Her Name Will Be Faith (13 page)

"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 i
ntense
– 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.

"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 handker
chief. "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."

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 circum
stances?"
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."