Her Name Will Be Faith (12 page)

"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.

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 thought 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."

"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."

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.

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 some 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."