclaimed. “Oh, he’s gone out, all right. Right out into the Atlantic. I told you he was leaving on Friday.”

  Richard paused, before slowly responding. “Out into the Atlantic? You mean on his yacht? But couldn’t you get a message to him through one of the port radio stations?”

  “I got a message to him before he ever left Newport.”

  “And he went anyhow?”

  The incredulous note in his voice made tears sting her eyes. “Of course,” she said huskily. “He’s racing, you see. Nothing else matters.”

  “Not even his son’s life? Didn’t he know how serious the situation was?” he persisted.

  “I told him. Before he left Newport.”

  Richard heard the sob in her voice. “Would you like me to come over?”

  To her apartment. Washington was off duty, but the other porter, Edwardes, would be there, and would record the visit, as he was required to do. But what did it matter?

  “Yes. Yes, please.”

  At another time, in a different mood, she would have been aware that a decision had been taken, that from here on this was her man and she would belong to him, body and soul. Now she only knew she urgently needed all the love, sympathy and understanding he had to offer. She needed his strength and gentleness, and his love.

  The bedroom mirror reflected a drab, defeated creature — a refugee from a terrible disaster. And wasn’t she just that? Hadn’t the life she had been building, striving to achieve, for the past twelve years — ever since agreeing to marry Michael — just been swept out from under her feet? It was all gone — finished. And now?

  Jo stripped off her T-shirt and headed for the bathroom. A cold wash would help her to pull herself together. Then she could start picking up the pieces… and begin all over again. Water dripped from her chin over the vanity basin as she reached for a towel — and the lobby phone buzzed. She just had time to slip into a clean shirt and brush her hair before opening the door.

  It was almost like welcoming a true husband home from the office. She nestled gratefully into Richard’s arms and allowed a glorious peace and comfort to envelop her. It was like arriving at safety after a tortuous and dangerous journey — finding the place where one belonged. In the lounge Richard sat on the settee and asked what she would drink. He explored the cocktail bar, filled two glasses, and returned to sit beside her, watched her sip her drink, saw the worry and pain which had lined her face in the few days since he had last seen her — and it hurt him. He longed to take her away from this magnificent apartment, full of hellish protection, blot out all her unhappy past — and his own. Then a thought occurred to him. “What have you eaten today?”

  “I had some soup, and an apple,” she said guiltily, waiti
ng for his reproach.

  It didn’t come. Instead he got up and said, “Put on a lively tape while I fix some food,” and she heard him opening and shutting doors as he searched through the kitchen.

  From the icebox and fridge he produced melon and prawn cocktail, and a huge Spanish omelet filled with chopped ham, sweet peppers, onions and herbs, together with a salad.

  An open bottle of Californian white filled two glasses each, enough to lift Jo’s spirits, when Richard said, “Let’s drink to Owen Michael, who has, I think, unwittingly provided the key to some big decisions. Thank God he’s mending quickly. And now, a toast to us, and our future — together!”

  Jo gulped and choked. “Together? Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit?”

  “Well, I hope not. It’s what we both want, isn’t it?”

  She gazed at him, and nodded, the background scherzo gradually absorbing the pace of her response.

  “Great. Then that’s settled. It’s Jo and Richard — Richard and Jo from here on in. That’s the important decision. The how, where and when are comparatively minor details, to be sorted out later, when your husband comes back from his race.”

  “Yes, Richard,” she agreed meekly, but a sparkle had crept back into her eyes, and her breathing had quickened as the joy and confidence of this man swept away the last lingering clouds of uncertainty. Because he would solve all the problems; she had to believe that. “That was delicious. You’re a marvelous cook.” Jo sat back, smiling across the empty plates.

  “Only with simple things. Nothing exotic. Now…” He stood and collected the dishes. “Yogurt, followed by coffee.”

  “Great. Here, let me…”

  “Sit down, woman. Your turn will come, but not today.” But she did get up later to pour brandies to sip with their coffees.

  They changed tapes while clearing the kitchen together, stood watching rows of head and tail lights lining the streets below, in opposite directions, and when the current tape finished Jo looked at her watch and said, “Time for bed,” gazing at him for a moment before adding, “Coming?”

  She instinctively led him to the spare bedroom, neither of them would be happy in Michael’s bed. But this was the night for which she had been waiting, and longing, for more than a month.

  “Do you know,” Richard said, “how many times I have dreamed of just this moment?”

  “This moment?” Jo asked, resting her head on his shoulder. They had climaxed virtually together, for the first time, and she was aware only of contentment.

  “Yes. I’ll tell you a secret: there have been dozens of women I have thought about, that I’d like to have in bed with me. But only one or two I’ve really wanted to spend the night with.”

  “One or two,” she remarked, jokingly.

  “Only one, now.” He looked down at her. “Will you marry me?”

  “Oh, God, if I can, Richard. If I can. If…”

  “I know.” He held her close, and then suddenly the tenderness was replaced by tension.

  “What’s the matter?” She raised her head.

  “It’s just past midnight. There’s a system I should get an update on.”

  Oh, God, she thought; not a workaholic. “I thought you were off for the evening.”

  “I am. But I told Julian, that’s my assistant, that I’d keep in touch before going to bed. I mean, to sleep,” he grinned. “It’s that big thing just west of the Cape Verdes. You remember.”

  “I remember,” she said. “What’s it doing now?”

  “Moving west. Slowly. But it was showing signs of tightening. I know Mark was worried about it when last he called. He was out there today again, and promised to let me have an update.”

  “So you want to go off and look at a map.”

  “I don’t particularly want to, but Julian is expecting me, and won’t stop tracking until I get there. I could come back,” he suggested tentatively. “I’m expecting you’ll do that,” she said. “But just to make sure you do, I’ll come with you and take a look at this map too.”

  TUESDAY 18 JULY

  National American Broadcasting Service Offices, Fifth Avenue

  The studio was quiet. The late-night news programs were finished, and now there was only a midnight chat show going out, to be followed by two old movies. Richard took Jo into the weather room, where Julian was sifting through various charts. “Well, hey, Richard,” he remarked. “What kept you?”

  “I was dining out,” Richard told him. “You remember Josephine Donnelly, from Profiles?”

  “Hi, Jo,” Julian said. “Don’t tell me, you want to look at that system.” He laid an enlarged photograph on the desk. “I’ll tell you, it is a system.”

  Richard studied the print, and Jo looked round his arm. She could make out the coast of Africa, and the offshore islands; they had been inked in. Stretching from immediately west of the Cape Verdes — which were now clear of cloud — a considerable distance out into the Atlantic was a white mass, very like the whipped cream on the photograph of hurricane Anita in Richard’s office, with just the traces of a circulatory movement.

  “Your friend Mark Hammond called,” Julian said. “He just got back from having a closer look. Flew right into it, and couldn’t find any clearly defined eye as yet, but he says it’s tightening all the time.”

  “Course?” Richard asked.

  “Oh, just north of west, and moving real slow. Not more than ten knots. Mark says it still hasn’t got winds of more than forty knots round the center. But as I said, he reckons it’s going to improve on that.”

  “It’s enormous,” Jo whispered. She was realizing that if Anita had seemed to cover the entire Gulf of Mexico, this system lay across a good half of the Atlantic Ocean.

  “It’s the biggest I have ever seen,” Richard agreed. “Where’s the jet stream?”

  Julian pulled out the latest weather chart, and pointed. “Moving north all the time.”

  “Christ almighty!” Richard commented.

  “Is that really so important?” Jo asked.

  “Yes,” he told her. “The jet stream is one of those rivers of air I was talking about. It’s the only one we can really identify, as a matter of fact. It’s very big, very high, and very fast; you really are talking about phenomenal speeds up there, two hundred miles an hour plus. Usually it has only a marginal effect on surface weather; obviously, when it’s blowing from the Arctic towards the south you get cold upper altitude winds and a general drop in temperature, and vice versa. It’s also very important to high altitude flying, either for or against — it can make quite a difference in time between here and London, for instance, depending on whether a pilot can use it or has to buck it. But it is also useful for dispersing hurricanes.

  “You remember I told you, when hot air rises very fast and very high you have a hurricane. Now obviously, the higher that wind can get into the atmosphere, without dissipating, the stronger the circulation around the center of the depression is going to be. The jet stream plays an important part in this. In fact, I am pretty sure it’s been responsible for the fact that not one of those five storms we’ve had so far this year have developed. It’s been unusually far south, you see, and coming out of the central Pacific, too. So those storms each started their upward spiral, and when they got above 110,000 feet, the jet stream blew them apart, and they collapsed. But if it’s now moving north, this system could be left to develop as much as it wants. And it has the time.” He looked at the map again, and then at the satellite photograph. “Ten knots, you say, Julian? Working on where the center should be now, that means five days to Puerto Rico, on that course. Five days over some of the warmest water we’ve had for ages.”

  “So you reckon this could be the big one,” Jo said.

  He shrugged. “After what’s happened so far this year, your guess is as good as mine. But it is one hell of a big system. If that circulation does increase… we could have a problem.”

  “Your ultimate storm?”

  He grinned. “Any
system could become my ultimate storm, if all the conditions were right.”

  “And you’ve just said they could be right, now.”

  “Well… yes. But they’ve seemed to be right before, and we haven’t had that big one. The odds are against it happening this time.”

  “If it does become a storm,” she asked, “what might it be called?”

  “All the names are selected before the hurricane season even begins.”

  Julian looked at the list pinned up over his desk. “As it will be number six for this year, it’ll be a she, and her name will be Faith. Now, how can a system with a name like Faith cause any damage?”

  “Let’s all have faith that you’re right,” Richard quipped, and held Jo’s hand as he escorted her out of the office.

  FRIDAY 21 JULY

  Over the Atlantic

  The aircraft bucked and dropped, soared again and dropped again. The cloud seemed to be clinging to the windows, resting on the wings, threatening to force them down. Sweat stood out on Mark’s face as his hands gripped tight on the yoke, and Landry was equally tense. Only Eisener, his mind totally caught up in his job, was relaxed, staring ahead of them.

  “There it is,” he said.

  The clouds parted as if a magician had waved his wand, and they were under blue skies. However often Mark had flown into the eye of a tropical storm, he never failed to marvel at this moment, when he could look up and up and up at the heavens, and then, on either side, at the solid wall of cloud surrounding him.

  Eisener was looking down. “Big stuff,” he commented.

  Mark looked down too, and caught his breath. They were only a thousand feet up, and down there the seas were nothing but white, leaping and churning. The thought of coming down into that… but it would at least be quick; the plane would break up in about five seconds.

  “Take her up,” Eisener commanded.

  The aircraft soared, and back into the cloud. Up and up she went in a spiraling ascent, to break out again into brilliant sunshine a few minutes later. But now she was above the clouds, and they could look back down to the huge, swirling area of white. “Fifty-three knots of wind at the center,” Eisener said, having checked his instruments. “We have ourselves a storm, gentlemen. What’s her name?”