Margaret's Ark, page 22
“Let her talk,” someone shouted from the crowd. “This is why we're here!”
“It's not her meeting,” someone else said. “She has to follow - “
“I don't care about protocol, if that's why - “
Voices rose and vied for attention. Selectman Major stood and worked his way between Margaret and Edgecomb. He spoke calmly, and his amplified voice won over the others.
“That is exactly right. We're here for the sole purpose of determining whether or not this town should continue to allow Mrs. Carboneau to finish her ark.” As he spoke, he rested a hand on Edgecomb's shoulder in a gesture of unity, while very subtly pushing him aside. Edgecomb understood he was being given the chance to step aside gracefully, and relented. He did not sit, but did take a couple of steps under his own power and allowed Major the floor.
“There is the issue,” Major was saying, “of the current zoning laws, even with the passionate division among religious and societal issues. If we are to allow, or deny, any variance in these statutes, we need to hear all reasons for such.”
He turned to Margaret. “Mrs. Carboneau, we will allow a five minute extension of your chair, after which we will ask that you be seated until such time as you may again address the assembly.”
She nodded, and Major stepped aside. He remained standing beside Edgecomb whose anger smeared across his red face.
Margaret took her five minutes to express her one wish to the town. Label her as a prophet, or a lunatic, but give her until the eighth of June to finish her work. If that day came and nothing happened, they could lock her up and throw away the key. Have a special ark razing ceremony. Do whatever they’d like. Have the biggest “I told you so” in the history of the town at her expense. All she asked was that they wait. Wait and see. At this point, all police duty was being paid from her and her crew’s personal savings. All she asked from the town was patience and a small plot of land, and even then only temporarily.
For those angry with her, who hated her for what she and her people signified, she asked only indifference. Ignore her, and in thirty-two days, she would go away.
She promised.
With her speech completed, the meeting continued for another two and a half hours. Twice, Margaret asked for the floor when she realized truths were being twisted by Edgecomb or various townspeople waiting their turns to speak. One of these people was Sarah Jorgenson. When taking her respective turn to speak, Carl’s mother glared at Margaret with unhidden malice. Her take was an effective one -- that she was frightening the children of the town, going so far as to “steal away” her son into her cult. This launched a series of comments from other parents, describing nightmare-ridden nights with their children, behavior problems with teenagers who justified their actions by stating their decision to “do whatever I want because the world's gonna end in a month anyway.”
Thankfully, Carl managed to work his way to one of the microphones set up in the middle aisle for public commentary. His arm had been raised for an hour, and not until Margaret caught Major's eye and pointed him out was he recognized to speak.
Carl had to walk past his parents to get to the microphone. Sitting with them was a much older man, and from the resemblance he held to Carl’s father, and the teenager’s short-lived look of happiness when he saw the man, Margaret wondered if this was his grandfather. Carl’s smile paled under the old man’s angry stare. Dan Jorgenson, for his part, kept his hands folded in front of him as if in prayer, fists clenched so hard his fingers had gone pale. Margaret found herself staring at these hands, even as Carl began to speak. The side of Carl’s face still sported the fading, yellowed bruise. Most people likely didn’t notice it, but Margaret was certain his father did. A new wave of sadness for the couple washed over her. Carl was brief but effective in his assertion that he had made his own choice, and to Margaret's surprise told the town how his father had struck him and locked him in his room to keep him from returning to “Mrs. Carboneau's ark.” By the time he was finished, Sarah was crying loudly, the wail of a mother grieving a lost son. His father’s face was dry, a statue in the crowd. Carl kept his head, and averted his eyes when he passed them. She wondered if the boy was also avoiding his grandfather’s disapproving stare.
The only person who did not address the crowd, which surprised her, was the white-haired third selectman. Now and then he looked her way, or took notes on his own legal pad. Never once did he stand to address any issue or question.
Father Nick Mayhew had his turn to speak, which he took briefly, as did Kaufman the high school principal and a half-dozen other teachers and former co-workers. To her delight, all but Kaufman had glowing appraisals of Margaret’s work prior to her leaving the school. Some students managed to find the microphone, and though Margaret was expecting some more positive feedback from them, all but one thought she was a crackpot. Back and forth until eleven o'clock when the selectman called for a vote by tally. At Major's insistence the tally would be counted before the meeting was adjourned.
The question posed to the townspeople was, “Should Margaret Carboneau be allowed a variance on zoning laws one-fifty-one, two-thirty-seven and two-thirty-eight, specifically, in order to allow her to complete construction and man her ship, until eleven-fifty nine PM, on the night of June eighth, after which time the zoning laws will again be put into effect?”
As soon as the question was asked, three separate lines formed in the three aisles leading to the auditorium stage. Edgecomb seemed content with this approach, and Margaret assumed he'd stacked the attendance enough to win. Still, he could not control the arguments presented, especially not with Major insisting on acknowledging those Edgecomb ignored.
Margaret had nothing to do while the lines slowly moved towards the tabulation boxes, except nurse her third Diet Coke and wait. At one point, she was startled by the realization that all arguments tonight revolved around her own ark. No mention, save a quick reference to “arks” as a plural by one person, was given to Benson's ship. The man himself was nowhere to be seen.
Father Nick joined her on stage after he'd cast his own vote. She mentioned her concern for Benson as the priest pulled up a chair from the back of the stage. He patted her on the shoulder and said simply, “You've been at this a month already, Margaret, which probably feels like a lifetime. It took a lot to stand in front of an entire town and say what you said - which you said quite well, by the way. The gentleman who started the second ark has been at it for less than a week. I'm sure just starting one in the first place, especially without having any of the dreams, was hard enough. This,” he gestured to the crowd, “must have been too much.” He smiled. “I suppose he's relying on your gift of public speaking to pull him through.”
Margaret laughed. She looked at him closely. “You created quite a stir on Sunday, I hear.”
Nick grimaced. “Yep,” he sighed. “Didn't do wonders for the collection basket.”
By midnight, the three women assigned to counting were busy at work. Behind each stood one police officer, under pretense of protecting the counters from any undue influence. Margaret noticed their eyes remained riveted, not on the waiting crowd, but on each individual vote and how the women marked them on their sheets.
By the time the sixty-four percent “yes” vote was announced, Margaret was too tired to offer any reaction except a relieved sigh. She hugged Nick, then Carl when he joined her onstage. She thanked selectman Major quickly before being led from the building by two police officers who insisted on driving her home. She tossed her keys to Carl who’d follow in her car.
Three television crews and a handful of newspaper reporters, barred from the proceedings, were waiting outside. She begged them off, offering plenty of interviews for the next day. A fourth news crew waited in front of her house. The police sent them away before allowing her out of the cruiser. When she and Carl entered the house, accompanied by a small round of applause from those waiting up for them inside, Margaret looked out through the curtain. One cruiser pulled away after a brief discussion with the driver of a second pulling to the curb. The remaining policewoman looked up at the house, got into her own car, but did not pull away. She turned off the headlights and from her silhouette cast by the street lamp was settling in for the evening.
The ad-hoc celebration ended quickly. Carl was soon stretched out on the couch. In the girls’ room, Robin was wrapped up in her sheets, breathing easily, her face soft in the glow of the nightlight. Margaret turned to see Katie staring back at her from her own bed. Her expression remained as hard and angry as that morning. When her mother moved to approach, the girl rolled over to face the wall.
Margaret left without speaking and lay atop the folding cot in the kitchen, for she’d given her own bedroom to Estelle. Even with the heart-splitting sorrow at Katie’s reaction, she was asleep in minutes, and did not dream.
27
The ark across the common was never completed, nor was any effort made to re-build what had been started. The day after the town meeting, Margaret's group learned of Benson's suicide. He had lingered all day at the building site after the fire, not saying much to either his own crew or to Margaret when she'd offered whatever help she could. The next day she was struck dumb by the news that, as she’d stood on the stage and pleaded her case with the residents of Lavish, Benson had climbed a ladder to the roof of his house under cover of night, secured a rope around the chimney and then his neck, and jumped, or slid, along the shingles and over the edge. He left no note, his legacy reduced to an ex-wife living near Baltimore and a pile of ashes in the center of town.
The rest of his crew were like sheep without a shepherd for most of Sunday. A tall, ungainly man with a poorly-trimmed goatee emerged from the flock as leader and organized the shipping of what unused lumber hadn't been burned to his own back yard. Margaret and her crew never heard from them again. No one had come to her for the specifications with which to rebuild. Either the goateed man had worked it out himself, or they hadn't gotten very far before giving up entirely.
Over the next five days, Margaret's crew managed to jury-rig a new stern, cutting and re-forming the beams and wall, sealing it with nails, seam tape and shipper’s glue. Even with the added ventilation, the interior reeked with a dark, burning odor. Margaret accepted that they would never get the smell out. Jennifer built a few makeshift shelves along the back and laid out vases of flowers, potpourri wreaths, anything she could find to compete with the stench. The result was more overpowering than the smoky odor they'd started with. The repairs tapped them of most remaining lumber, leaving inventory well shy of the required work left to do.
Thursday morning found Margaret and Carl back at the lumber store. The warehouse-sized building looked like a department store on Christmas Eve. Many shelves were empty, dozens of pallets lay discarded on the floor or stacked against the walls. Margaret hadn’t come back herself since last month. Even with the recent reports of lowered inventory since the rain, she hadn’t adequately pictured how bad it had become.
The girl behind the desk looked familiar. She'd been working when Margaret had ordered her first load of wood.
“I'm sorry, Ms. Carboneau,” she said. “We had a small shipment in on Friday, but it wasn't much. Demand's been so high.”
“That's all right,” Margaret said, keeping a neutral expression to hide her disappointment. “We don't need much.” She handed the list Estelle had written up that morning.
The girl, “Holly” according to the nametag pinned at a crooked angle to her shirt, looked over the list. The fact that her face didn't register any sort of relief wasn't a good sign.
“Well,” she whispered, not looking up from the paper. “Maybe I can get some of these things.”
“I'm afraid not.” A man in a green shirt similar to Holly's approached from behind and did a quick scan of the order. He looked at Margaret and Carl. “I'm afraid we can't help you anymore.”
Carl leaned against the counter. “Why not? We're paying for all this - “
“I understand,” the man interrupted. “Not that this ark nonsense hasn't been good for business, but you aren’t my only customers.”
The man was obviously a manager though he wore no nametag. Margaret laid a calming hand on Carl's arm and said, quietly, “What does it matter who buys your wood? We'll pay double what you're asking.”
The man's expression softened, but Margaret felt this turn of mood had nothing to do with a change of heart. “Listen,” he said, “I've got over two hundred contractors, some big, others only one-man shows. They depend on my inventory to keep their businesses alive.” He waved an arm indicating the store. “Look around you, lady. Our suppliers can't keep up with the hysteria you caused over that rain. You're sucking us dry. Business may be booming now, but next month when you shrug your shoulders and say 'Oh well', where's that going to leave me? My regulars will have found a new supplier - not that other stores are overflowing with wood lately, either.” He added the last caveat more to himself, looking around his store as if suddenly forgetting he'd been talking to someone.
Margaret kept staring at him. He did not look back. She felt the muscles of Carl’s arm tightening and loosening as he opened and closed his fists. She said, “Next month all of your regulars will be dead. Next month, this store will be gone. Next month, we intend to be on our ship per God's instructions, one way or another.”
Carl's muscles stopped their flexing. Her bluntness had caught not only him by surprise. The manager looked back at her, the fire behind his eyes no longer suppressed.
He hissed, “Get the hell out of my store.” Holly stood between him and the desk and looked terrified, as if this man would at any moment beat her up, if only to show he meant business. “And don’t think I didn’t hear the threat - ‘One way or the other’. You try stealing one piece of sawdust and I'll blow your Jesus-loving brains across the floor.”
Carl hopped over the counter, shoved Holly aside and had the man's shirt bunched up in his fists. He spat a steady stream of threats and obscenities, face a hair's length away from the manager's. Margaret's first instinct was to run around the counter and pull him away, but she waited. Carl didn’t hit him, did not shake him back and forth but merely stood there, shouting words and curses so vile Margaret would have laughed at their absurdity if the situation had been different.
Then a crowd of men in similar shirts were running up the aisles, converging on the center sales desk.
“Carl.” She spoke his name, calmly, and Carl stopped, his face lingering for another moment before he shoved the manager backwards. The other’s face was red, but he said nothing, merely watched as Carl jumped back over the counter, surrounded by employees who weren't sure what to do.
Margaret and Carl walked from the store in silence. No one stopped them.
Holly watched them go. Only when they had disappeared from sight did Clay move. He stared at her, but she knew better than to look back at him. He took a step forward. Her shoulders bunched up in expectation. People were crowded around the counter, shouting questions at both of them. Too many people, she thought. Finally, Clay told them to shut up and stalked off towards the stockroom. As he did, Holly heard him mutter, “I can't wait until they all float away and leave the rest of us alone.”
His words were intended for no one in particular, but they struck her with more power than his fists ever had. I can't wait until they all float away. What did he mean by that?
Having watched the Carboneau women and her teenage son walking down the aisle, Holly felt a new panic rise. It was going to happen. She believed that. She’d always believed it. Did Clay?
She thought of Connor, her baby. The store disappeared around her. Now was the time, if ever. Holly wondered if Clay was going to go home. Probably not. Not yet. People lingered about the sales desk, asking questions, but she ignored them and picked up the phone, dialed '9' then her home number. All the while, a sense of nervous urgency filled her. If she was going to go through with her plans, she sensed somehow it had to begin now.
“Dot? Hi; it's Holly. Is Connor sleeping? No? How’s he doing?”
She hoped her friend Dorothy Lang did not hear any panic in her voice. The woman merely proceeded to describe Connor's morning. Hearing the adoration in Dot’s voice reminded her of how good a choice she'd made in picking her friend as a full-time baby-sitter. Dot had been laid off from the Gonzales school system a month before Connor had been born, and was more than happy to be doing something, especially since she and Phil hadn’t been able, not yet at least, to have any kids of their own.
Holly only half listened to Dot’s words. She and Clay had driven to work together this morning. Holly had the keys. Clay couldn't leave without her. She had a chance. She let Dot ramble on about Connor's adventures with creamed carrots. He'd only started solid food last week, and it had been a glorious adventure getting him to try. With Holly ignoring their questions – her attention riveted on the lighted button of the phone – those gathered around her migrated away from the desk and back to their own depleted department shelves or into the back to get answers from Clay.
When she was alone, Holly interrupted, “Dot, listen, do me a favor?” She looked around. No one was close enough to hear. “I'm leaving work a little early. My chest is killing me and I think I'd better nurse Connor myself instead of pump.” A pause, listening. “I know, but phasing that out has to be gradual. And Dot? Can you dress him up for going outside? Get his diaper bag ready and a change of clothes... in case he makes a mess. Yes. I'm taking the rest of the day off, thinking of bringing Connor to the park for the afternoon. That’s right. Thanks, Dot. Bye.”
Talking about feeding the baby set off the inevitable physical reaction in her breasts. The nursing response still amazed her. The sound of a baby crying in the store was enough to get her body producing milk. Still, it was a secondary consideration at the moment. She'd have to nurse Connor when she got home, but only enough to take the pressure off. It wouldn’t be long before Clay realized she was gone, and he'd grab the first person with a car to see what she was up to.
