Margaret's Ark, page 10
“I have to go,” Sarah Jorgenson said, and she kissed Carl on the top of his head. “You Okay?” Her eyes told volumes of how she didn't think he was, remembering how shaken he'd been Thursday night telling them about the outburst in class.
“I -” He lost his voice. A sudden boiling up of emotions struck him in that moment. He swallowed them down, mostly because he didn’t understand what he was feeling. Sadness for his favorite teacher? Maybe pity.
Carl's father slid into his sport coat. Though his company no longer enforced shirt and tie dress, he enjoyed dressing up for work. It starkly contrasted the t-shirt and jeans he wore on weekends. “Carl, listen,” he said, “if there isn't anything pressing at school, well, if you want to stay home today, that's fine with us.”
He spoke as if Carl's teacher was dead. For some reason, Carl thought about his grandfather again. It felt like Mrs. Carboneau had died.
But she hadn't. In fact, she was only five miles away.
His mother did her usual mind-reading trick. “Carl,” she said quietly, “please stay away from the center of town. Please. After this article, it's going to be a madhouse over there.” She looked down. “I'm sorry. You know what I mean. But your father and I would appreciate it if you'd keep your distance. At least until we see how things turn out.”
Mrs. Carboneau had tossed herself willingly into this circus, Carl knew, the fringe of which he was only just seeing. He stared at his empty bowl, tipped it sideways to make the milk splash in mini-waves against the side. Mrs. Carboneau was doing all this because God told her to.
“Carl?”
Maybe if he'd been one of those kids dragged kicking and screaming to church every week, he'd understand her faith more. Or her madness.
He looked up. His parents were waiting for an answer. “I'll probably go to school. See what folks are saying there.”
Not madness. It didn’t fit with what he knew of his teacher.
His mother dropped her shoulders in relief. “Good. Thanks. Just hold off for a while. Maybe at the end of the week you could pay her a visit?”
Carl nodded. His father walked into the garage starting his car. Sarah followed and started her own. Carl watched the two cars pull slowly onto the wide driveway. They stopped when it narrowed. Normally, his mother would pull ahead, toot the horn once, then his father would follow. But they seemed to be in a deep discussion through their open windows.
Carl tipped the bowl of cereal back and forth. Not madness. Faith. His mother tooted once and pulled up the road. Carl wondered what faith was. Really, really wondered.
Maybe Mrs. Carboneau would tell him.
* * *
The center of town was not the madhouse Carl's mother warned him about. Cars were parked alongside the curb, but since he rarely passed this way, he didn't know if the number was abnormal. What was abnormal was the half-built boat at the northern edge of the lawn.
He locked the car, a fifteen-year-old temperamental Honda that once had belonged to his mother, and skirted the common, not daring to get too close until he saw her. Carl had called the school office before leaving the house. The fact that he and his father shared the same voice was, for once, a benefit rather than an irritating reason not to answer the phone. What he was doing didn't feel like sneaking behind their backs. For the first time, it felt like he was acting completely on his own. Stepping into the world for a day to see if he could handle what he found there.
Mrs. Carboneau was on the opposite side of the boat, her back to him as she talked to a heavy man who, in turn, was writing feverishly in a notebook.
He walked, slowly, in their direction, hoping for their conversation to end before he reached them. He tried to be casual, watching the people work around the structure. Not many, he thought. A couple of little girls ran around the front, delivering to a big man with a thick moustache a roll of perforated tape, which he then used to seal the seams between two boards.
Closer to Carl, near the back of the boat, an old couple slowly painted the sides with a clear liquid which must have smelled bad since the old man had his mouth covered with a handkerchief. His wife stood behind him, pointing at spots he'd apparently missed. Carl came nearer, and caught a thick whiff of glue.
They’re gluing and taping the ark together , he thought and felt a renewed knot in his belly, reminded himself that he wasn't here to join their little gang. He just wanted to talk to Mrs. Carboneau.
When he reached her, the man speaking to his teacher turned towards him. “Hello. Kenneth Wright from the Examiner. And your name is?”
As if in answer, though she was merely speaking out of surprise, Margaret said, “Carl!”
Kenneth-Wright-From-The-Examiner wrote in his notebook and smiled. “Carl, nice to meet you. I'm afraid I didn't catch your last name.”
Carl imagined breakfast at the Jorgenson's the next morning. He couldn’t speak, merely looked at Margaret and quickly shook his head.
Margaret turned back to the reporter. “Please,” she said. “He's a student of mine.” She quickly added, “And a minor.” It was a lie but Carl understood perfectly why she'd said it. He’d be safe. The reporter looked at him skeptically, then nodded and said to Margaret, “I just have a few more questions, if you have the time.”
Carl saw something flicker across Mrs. Carboneau's face. Irritation? She deftly ended the interview with smiles and promises of follow-ups whenever Kenneth Wright would like, then sent the reporter on his way.
Carl kept his eye on the heavy man until he drove off, in case a camera suddenly emerged from the driver's window and gobbled up his image for the front page. Margaret watched also, then turned to face him.
“Carl,” she said. “What a nice surprise! I guess you read the paper this morning?”
Carl nodded. “Yeah, my parents saw it first. But I read it. I just -” He didn’t know what to say. Small talk didn’t fit. Margaret was smiling, but said nothing. Carl took a breath and let it out loudly. “Mrs. C, is this true? Everything you said at school, and in the paper?”
“Yes,” Margaret said quietly. She never hesitated. It was as if she expected the question, as if she'd already been asked the same one a dozen times this morning.
Carl looked into her eyes. What he saw was not the burning glow of having “seen God.” Just as importantly, he saw nothing that could be called madness. He stared at the clear blue eyes of a middle-aged woman doing something she believed in. These weren't the words going through Carl's head at that moment. Instead it was a feeling, something inside him that opened up, a flower turning towards the sudden light he saw in this woman’s face.
“And,” he said, falteringly, “do you believe, I mean really believe, that God wants you to build this boat?” What was he doing? He felt like he was about to cry. He didn’t understand, not completely, what he expected to do or say when he came, but this certainly wasn’t it.
Mrs. Carboneau laid a hand on his arm. “Yes, I do. I didn’t believe any of it at first. I thought it was a dream. But it is real. It is going to happen, God help us.” She realized the irony in her words and gave a quiet, little laugh.
Carl looked at the ship, at the rag-tag group of people helping. No sign of all the firemen from the article. Maybe there was an actual fire somewhere.
He looked deeper into her eyes, and said, “I don’t know if I believe this, not yet. But I don’t think you're crazy, Mrs. C. The paper tried to imply that you were, or maybe were trying to cope with losing your husband.”
The light in her eyes dimmed a little. “I'm sorry,” he added. “I didn’t mean to -”
She interrupted gently, “You don't know if you believe, but...” She let her voice trail off.
“But... what?”
“You tell me.”
Carl looked around, saw a group of older men watching from beside their cars, drinking Happy Donuts coffee and talking among themselves. “But,” he said at last. “You're not the only one.”
“No. And I imagine before the week is out we'll learn exactly how many others there might be. But there are others. Many, many others.”
She sounded so confident. Carl supposed she would have to be.
Again, he wondered why he'd come here. The only reason he could come up with, besides curiosity or maybe concern, was that this was the only place he felt he should be.
And, if she was right, there wasn't anywhere else to go. For the briefest moment he thought of the night Max drove his parents’ Jeep into the ditch alongside Desert Passway Road, Carl in the passenger seat. Max only had his learner's permit and Carl was still in Driver's Ed. That eternally-stretching feeling as they rolled into the ditch, nothing he could do but watch it happen. Detachment.
And here he was, feeling like he was falling again.
Mrs. Carboneau said nothing, waiting. Carl looked at her and quietly said, “Looks like you need some help. Maybe... maybe I can stay for a while if it's okay.”
She replied softly, “As your teacher, I probably should tell you to be in school, but, Carl... I'm sincere in telling you that there won’t be a school after June eighth.”
He started to ask her what June eighth had to do with anything, then remembered the article. Fifty-two days left. Fifty one, he supposed, as of this morning. He noticed his right hand was shaking. What if she's right?
“I can stay,” he said. “As long as I can get home before my parents. You know how they can be.” He tried unsuccessfully to smile. She nodded.
“Maybe they'd like to help, too.”
Carl thought about that. He doubted it, but dared not even consider asking. If he did, then they'd know.
Know what? That their son was following the town loony? Is that what he was doing? “I can stay today. Maybe tomorrow. We'll see.”
Mrs. Carboneau's demeanor changed. Perhaps she'd realized the conversation was going on too long. She smiled and Carl noticed she had tears threatening to spill over when she patted his arm again and turned towards the construction. “Thank you, Carl. I really do appreciate it.” She began walking and he followed, a fearful urgency taking hold of him. Before he could say anything, she picked up a hammer from a sawhorse and handed it to him. “Here,” she said, wiping her face with the back of a hand. “Let me show you the inside of this contraption. We're trying to lay out the flooring.”
Something was missing, unsaid. As Carl followed her towards a ladder leading up the side, he whispered, “Um, not that I'm... I mean, if I help, and maybe stay on, not that I know for sure, after all....”
The woman smiled at him from her perch halfway up the ladder. She was, indeed, crying now. Quietly, no sobs, but a steady stream of tears rolling down her cheeks. She whispered, “There will be a place for you, Carl, on the ark.” Climbing up the ladder she said louder, “As long as you climb up here and get to work.”
Carl stood at the ladder's base for a moment, part of him wanting to run, knowing it was too late. Mrs. Carboneau had taken a leap of faith. Now it was his turn.
Though he cursed under his breath, he began to climb the rungs.
49
Father Tim McMillan watched the preacher move like a scarecrow across Christopher Columbus Park. The man looked as if he would blow away in the wind blowing incessantly off the harbor inlet. The park stretched between Boston's Long Wharf and Commercial Wharf, across from the tourist-laden Faneuil Hall marketplace. Wednesday meant rounds at Brigham and Women's Hospital, and McMillan embraced this part of his parish’s patient outreach. He enjoyed getting into the city every week, including a jaunt to South Boston to visit his one surviving aunt, ninety-three years old this coming July.
Being assigned so close to home all these years was a blessing he often thanked the Lord for. There had been a ten-year stint when he'd been the pastor of Saint Malachy's outside of Richmond, Virginia. A beautiful town, a contented parish, and the weather put Boston to shame. Even so, returning to these crowds and cars, curses and diesel fumes was a glorious homecoming.
He wondered how many more trips he could make to Aunt Corinne's nursing home if recent events proved more than mass hysteria. God lived in Father McMillan's heart, always had, and the sixty-seven year-old priest had seen and scoffed at many things. This time, it wasn't some cable-channel evangelist preaching salvation for a donation, embracing doomsday before the paying masses, although these people would emerge soon in great numbers. But they hadn’t been the ones to start this.
Normal people, living their lives one day to the next, holding down forgettable jobs, getting the kids onto the bus, paying bills when they came due. The media, try as they might to elevate them to its own sensational level, could not gloss over the simplicity of life led by most people portrayed thus far.
As far as he could tell, no politician, priest or rabbi, nor anyone in public authority had stepped forward to claim any visitations by angels.
It made sense, in a way. If he were to stand before his parish and claim that the Lord had spoken to him about the flood, most would follow him without question by virtue of his place in their spiritual world.
To follow an average person who had no prior influence save what day-to-day connection they might have, that took true faith.
It was a good theory. One he'd begun toying with to keep his growing apprehension at bay.
There had been no further word from the Diocese since an initial notice emailed to every parish, cautioning church leaders to refrain from condoning the actions of the “ark builders.” The Church needed to be consistent, and careful in its approach to these matters until such time as the Holy See in Rome evaluated the situation. No definite stand should be taken. Since reading the memorandum, McMillan's three calls to the bishop had gone unanswered.
Not that the Church was doing nothing. The Pope had called an emergency Synod of Cardinals and senior Bishops from across the world, meeting this morning within the protective Vatican walls. Like everyone else, the Holy Father was concerned by what was happening and, like every other religious leader, he had to make a decision without the benefit of his own visions. It was an interesting reversal of roles, McMillan thought. The shepherds struggling in faith with the teachings of their sheep.
He pinned his lunch bag against his leg with one elbow and took the last bite of a tuna fish sandwich. The taste was bland (he stopped adding cheese a few years ago to get his cholesterol back in line), but pleasantly filling. He freed the bag from under his elbow and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.
He watched the preacher, who, in turn, now watched him. The realization that he was the one being observed was unsettling. McMillan stood and brushed the crumbs from his black coat. The preacher continued to stare at him, like others tented to do when they noticed the stark black attire of a Roman Catholic priest. He wondered if being a policeman was similar. People acted either guilty or pious around him because of what he represented. He'd known others who could not handle this passive ostracism, an inherent byproduct of their calling. These men recoiled from society, found fringe brotherhoods or left the priesthood altogether.
The scarecrow preacher looked away as McMillan approached, resuming his sermon with renewed vigor. It was only babbling. Here was a man who most likely had received a vision, but did not possess the mental facilities to do much about it. He talked of God's justice, of waiting for the end, misquoting Bible passages like a politician.
He spoke his nonsense lines with such vigor and passion, however, a crowd always milled about. His passion was enough to bring McMillan to Faneuil Hall to seek him out before visiting Aunt Corrine. A number of patients he’d visited today mentioned the “wild man at the wharf.” The news media, especially those trying to downplay the emerging story, devoured the man’s antics with glee. As if to say, “See, folks? Nothing to worry about. Just a bunch of crazies like this guy over here.” Every local story invariably had at least one snippet of footage of the preacher on the wharf. It was just a matter of time, McMillan assumed, before the national networks picked him up.
And thus spread God's word, in its own remarkable way.
When McMillan stood in front of him, the other man looked like he wanted to run away, but never once wavered in his verbal tirade.
“My name is Timothy McMillan. What's yours?” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the shouts. The preacher stopped speaking and looked at him with a sideways glare.
“Do you believe in God, Friend?”
McMillan did not laugh at the irony of the question. “I do, indeed.”
The preacher faced him completely now. “And do you believe he is a merciful God?”
“He is merciful and loving,” McMillan said, disliking the defensiveness he felt. He tried to turn the conversation around. “You haven't told me your name.”
The preacher smiled. “My name is meaningless to the glory of God! To His Mighty Plan!”
McMillan pursed his lips. “Oh, I don't know. God gave us each a name, and would something he gave us be meaningless?”
Why was he harping on names, McMillan wondered. He didn't truly understand what he hoped to gain by talking to this man in the first place. To speak to some who's spoken to God, of course. To be closer to the Almighty, if only vicariously. The same reason the priest had been visiting some of the actual building sites. The couple in Arlington were friendly, unassuming, but fervent in their claims. The retired gentleman in Burlington wearing a blue Little League coach’s jacket who was skeptical of McMillan’s inquiries, asking more than once if he'd been sent by the Church to disprove him.
The preacher paused, obviously struggling with the question. The glint that had flowered in his eyes at the start of the conversation faded behind squinting lids. “My... name is Jack. You -” his eyes widened. “You're a priest, aren't you?”
McMillan nodded, suddenly wanting to leave. What could he learn from this one that he hadn't already gleaned by simple observation? “I am. Not much different than you, in many ways.”
