Minerva Finlay plowed across the front lawn, perforating the green grass with each forceful step. Shame-old-ladies in a patch of earth – never ones for controversy – shuttered their leaves as she ambled by on her way to the verandah. There, she stood before Curtis Finlay who was engrossed in the pages of the Daily Gleaner. Minerva Finlay had always considered herself a reasonable person. After all, she grew up as the second-born of four children in her family, learning very early on how to navigate a variety of situations. But now, she had had it.

“How could anyone seriously confuse custos and custard?” she fumed to her husband, who was just about to start the sports section.

Cricket was on everyone’s mind, as the West Indies, led by skipper Clive Lloyd, was about to embark on a tour of India, Sri Lanka, and Pakistan. A more immediate concern though, was the threat of a tropical storm. Curtis Finlay had been occupied earlier in the morning with arrangements for a local response. He had walked home after his meetings to join Minerva for lunch and while waiting, took the opportunity to finish up the daily beyond just the headlines he had managed to glimpse.

Lowering the newspaper, Curtis looked over his glasses in the direction of his wife, a lovely woman who had turned 50 the week before.

“Curtis, did you hear what I asked just now?” she chirped, flopping into the wooden chair identical to the one her husband sat comfortably in.

After 30 years of marriage, Curtis Finlay still hesitated before responding to certain questions his wife lobbed at him. No, Curtis Finlay was not a timid soul. He was a man of courage and as custos of St. Ann, quite accustomed to engaging with others. But Minerva wasn’t others. She was the apple of his eye. And he adored her so much that he treated all her concerns with the utmost importance, including this one, which at this point, seemed to hover around some sort of confusion between his role in the parish and a dessert made of eggs, milk, and sugar.

“I don’t follow, Minnie,” Curtis began. “What about custard has gotten you so wound up?” he appealed.

The position Curtis Finlay occupied was properly termed custos rotulorum, a post with a deep history in England itself. In parishes across Jamaica, the custos functioned as the representative of the Governor-General and some key duties involved serving as chief magistrate, chairing the disaster preparedness committee, and maintaining an interest in the work of voluntary organizations. Curtis Finlay now had one other task: sifting through the account Minerva was about to relate to learn why his wife, who volunteered at the parish library, returned home livid.

“Curtis, I would imagine that you would be more incensed about this than me,” she replied. “They are mocking you, Curtis, just mocking you,” she bemoaned, her voice quivering.

Curtis Finlay folded the newspaper and laid it carefully on the wooden table between the chairs. He gave himself completely to receiving the account Minerva was on pins and needles to share. But no sooner had Minerva begun, than the wooden gate to the garden was swung open, arresting their attention. They heard the shuffle of approaching footsteps and observed as black leather boots emerged from around the hedge. They belonged to the young constable, Fabian Pottinger, a rising new addition to the St. Ann’s Bay police.

Detective inspector Peter Jones had been pleased with constable Pottinger’s performance. His mother, Hyacinth Pottinger, was equally proud. She had distinguished herself as a baker, producing some of the finest treats to come from St. Ann’s Bay. Furthermore, she had been the one who advocated for a bakers’ booth during the annual artisan festival at Pinto Hall to generate exposure for other bakers. Now, her son was rushing up the stone path at the Finlay home with a message for Curtis Finlay. And Minerva, to be expected, was beside herself with anticipation.

The constable’s visit had supplanted the righteous indignation consuming Minerva, which had been ignited earlier when, upon exiting the library, she happened upon two parish councilors. She was just in time to hear them discussing Curtis, one asking, “And what is it with the custard of our parish anyway?” to which the other quipped, after a raucous guffaw, “True. He just seems to sit on his rotulorum.” Minerva had had to lean against the Marcus Garvey statue to gather herself after hearing such talk, such abominable talk.

Rain clouds had moved in over the area with thunderclaps and St. Ann’s Bay was receiving its fair share. The shame-old-ladies had already closed up shop after the first drop and now a cascade of tiny pools was forming across the lawn as water rushed to fill the holes Minerva’s shoes had made. Caught off-guard, a green lizard scampered up the stone path and found refuge under the stairs that stretched up to the verandah. Curtis, Minerva, and constable Pottinger had retreated from there into the living room, where Minerva sat riveted.

“Island wide? How worried are they?” Curtis asked of the constable, leaning back into the settee as if positioning himself to receive the response.

“They are taking it seriously, sir. It’s a tropical depression now, but preparations are being made and further advisories will be issued in an hour,” Pottinger replied.

Constable Pottinger had come to escort Curtis to a final meeting of the local response team. Apart from his disaster preparedness role, Curtis was effective at organizing people and resources. As they discussed further, Minerva rose from her chair and slowly approached a window overlooking the garden. By now, she had forgotten what had rattled her a few hours earlier. The prospect of bad weather had put matters into perspective and she contemplated the impact it could have. The rain had stopped. But she knew it was only the calm before the storm.

Tropical storm Fifi was now roaring along the southern coast of the island, causing quite a bit of flooding in some areas of Kingston. Minerva had contacted their children who lived in the capital and was relieved. Earlier, she had also worked with Curtis on local arrangements to stockpile provisions in anticipation of power outages. But all they could do now was endure the heavy winds and rain from the storm, which seemed to be lasting forever. As they sat, hunched over the transistor radio, the lights above flickered. Then the power went out.

The crackle of static from the radio woke Minerva, who in turn roused Curtis. A faint streak of morning light seeped through the curtains as the clouds cleared. People had begun to emerge from being battened down and were assessing the aftermath. The power was still out, so Minerva and Curtis ventured outside. The house had been spared damage, save for the wooden gate to the garden which had come off its hinges. The sun was stronger now and some birds felt it good time for a symphony.

“I think we made it, Minnie,” Curtis observed. But not just them. As reports trickled in, they confirmed that there had been no loss of life across the island.

Hyacinth Pottinger placed the last box in the back of the police Jeep her son had backed into her driveway. Curtis had asked her to prepare meals as part of the response after the storm. Constable Pottinger had one more stop to make before delivering the provisions to Pinto Hall where Curtis, Minerva, and other volunteers stood ready to welcome residents. It was then that Minerva spotted them. The two parish councilors she had stumbled upon a day earlier had entered the room.

“Curtis, have they come to volunteer or to criticize?” Minerva asked, directing her husband’s attention to the two.

Minerva and Curtis worked diligently at distributing meals. Occasionally, Minerva would scan the room to determine where the parish councilors were. They had been mingling with residents, but were now making their way over to the table Minerva and Curtis were standing behind. Minerva was imagining what she would say to them if they made contact, preparing for multiple scenarios. But then, she reasoned that if she had just survived a tropical storm, she should be able to handle the troublesome pair.

“Curtis Finlay,” one of the parish councilors began, exaggerating the last name while extending a hand toward Curtis who had just placed a box packed by Hyacinth Pottinger on the table.

But before Curtis could respond, Minerva whipped out a container from the box and with a sheepish grin, asked, “Custard, anyone?”

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