She shook her head at him. "You've got it all wrong. You know about spacemen, don't you? You've seen them on television?"
"Rockets?" he responded. "Going to the moon?"
She nodded. "Only if the hurricane picked you up and flew you through the air, you wouldn't need a rocket. Just you and the hurricane. And you could look down on all the other boys going home from school from way up there. And think of what a tale you'd have to tell when it set you down in your own front yard. And when you came back to school. Wouldn't that be fun?"
The tears were not dried on his cheeks, but his eyes were brighter, his lips parted in wonder. "Could I tell my brother Jack? He's ten."
A head done up in curlers appeared at the window of a shabby sedan that had just pulled up to the front curb. A shrill voice cried, "Joey! Hurry now and don't get any wetter than you have to. You know what colds you get."
Donna gave the little boy a gentle shove and he went, protesting that he wanted to stay where the storm could get him and take him to the moon.
"I may not have done that poor harried mother any favor," she told herself as she turned into the office where even the teachers were beginning to thin out now. Mr. Fincher's face brightened at the sight of her.
"Miss Ledbury! I was afraid you might have gone without my seeing you. They've called from the administrative offices. They want the school nurses to remain on duty if they will."
She looked up at him, startled. "You mean, stay here until the storm is over? You said yourself that it might be three days."
He nodded. "It could be. But you'd want to go home and get—well, whatever you think you'll need."
"Toothbrush?" she inquired humorously.
He laughed. "You won't be expected back until five. There probably won't be much sleeping after the unwashed start crowding in here. Maybe you'd better take a nap if you can. I'd offer to bring you back but I'll be here supervising."
"I'll get back," she promised.
And Miss Graves, who had just finished checking her time card, said, "Donna, I'm going your way. I can drop you and you won't have to stand out in the rain waiting for a city bus."
Miss Graves drove along at what she considered the perfect speed and grumbled at the inconvenience caused by those who went slower and the recklessness of those who went faster. Between times, she worried about what the storm might do to her garden. Donna sat agreeing and agreeing, and now and then, too-bading. Miss Graves had a kind heart, but she wasn't a person with whom you disagreed.
They were approaching the corner where Donna usually got out when she rode with Miss Graves, and Miss Graves chose to be gracious. "Since it's raining, I'll take you by your door."
Donna drew out the accordion-pleated strip that she used to keep her hair dry and tied it under her chin. "Don't bother, Miss Graves. I know you're eager to get home to get ready for the storm and I have my raincoat. I won't get wet."
The older teacher looked with disapproval at the slender, high-heeled slippers Donna wore when she wasn't on duty. Her voice was dry. "I've already attended to everything that can be attended to. Of course, there are always some crises that can't be guarded against, but I shall be ready to decide what's best when they arise. Well, since you insist." She drew up to the curb and jerked her head in dismissal. "Don't let the riffraff that gathers at the school during storms impose on you. They're the something-for-nothing sort and they'll run the soles from your shoes if you let them."
Donna, standing under an awning, turned and waved, then looked about her.
Miami is a city, international in its citizenship. Ordinarily, people who meet on the street rush by without so much as a nod or a smile, but when a hurricane is threatened the entire mood changes. Everybody has a word for everybody else. Donna was stopped three times in the two blocks between the corner and her apartment house. An old man who had left his dentures at home stopped fastening shutters over windows to tell her about the 1926 hurricane. A bride who had lived in Florida three months asked her for reassurance, questioning over a huge bag of groceries. The brisk businesswoman who lived across the hall walked up with her, telling her about hurricane parties she had known. "Two of my husbands I met that way."
Donna could hear laughter from her own apartment as she reached the top of the stairs. Evelyn's voice rang out above it. "Five hearts. I bid five hearts."
Nell sounded impatient. "You can't bid five hearts, Evie. You simply haven't the cards."
But Evelyn was determined. "You heard me, didn't you? I just did bid five hearts. You shouldn't mind if I go down, Nell. I'm not your partner."
"I'll double," Nell said.
The feminine laughter was underlined by bass. The hurricane party her apartment mates had talked about was already beginning. Donna paused in the open doorway and looked about her.
Tom Wooley, Evelyn's steady boy friend, and Dick Thompson, who shared an apartment with Tom, were seated with the girls at the card table. A radio that would report on the progress of Camilla every fifteen minutes played chamber music rather more loudly than it was designed for. The air was heavy with smoke. From the kitchen came odors delectable enough to be reminiscent of Thanksgiving or Christmas. Kathy, who loved to eat, was transforming everything in the freezer into something edible in case the electricity went off. From the sound of things, she had two masculine helpers.
Evelyn, who faced the door, was the first to discover Donna. She gave a squeal of delight. "Here's our wanderer home. Come in, pet, and pull up a chair. Unless you'd like to take my hand. I probably can't make my bid."
Donna laughed. "You'll have to crawl out of the hole you've dug for yourself by yourself. I've got to get back to school. Seems part of the school nurse's duty is to stay on duty with refugees when there are storms." She had already decided that she wasn't likely to get any sleep in the apartment and she might as well go on back to school.
Kathy appeared from the kitchen, a fork in one hand and a half-eaten cookie in the other. "How mean. We're going to have a real ball here. It's too bad for you to miss it. You know Stu Jensen and Cliff Warrender?" She gestured with the fork toward the two men behind her. "Cliff's Nell's boss and Stu lives down the hall and doesn't know many people in Miami."
Donna smiled impartially at both men. "I've met Mr. Warrender. Hello, Mr. Jensen."
She had indeed met Cliff Warrender. He was a lawyer, not the sort of lawyer she wanted to know. "A mouthpiece" they called his sort in gangster novels. Nell was proud that he had got Genio (the Ox) Alcotti off from a bookie charge just after Donna had moved into the apartment. Three times he had asked Donna to go out with him, and three times she had refused.
But he was very gallant as he slid from his stool and offered it to her. "Unless you are as skillful a cook as Kathy. In that case, we'll sit and admire as if we were sitting in a medical theater watching a doctor operate." His smile was something to see. Donna found it hard not to smile back.
Kathy broke in before Donna could think of anything to say. "Not when I'm cooking, she doesn't. When I cook, I want all the blame. And all the credit, too. But sit down and chat with us if you want to, Donna."
Donna didn't want to sit around kibitzing the card game, or watching Kathy play chef. Particularly, she didn't want to be friendly with Cliff Warrender. She tried on a rather stiff smile and shook her head at the offer of the kitchen stool. "I'm a working girl. I've got to get back to school," she said.
Kathy was horrified. "But nobody, positively nobody, works during a hurricane. Everybody goes home and huddles."
Cliff grinned. "There are those who don't. Weathermen. People on newspapers and radio and television. Firemen. Doctors and nurses. You're probably Red Cross auxiliary," he suggested to Donna.
"Yes, of course," she agreed. "But I'm in the employ of the School Board first and I've been asked to help with the refugee center there. Who comes? Do you know? I didn't think about asking."
Cliff seemed to have the answer to most questions. "Flamingo's neighborhood isn't the most exclusive in town. There are a lot of shacks out there. The land's low and many of the houses are built low to the ground. The place is always under water when there is a lot of rain and wind. The water rose five feet in some of those houses during the forty-seven storm. Anybody who remembers will be coming to the schoolhouse. And they'll tell the rest."
He spoke with such authority that Donna asked him a personal question before she thought. "You've lived her a long time, Mr. Warrender?"
Again, his warm, unexpected smile brought an answering smile to her lips.
"I'm one of those rare animals who was born here," he told her. "Jackson Memorial Hospital, twenty-seven years ago. I even attended Flamingo Elementary. I lived in that neighborhood, and it isn't a new school, you know."
Donna nodded, checking his elegantly cut suit, his immaculate linen, his shoes which had the look of having been custom-made. He was the best-groomed man she knew. The best of everything, she thought scornfully, noting, but not admitting, that there was nothing garish about him. He wore no jewelry. His clothes were conservative. He simply didn't fit in with what she knew of the neighborhood of Flamingo Elementary.
His smile had a wry, perhaps even bitter, tinge now. "It's been a long time," he said, as if he had read her mind.
"Have fun, all of you," she offered with a gaiety that was only skin deep. "I'll pack my bag and be on my way."
Cliff hadn't sat back down on his stool and now he pushed it under the breakfast bar and cleared his throat. "My car's in the garage across the street, Miss Ledbury. I'll drive you out."
Donna's face flushed scarlet. "It really isn't necessary, Mr. Warrender. I'm accustomed to the bus and don't mind it. I counted it in my schedule."
His words were firm, like a good teacher's when she means to brook no nonsense. "I'm going that way, Miss Ledbury. I'll drive you."
Her voice was faint as she said, "Thank you," and went toward her room.
Behind her, she heard the new man—Stu Jensen—speak in a puzzled sort of voice. "What's with you two? You're polite enough for a divorced couple meeting for the first time in public."
Cliff's deep, courtroom voice answered. She couldn't hear his words and she shut her door rather more noisily than was necessary to shut out the sound of his voice.
They drove along in silence for a while, Cliff's eyes fixed on the street before him. It was full of cars homeward bound, of people scurrying about on foot, like leaves in a fall wind. He did not turn his glance toward her when he finally spoke. "I'm a very determined man, Miss Ledbury. Miss Donna Ledbury."
The quick flush that always embarrassed her when she felt she failed to have the situation entirely in hand ran up from throat to hairline and she clenched her hands in her lap. There must be something to say on an occasion like this, but she couldn't think of it.
He went on, sounding amused: "It can't be that you don't like men. You're too young and pretty, and I always thought redheaded girls were friendlier than others. And there's that handsome young man who is your boss. You go out with him. So I have to conclude that you think I'm just not your type."
A sudden fury made her stammer. "If you are implying that red-haired girls are man-crazy—" The words sounded as if they had been choked from her. "I didn't ask you to drive me out here and if you are doing it to give yourself an opportunity to scold me because I didn't fall on your neck the minute we were introduced—"
He brought his car, expensive and conservative like his clothes, and of a vintage of five years before, to a halt against the curb. If he had heard her outburst, he gave no sign of it. "You are supposed to bring enough food for your stay. Bring food, leave pets at home, it says in the paper. We'll go in here and get what we need."
"W-we?" she echoed, feeling more helpless than she ever had in her life. What did one do with a man like this one?
He nodded. "I'm a volunteer with the Red Cross, too. I'm always on duty at one of the schools. Only, I told them that this storm I was going to be busy and came home with Nell. Now I find that my conscience hurts me because I'm not doing my part, and I plan to help out at my old elementary school. Want to come in with me, or will you trust me to pick out things you'd like?"
"I—I guess I'll come in," she decided. She felt breathless and hoped that it was the weather and not Cliff Warrender.
The grocery store was a small one and the odor of spices and cheeses and mysterious things which Donna had no name for hung in the air. Braids of red onions hung in garlands above the vegetable bins. Fruit announced its presence redolently. Customers pushed and argued good-humoredly in several languages, then, realizing that somebody new had come in, turned and stared at Donna and Cliff. They began with one voice to cry Cliff's name, to move toward where he stood just inside the front door, and shake his hand.
A fat, mustachioed old man came on splayed feet to throw his arms about the young lawyer, to touch first one cheek and then the other with his own not recently shaved one, to pound the younger man's broad shoulder with his gnarled hand. "Cliff, boy, is good to see you. You forget the old man. Weeks, I do not see you."
"I've been busy, Uncle Joe. There's always work."
The two men were standing a little apart from each other now, beaming. The old Cuban nodded. "I hear. You take the case of that girl of Mattie Stamey's. You will get her off, eh, boy?"
Donna was watching the two men interestedly. She didn't like Cliff Warrender, but she had to admit he was no snob. He had spoken casually of living in the neighborhood of Flamingo Elementary. Now he embraced a shabby old foreigner with every evidence of affection.
"Today comes a letter from Julio," the old man was continuing. "He is now a corporal and he says that I am to tell you. He is taking out a German girl, a good girl, he says. He talks of bringing her home to his mama."