Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the guardsman inquired.

  “Home.” They were both shouting above the whine of the wind and the roar of the traffic.

  “Yeah? Home being where?”

  Washington told him; he lived only a couple of blocks from Penn Station.

  “You got proof of that?”

  “I need a passport to get home?”

  “Listen, Buster…”

  “Hi, Washington,” said a patrolman, joining them.

  “Morning, officer,” Washington said gratefully. “Get this kid off my back, will you?”

  “Says he’s going home,” the guardsman explained. “Well, if he’s on 48th Street he has to stay on 48th Street, right? Those are our orders: no movement south.”

  “He only works up here,” the policeman explained. “And his home is below the 50-foot marker. I guess you’re going home to collect the family and get out of town, eh, Washington?”

  “You’re damn right,” Washington agreed.

  “You’ll need this.” The policeman reached inside his wet gleaming cape and produced a piece of cardboard. “That gives you permission to go down to your home, and to leave the city after.”

  Washington scratched his head through the cap; it appeared he did need some kind of a passport to go home. But, as he had just been given one, he wasn’t going to quibble. He thrust the by now very wet piece of cardboard into his pocket, and weaved across the street, through the all but stationary autos. This traffic was starting to get him worried; suppose they all got stuck in a big jam in the Chevy, what would happen when the storm broke? In his hurricane chats, that Connors had said there might be window glass and other debris flying about all over — one wouldn’t even be safe in an automobile… well, there was nothing for it; they’d have to get out by Subway and take a train from Jersey City.

  A vivid blue light flashed at the same moment as the street rocked with the violent crack of thunder; one of the buildings nearby had been struck, and the noise bounced off the walls, echoing and re-echoing all the way across Manhattan. Fear gripped Washington Jones’ chest, and his lips moved in an incoherent prayer… that he had not left his departure too late.

  National American Broadcasting Service Offices, Fifth Avenue — 5.30 am

  “Will you get me that Michael Donnelly number in Connecticut again, please, Maisie?” Richard said.

  “Of course, Mr Connors. Say, I’ve been so busy I didn’t tell you before, but that Mrs Donnelly called again.”

  Richard sighed with relief; she must have reached Bognor. “Great, Maisie. What time was that?”

  “Let me see…” She was consulting her pad. “2.47.”

  She must have driven like a bat out of hell, Richard thought. Still, say two and a half hours… it could be done. “Okay, Maisie, but try that number anyway.”

  Julian had just finished putting out another update; they had a minute or two. Jayme was making coffee, part-blonde hair still straggling. It was difficult to realize that they had been on duty all night without a wink of sleep, because he did not feel the least tired. Subconsciously, he had been waiting for this day all his adult life, ever since he had taken up meteorology as a profession: that when it arrived he was being prevented from fulfilling his other ambition, to be the man who kept giving news of the storm to the nation, was just an aspect of Murphy’s Law. But at least things were happening, officially; Hal Waring and a camera crew had been whisked away by the helicopter which had put down on the NABS roof, over the traffic jams and the skyscrapers, to enable the Mayor to broadcast to his people and, hopefully, begin to sort things out… supposing he had the time.

  “Bognor, Mr Connors,” Maisie said.

  “For Jesus’ sake, not you again?” Big Mike complained. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “I just wanted to make sure Mrs Donnelly got to you okay, Mr Donnelly.”

  “Look, asshole, she isn’t due here until breakfast time. Right?” “Breakfast time? She left her apartment to drive up to you just after midnight. With your grandchildren.”

  “The grandchildren? Goddamn! But that’s nonsense. It don’t take five hours to drive from New York to Bognor. Three maximum.”

  “Yes,” Richard said. “That’s what I thought. Something’s happened to her.”

  “Happened to her? Holy shit! You mean a breakdown? In this rain? Say, is it raining in New York?”

  “Yes, Mr Donnelly. It is raining in New York. And there’s not a hope in hell of anyone getting out in a hurry to go look for her right now. I’m going to have to leave this one with you. But I’d be very grateful if you’d call me back and let me know what’s happened to her.”

  “Yeah,” Big Mike said. “Yeah. Holy shit! What a fuck up.”

  The phone went dead, and Richard gazed at it. It had to be a simple breakdown. And if it was outside of the city there would be no problem. But if it had happened on one of the bridges… and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Even if he decided to abandon the studio, he wouldn’t know where to start looking… the door opened and he gazed at Kiley.

  A very wet and angry looking Kiley. Who was gazing at him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “JC fired you, a couple of hours ago.”

  “To take effect at seven o’clock, Mr Kiley,” Julian chipped in. “So he’s been giving me a hand. You’re kind of early, ain’t you?”

  “Early!” Kiley exploded. “JC is going wild. I’ve spent the past three hours trying to get here. God knows if I’ll ever see my automobile again; I’ve had to walk from the bridge; they’re jammed solid, all lanes, all going north. Now you tell me, is this storm really going to hit us?”

  “Yes, Mr Kiley, it is,” Richard said. “In about five hours from now.”

  “Goddamn,” Kiley said. “And I’ve got to get someone down to Hunt to make some transfers. Holy Jesus.” He wandered out, closing the door behind him.

  “He doesn’t know what time of day it is,” Jayme commented.

  “I don’t think he knows what day it is,” Julian said.

  “Well, I think he’s going to find out.” Richard picked up the phone again.

  Park Avenue — 6.00 am

  Jo awoke with a start to the jangling of the telephone. It was broad daylight, although there was obviously a total overcast, and the rain was lashing at the windows, driven by gale force winds, while the thunder crackled continuously. She sat up, unable for a moment to grasp where she was; after a hot shower she had lain down in her bathrobe and fallen into a deep sleep. Now she gasped as she saw the time on her bedside clock — six o’clock. Immediately her brain was awake. She pushed hair from her eyes and reached for the phone. “Richard!” she gasped. “Oh, thank God!”

  “Jo?” The woman’s voice was high, and disconcerted.

  “Oh, my God! Sally? Sally Davenport? Where are you?”

  “I’m at home, Jo,” Sally said, somewhat acidly. Home for Sally Davenport was ten miles outside Newport. There’d be no chaos out there… yet.

  “Oh. Well… any word from the boys?”

  “I was going to ask you that? I tried to raise them through the exchange here but they told me they couldn’t handle any personal traffic right now as there’s an emergency on. Have you ever heard such damned nonsense?”

  “Well,” Jo said, “there is a hurricane racing at us…”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Jo, you’d think in this day and age they’d be capable of coping with a hurricane,” Sally complained. “Sam was supposed to call me last night; they were going to be back within radio range by then. But he hasn’t. Jo, have you heard from them?”

  “No. Not since…” For a moment Jo just could not remember when last she had spoken with Michael. “My God! Not since midnight on Thursday. I spoke to him about the hurricane and suggested he turn back to Bermuda.”

  “And did he?”

  “No. He said he was standing on. You know what Michael is like.”

  “Good Lord! Aren’t you w
orried? I mean, he has Sam with him.”

  “Sally,” Jo said impatiently. “Of course I’m worried. But Michael was confident he could out sail the storm, and he’s probably right. He usually is. Anyway, it’s turned away from him. It’s virtually on our doorstep down here, and it’s coming straight at us. I have things to do. I’ll call you later.” She replaced the phone, jumped out of bed, and ran into the lounge, where Owen Michael was watching television.

  “Hey, Mom,” he called. “The Mayor’s on.”

  Jo gazed at Bill Naseby, wearing his electioneering expression — he was famous for his ability to reassure — as he filled the screen.

  “…you folks out there know I’ve never let you down, and by golly, I’m not going to let you down now. But I’m also going to give it to you straight. We have a major crisis here, and we have got to tackle it in the best possible way. So firstly, I have placed police, National Guardsmen, and Army units on every bridge, in every tunnel, and at every intersection in or out of Manhattan, to control movement. Now I know you can look out of your windows and see that there’s one heck of a snarl-up out there, or maybe you’re in that snarl-up at this moment, and I know you’ll have heard that the bridges and tunnels are jammed solid, but I can assure you that we are working to clear them, and we are winning. But to win, we need your co-operation. Obey the instructions given you by the men on duty. The important thing is that we firstly evacuate all persons living less than fifty feet above sea level. Those people’s homes are in danger of being flooded; they have to have a number one priority. There may, I am sorry to say, be a great deal of wind damage to many houses and other buildings from this storm, but it is the surging water that can kill, and this we must deal with first. To all people living in such areas, I want to say, pack up only as much as you can carry in one suitcase, and move out on to the street. You will find policemen there, and they will direct you to the best route to take. They will also give you a ticket, just like this…” he held one up, “which it is very important for you to carry and present whenever you are stopped by any patrol. Only if you have one of these tickets will you be allowed to move from one location to another. Anyone, and most especially those with any automobile or other vehicle, not in possession of one of these tickets, will be stopped and pushed off the road until all those low-lying areas have been evacuated.

  “Those of you living more than 50 feet above sea level, that is, all of you north of 34th Street, between Lexington and Tenth, except where you may be specifically told to evacuate by the police, must stay in your homes and apartments until instructed to move by the police. If you attempt to move without possession of one of our exit tickets — which can only be obtained from the policemen on duty — not only will your automobile be pushed off the road, but you yourself will be liable to prosecution. We will get to everyone just as soon as it is possible to do so. But until then, we ask you, in the name of common sense, in the name of humanity, not to clog the streets, which are needed by those in greater peril than yourselves. You will not be flooded. Your buildings are in no real danger, and neither are your lives. However uncomfortable it may be for you during the next twenty-four hours, you will survive. Others may not unless we can get them to safety in time. I must attend to my duties now. But I will tell you this: as long as there is one life in danger in this city, I and my staff and your gallant police force will remain at our posts. And as long as there is electricity, keep your radios and televisions tuned in, to keep yourselves informed of the situation. God bless you all.”

  His face disappeared, and one of the senior anchormen replaced him. “That was the Mayor of New York, William ‘Bill’ Naseby,” he said. “And that telecast will be repeated every hour, on the hour, throughout the morning. And now, at this grave hour, we turn…”

  Jo switched off the set.

  “Hey, Mom, he said to leave it on,” Owen Michael protested.

  “I know he did. And we can put it on again later. But I have to get through to the studio.”

  “The studio?”

  “We’re…” We’re trapped, she wanted to shout. Don’t you understand? Because of that goddamned shit of a careless driver, and because I was careless enough to fall asleep, we’re stuck here, above the 50-foot mark. She had to contact Richard; she could think of nothing else to do.

  But all the studio lines were busy. She went into the bathroom to wash her face, and found only a rusty trickle coming out of the tap. The kitchen was the same. Oh, God, she thought. Oh, God! It was not possible for the water to have gone off while it was clouding past her windows in what seemed solid sheets.

  She tried the studio again, and heard it ring. “Mr Connors,” she gasped. “It really is urgent. My name is Donnelly.” To her amazement, she was through in ten seconds. “Richard!” she shrieked. “Oh, Richard! I’ve been trying to reach you forever.”

  “My darling,” he said. “Where are you? Did your father-in-law find you?”

  “My father-in-law? I haven’t seen him.”

  “But… aren’t you in Bognor?”

  “No,” she gasped, trying to disguise her despair and misery. “No. I’m not in Bognor. I’m right here in the apartment.”

  “You’re where?”

  Swallowing hard, she launched into the story of their morning.

  “Christ,” he said when she had finished. “Look, have you food and water?”

  “We have food,” she said. “But there’s no water. I tried the taps just now and there was nothing.”

  “You have nothing to drink at all?”

  “Oh, there’s plenty to drink. Except water.” Just hearing his voice was making her feel normal again.

  “Okay. Listen… there’s no way you can leave town now.”

  “I know that. I just heard the mayor say so on television. Richard… what do we do? I have the children here with me.”

  “Keep calm, for a start. Move yourself, and everything you have to drink, and a good supply of canned food — stuff that doesn’t need cooking, or even heating — away from your windows. Into… how about the bathroom?”

  “Which one?”

  “Whichever one has the smallest window. Or better yet, one with no window at all. Move yourself and Owen Michael and Tamsin in there and sit tight. Expect the electricity to go off some time this morning, and it won’t come back on again until maybe Monday. It’ll be warm, but livable. Just stay there. I’m going to try to get to you, the moment I’m of no use here.”

  “Richard!” she screamed. “You can’t. Don’t try, please. It’ll be too dangerous.”

  “I won’t take any chances,” he promised. “Just make yourself and the kids safe and sit tight. I’ll be there if it’s humanly possible.”

  Park Avenue — 6.30 am

  Jo sat with drooping shoulders, arms hanging limply between her knees, staring at the phone.

  Owen Michael and Tamsin, who had also now woken up, stood together, gazing at her. “What are we going to do, Mom?” Owen asked. He was smiling, trusting, and confident that Mom could be depended upon to cope with anything.

  If only he knew how inadequate she felt. She looked at him and warmed with pride. He was thinner and paler since his surgery but had surely grown at least another inch — he was quickly developing into a young lion like his father, almost taller than herself. And she had failed both him and Tamsin — and Richard — and herself, by not getting them out of town in time.

  She returned the boy’s smile and squared her shoulders. There was no time for regrets, for backward thinking; they must prepare for their joint battle for survival. “I guess we have to get ourselves ready to ride out the hurricane, right here. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

  “Heck, no, Mommy,” Tamsin said. “I wasn’t scared, down in Eleuthera, not until the roof blew off. Then it was so cold and wet, and scary.”

  “Oh, my darling girl.” Jo hugged her close. “I was so determined you wouldn’t have to go through that again.”

  “But our roof
won’t blow off, will it, Mommy?”

  “Of course it won’t,” Jo asserted, and stood up, just as lightning struck another building close by, pretending she hardly noticed. Of course it won’t, she told herself… but Faith was now carrying winds half as strong again as those that had blown over Eleuthera.

  “What do we do to make ready?” Owen Michael wanted to know.

  “First we decide which bathroom to use…”

  “Tamsin’s and my bathroom,” the boy interrupted. “There’s no window in there to get broken.”

  “Good thinking.” The bathroom the two children shared was between their rooms and had only an extractor fan let into the wall of the building. “Let’s all go see how we’ll manage it.” They stood in the bathroom doorway as if seeing it for the first time. It was cream; cream marble round the bath and shower stall and across the vanity top surrounding the twin marble basins. The paintwork and carpeting were cream, and by contrast the towel and bathmats were chocolate brown.

  “Let’s fill the vanity cupboard with food for a start,” Jo said. “How will we cook it in here?” Tamsin wanted to know.

  “We won’t. Cold soup. Cold ham…”

  “We’ve got picnic flasks. Can’t we heat the soup and some coffee now?” The little girl seemed excited at the thought of this new adventure — providing the roof wasn’t going to blow off.

  Her mother tried not to let her anxiety dampen her enthusiasm. “Sure. Why not? The soup, at least. We can’t make any coffee because we have no water.”

  “Water? There’s water in the bathroom…” Owen Michael turned on the tap while he spoke, gazed at the rusty trickle.

  “You wouldn’t believe it, would you, with all this rain coming down? No, what you have to do is go to the bar and collect all the mixes we have, all the orange juice and pineapple juice and ginger ale and lemonade and soda water you can find.”

  “Hey, Mom, we could make coffee with soda water,” Tamsin cried. Jo raised her eyebrows, but could not suppress a smile; Tamsin’s suggestions were all so positive. “Why not?”

  “There’s bottles and bottles of soda water in here,” Owen Michael shouted, dashing into the bar. “If we take the electric kettle into the bathroom…”