Christopher Nicole - Her Name Will Be Faith

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?”