Margaret's Ark, page 12
Margaret forced herself to stop. She moved a step sideways, and without speaking gave her student a clear path to his car.
Faith .
Carl seemed to be mulling the word over, though probably not for the first time. This was the moment he must have known was coming. It was time to decide what faith was, what he really believed.
He only nodded and walked across the common, fumbling in his jeans’ pockets for his car keys.
* * *
Connor bit down joyfully on the teething ring, never taking his eyes off his mother. Holly knelt before the baby’s walker, watching his toes bounce up and down, barely reaching the carpet. She could tell he was aching to walk. From the steady stream of drool down his chin it wouldn't be long before the first signs of teeth emerged, too. Then what, she wondered? She would have to wean him off breast milk and onto the bottle. Clay would be the first to agree with that. For some reason, the sight of her nursing irritated him. He'd made her buy infant formula last week, but she hadn’t used it. He didn’t press the point, but it was only a matter of time.
Connor was always, it seemed, a sore spot between them. Clay was distant with the baby, never taking much more than a passing interest in him. Connor often reached up for him as he passed, only to lower his arms in disappointment. Though he had never said as much, Clay assumed the baby wasn't his. Whenever someone commented that Connor looked like his father, Clay grunted a half-hearted acknowledgement and changed the subject. He assumed, as she did, that the child was Brad's. Brad versus Clay, a decision Holly had been forced to make when she learned she was pregnant. At the time, Brad was moving to the Midwest for six months of basic training in the Air Force, and she was afraid to leave Clay, let alone for having gotten pregnant off a one-night fling with a football jock.
She wondered what would have happened if she had confronted Brad with her pregnancy, if he'd have taken her to Oklahoma with him. She wondered that often. She’d never know. Besides, Connor might be Clay's son. Anything was possible. But she didn't believe it, and neither did he, though he never mentioned the other man. Denial was one of the few things Clayton Griffin was good at. So Holly stayed. She had a home, and a boyfriend. Not a husband. It seemed likely that Clay would drag his feet on that matter until the end of time. As long as some doubt remained, he was satisfied with their common-law arrangement. After all, he'd argue, in California you didn't need to make anything “official”. Wait long enough and it happened automatically.
Wait long enough, and you can see if your son looks like you or that guy who used to work at the Ready Gas.
“Play time's over.” Clay was standing behind the walker at the entrance to the kitchen. “The least that baby sitter of yours can do is get supper going before she leaves, since all you ever do when we get home is play googly-eyes with him.”
Holly offered her son a quick smile, as if to say it's okay; Mommy and Daddy are just talking. She looked up. “We pay Dot half of what a day care charges and she doesn't complain. The last thing I'd ask a friend to do is cook for me.”
“Well, then, get moving.” Having said his piece, Clay turned towards the kitchen. Then he paused. His eyes scanned back and forth along the floor as if trying to remember something. Holly’s mouth went dry, but she forced herself to swallow. There was more he was going to say, and when he hesitated like that, it meant the subject was one he'd been thinking about for a while. Holly didn't like it when Clay thought too much.
“What?” she asked quietly, wanting to get it over with. “What's wrong?”
He looked at her sideways, and she was grateful that she was currently out of swinging distance. “You've been talking to the Jesus freaks again.”
She shrugged, hoping to let forced nonchalance mask her apprehension. “Well,” she said, “I guess so.” Then added quickly, “But just for taking orders and stuff. Nothing personal.”
He turned back to face her, filling the entrance to the kitchen. “You trying to tell me they're not asking you to join them?”
“No, just buying stuff.” As soon as she'd said it, she felt heat flush along her neck and saw the change in his expression. She'd blown it.
He took a step towards her. “Lizzie said she heard you talking with that guy from Soledad, the one who's too chicken to use the store in his own town. Said you were asking him questions, not the other way around.”
Holly fought the urge to stand, move away from Connor in case Clay got rough. She stayed put, not wanting to look defiant. “Well, I don't know. It's all kind of weird. I might have asked him some stuff, but I always talk to the customers.”
Two more steps. He loomed over the two of them. His face was red. When he spoke, it was with control that looked out of place on him. Maybe the baby-walker in his path was the cause. She instinctively put a hand to its food tray. The baby reached for her fingers.
“You,” Clay began, “will not talk to those people. You will not talk to them.”
Slowly, carefully, Holly stood up and moved sideways a half step away from Connor. She heard his teething ring fall to the tray with a thud but kept her eyes on the man in front of her.
“Do you believe any of what they're saying?” she asked softly, the voice she used in pre-explosion moments like this. “Isn't it kind of weird there's so many people saying it? Maybe they're not crazy. Maybe -”
“Maybe they're not crazy,” he repeated in a child's taunting manner. Bad sign, she thought. “Maybe, maybe, maybe. You telling me you've had dreams like them, too?”
She shook her head. “Oh, God, no. Not at all.”
“Oh, God no,” again in that voice. “Maybe they're not crazy, but God no, not me. I'm not crazy!”
“Clay, don't - “
He stepped forward until there was only an inch between their faces. “It's a fake. It's all a fake. I know one hundred percent that it is, and you just listen to what I say and do what I say.”
Holly could tell Clay was clenching and unclenching his fists. She felt her muscles tighten, preparing for the inevitable. The baby bobbed up and down in the walker, trying to navigate closer to his mother.
He continued, “Don't be thinking too much about all this, and don't be asking stupid questions. I'll know. I'll know and you know what will happen then, especially if you think you can just saunter over to some psycho town like Greenfield or Lavish and shave your head and chant at the airport selling flowers!”
He wasn't making sense, but neither was he calming down. “I won't, Clay. I promise.”
“Because if you try to leave now, leave me with this kid, or even take him with you, I'll find you and - “
He stopped. Eyes darting back and forth. His words, if you try to leave now, played over in her head. It was a strange way to say it.
“I won't. I promise. I was just curious.”
“Yeah, well, curiosity... well, and all that. Don’t forget I’m your boss, too. If I have to fire you, I will.”
She held her palms up before him. “Clay, please. I already said I won’t. We need both incomes; you know that.”
Her spoken acknowledgement of his power over her, even if most was in his own half-hearted self-ego, released some of the fury he'd been building. He sighed, a lengthy dry expiration that offered hope. Holly dared not relax. Not yet.
“You just remember that. No one in this house is going to be chasing angels around in public. I mean it.” His voice was quieter, the calm after a storm passing overhead but not quite breaking.
She bent down and lifted Connor out of his walker. “I'll get some supper going,” she said, and walked past Clay into the kitchen. Holly didn't begin shaking until she was past him and safely into the other room. She heard him flop onto the couch followed by the television’s tinny voice. As fast as possible, she got Connor into a high chair and got him a few Cheerios to gum down, then went to the far corner of the kitchen, out of sight from the living room, and waited for the shaking to subside.
* * *
Carl Jorgenson did stop at McDonald's on the way home and bought a large Diet Coke and a couple of tasteless Fajitas. He ate them slowly, as the engine idled in the parking lot. Eventually the meal, and time, ran out. He could either go home to face his Mom's wrath (and likely his father’s - Dan Jorgensen would have come home a half hour ago unless he'd been delayed at work), or drive back to the common and hide. Reluctantly, Carl backed from his parking space and pulled out of the lot, turned right, headed home.
His parents were waiting. In fact, as Carl stepped in through the kitchen doorway, his mother had her jacket on and Dan was looking resigned to whatever direction his wife was going. She was about to head back to the common, Carl realized. Whatever his decision in the parking lot had been, he understood that avoiding this moment would not have been possible.
Sarah stared at her son for a long moment, her face tight with rage. She said nothing, only tore off her jacket and stormed from the room. She disappeared around the corner to the living room and Carl heard her sit angrily in one of the chairs.
Dan stared at his son, his face a mix of concern and irritation, something Carl had seen on the faces of the spectators around the common.
“Hi,” Carl said. He dropped his keys onto the counter, then regretted the act. What if his mother tried to hide them? She might do that. He remembered the spare key in his wallet and felt less exposed. He left the keys where they lay.
“Carl,” Dan said. “There's a lot we need to talk about, but it has to be said together, as a family.” He turned and followed his wife's path into the middle of the house. “Let's go,” he added, without turning back.
* * *
“All week? You've been there all week? Why hasn't the school called?” All of the blood in his mother’s body had raced to her face. Still, she remained in her chair. His father had taken a spot on the side of the couch closest to her, but not so as to make it look like an us versus you setup.
Carl sat in the other armchair. He'd told them everything. It was the only plan he could think of. All week he'd lied, made up quirky little stories about school or practice whenever they'd asked, enough to quell any fear they may have harbored about something dark lurking under the covers. If he lied now, however, they would know. They were looking for lies.
“I called the school the first three days,” he said quietly, hands folded between his knees. “I didn't call yesterday or today.”
“Why not?” his father asked.
“I don't know. Maybe I wanted them to call. They didn't, though, did they?”
His answer succeeded in pulling his mother out of her chair. Dan lightly touched her arm. She stopped but remained standing. His father said quietly, with a growing irritation, “Let's stop bantering about with trivial nonsense. Carl, why didn't you tell us? Why did you have to sneak behind our backs like this? If you felt some responsibility to help your teacher, we could have - “
“We could have told him again to stay away from that loon,” Sarah spat. “That's why he didn't tell us.” She began to pace in front of the couch.
Carl stood up. “She's not crazy!”
Sarah stopped and looked at him. “No, a middle-aged woman who sees angels and builds a boat in front of the fire station is not crazy. Not at all.”
Carl squeezed his hands together behind his back. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with his mother. “Mom, I love you. I really do. But aren't you hearing the news? She's not the only one! They're all over the place. People are suddenly building boats in their front yards, facing others like... people who think they're crazy. Why would they do this if it -”
“Is that it? This is some new fad, the cool psycho stunt to pull? Let's build an ark and yell Halleluiah, God's a comin'!”
“Sarah, that's enough.” Dan patted the cushion beside him. “Sit. We're a family having a conversation about something that's important to Carl, and being sarcastic isn't going to help.”
For a moment, Carl felt hope. His father's voice had been reassuringly calm. But there were other, subtle signs that someone outside the Jorgenson household wouldn't notice. The vein on his father's neck, pulsing quickly; the man's tight-lipped expression when he wasn't talking. He wanted to believe that his Dad's anger was towards Carl's mother, but he couldn't afford such illusions.
Sarah sat back down on the couch. Dan looked at his son. “Carl, we don't want you to be out there with Mrs. Carboneau. There's not much else to say.”
Carl felt the wind blow out of him. There was no discussion. His father had calmed the woman down only to turn and lay down the law, as if his son was still nine years old and had to obey without question. All he could manage to say in reply was, “What?”
“You heard me. Maybe you think you're doing the right thing; maybe you're even a little afraid of all the stuff she's saying. But you'd have to be blind not to realize that everyone in town thinks she's a little crazy, along with anyone who might be down there helping. We'd rather you not be part of that.”
Heat filled his stomach; his chest tightened. Carl tried to remember what Mrs. Carboneau said to him as he left the common, but all he could picture was her set expression, her total seriousness, not the words themselves. She wasn't crazy. She was frightened, much like his parents but for different reasons.
Then again, maybe they were all scared of the same thing. He didn't look up when he said, “Dad, Mom. Do you believe what she's saying? About the flood, I mean?”
“Absolutely not!” His mother's answer, quick and with no hesitation.
Carl looked up. “Dad?”
Dan said, quietly, “No, Carl. I don't.”
“I do. I believe every word of what she's saying.” His mother squirmed in her seat and Carl raised his hand. “Hold on! I don't get to have my own say? Is that it? You haven't talked to her! You didn't see the fear in that lady’s eyes. Yes, it's fear. She doesn't want to be out there building a stupid boat! She was ordered to!” Now he was standing and pacing, and suddenly his parents seemed very small.
“I'm going back there tomorrow, and the next day, and I wish you'd both come with me because I don't want you to die! Please come with me before all the spots on board are taken.”
Dan Jorgenson didn't look small any more. He slowly rose from the couch, giving his wife a gentle push on the arm as he did so. Sarah remained seated as her husband stepped forward. “Don't you think,” he said quietly, rage burning behind his own eyes, “that this might be some new form of doomsday cult? That come the final day you'll all be on board and forced to drink poison, or simply be shot dead? It's happened –”
“Oh for God's sake, Dad! These aren't religious fanatics. They're housewives, fathers, regular people like us! They're not going to hurt anyone. They're trying to save us! God’s trying to save us!”
Dan took another step closer. “You're not going back there.”
Carl forced himself to keep eye contact. “Yes, I am.”
He saw the man's fist as an after-image which vanished a moment after it connected with his face, before the room faded quickly to black.
46
“Tell me, Doctor Ramprakash, will the world be around in forty-six days?” Bernard Meyers grimaced and added, “Hoo, boy! Let's hope this coffee isn’t.”
The director put down the styrene cup with two fingers as if it was covered in filth. He meant the comment lightly, but Neha felt a knot turn in her stomach. She'd been less affected these past few days by the increasing news reports, since she and Suresh had come to an agreement. The morning after the fight, Suresh found her still in the study, asleep in the chair. With sleep, restless and uncomfortable as it was, came the ability to deal with her husband. Seeing his concern, his true love for her as he knelt in front of the chair, her tears came easily. They had been comforting, and useful.
Neha had fallen into her husband's arms that morning, like the starlets in the countless Indian films they enjoyed, pouring out her heartfelt but controlled apologies for her earlier reaction. This seemed all Suresh needed to pull his wife to him. But Neha could not leave things open-ended. With sobbing drama, she begged Suresh not to follow the dreams, to maintain things as they used to be. How frightened she was, for him, for what others might think. She was careful not to fall into specifics of her own reputation, but kept her concerns directed towards him. They had built so much, she explained, had so many plans.
Getting him to agree, to look in her drying eyes and promise that he would put her before anything else, was a prize she carried with her through this week. He'd kept his word, not bringing up the subject unless she initiated the discussion. Which she did, twice, in order to gauge his response. Thursday night she was home in time to watch the six o'clock news. As she expected, there was continuing coverage of another ark, this time in a North Andover back yard. She sat, feet curled below her, nestled against Suresh's chest and asked, “Have you had more dreams?”
He had actually stopped breathing for a moment. She felt his heart speed up against her ear. Then he slowly let out his breath and said simply, “No. No, I haven't.”
He’d been lying, but more than that, she heard such sadness in his words. Sadness because at that moment, curling tighter against her husband, she knew that he would ignore the dreams, respect her wishes. Respect their growing place in the world.
