Margaret's Ark, page 28
Carl reviewed the prior day's events in his mind. When he lay down to sleep each night, his mind whirled with questions and plans, thoughts of his mother and father, his grandfather, wondering if they were crying or plotting against him. If he would die on June eighth or live. How he could rearrange the storage compartments to make a little more room. When he awoke, his mind was blank, and only those items he allowed in, for the first moments of the day, came forth. He enjoyed just lying here, pondering the patterns of the stars, seeing how long he could go before finally sneaking down the ramp to head for the bathroom in the firehouse.
The priest . Father Nick had lain down on the deck a couple of feet away. Slowly, in no rush, Carl turned his head.
Nick Mayhew lay on the deck, hands folded behind his head, eyes open and staring at the morning starlight. In response to Carl's movement, he turned his own head to face him.
Carl whispered, “Good morning, Father. Did you sleep?”
Nick nodded as much as possible in his current position. “A little. I certainly slept more soundly than I had in a long time.” He smiled. “No worries about the phone ringing.”
Carl turned back to the sky. The priest did the same. A question occurred to him, one that Carl had wanted to ask him last night but didn’t. The man had been so exhausted he didn't dare put him to work.
“Father?”
“Yes?”
Carl kept expecting him to respond with “Please call me Nick,” but he never did. The priest might be young, but was awfully serious about his job.
“I was listening to some TV evangelist - not that Starr guy in the city but some other one. Anyway, he was talking about how, at the end, some people that God chooses will be taken up to heaven. They called it something I can't remember, but that if you're born again, you'll be taken up, body and everything. Everyone else will have to hang out when all the bad shit happens. Oh, sorry.”
“Bad shit is as good a description as any I've heard,” Nick whispered, then fell quiet. Carl began to wonder if he’d fallen back to sleep when the priest added, “It's called the Rapture. One of the many controversial debates among us Christians. Even more hotly debated than whether the toilet paper goes over the spool or under.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Bad joke. To answer your question, the official stand of the Catholic Church is that no, the theory that the various references to what these people call the Rapture is not what they describe. We don’t preach the concept that some will be taken up to heaven before the end time, and others not. We don’t denounce it, either. Interpretation of Scripture can be a slippery thing. In the end, I guess all will face Judgment on their own merits, and faults, when the Lord returns. Whenever that might be. But like I said, a good many disagree even on that basic tenant.”
Carl thought this over. The answer sounded too official to his liking so he asked, “What about you? Personally. Should all the really good people be taken up to heaven before quarter past eight on Wednesday?”
Nick sighed, and turned his head to face him. “Considering what might happen, I sure hope so. Do I think they will?” He closed his eyes, as if in sorrow. “No. No, I don't.”
The priest got up slowly, quietly, into a sitting position and stretched. He checked his watch, reached over and slapped Carl once on the foot. “Gotta go. Will you attend Mass when I come back?”
“If you'll take a Lutheran, I guess so.”
Nick smiled. “I love Lutherans. See you later.”
Carl never got up. From his vantage point, he watched the priest climb over the railing and land soundlessly on the ramp. He watched the fading stars and heard the man's soft footfalls, then nothing until the distant rev of a car. Finally he got up himself and stepped over the railing. Like Nick, he was afraid opening the small gate would make noise. He headed down the ramp, and towards the firehouse to pee.
5
“We have too many books.”
“What're you talking about? Two per person, and a bunch for the kids. Hardly takes up any space.”
Al didn't look convinced. He sat back on his haunches, hunkered beside the open compartment under the stern-side deck. The area was three feet square, packed tight with paperbacks, two Bibles (a small piece of two-by-four holding open a space for Carl’s if the kid ever got around to packing the thing away) a couple of hard covers, three photo albums and a row of children's books. He wriggled one out from the latter grouping and held it between himself and Tony.
“Goodnight Moon,” he read aloud. “Maybe I'm just acting like a perpetual bachelor, but what good is Goodnight Moon when we're stuck floating on the ocean somewhere?”
Tony smiled. He and Jen didn't have children. They weren't even married yet, but he had three nephews whose favorite time with Uncle Tony consisted of two things: wrestling on the living room rug, when they should be putting on their pajamas, and reading stories. He stuck a finger into the hole to keep the narrow slot open for the book.
“Spend however-many days we'll be spending in this box with two little kids and a baby and tell me these books won't have any use. I'll agree we could shove in a few more gallons of water, or more of that beef jerky you keep eating. But I guarantee you, Buddy, come a week and we'll be so desperate to amuse the kids we'll be reading them the ingredients off cereal boxes.”
Al waved the picture book before him a moment longer, then shoved it roughly into the space, banging Tony's fingers.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” He reached for the panel to secure the compartment. It fit perfectly, though the minor gaps on one side worried him. If any water got onto the floor, it would leak all over the pages. He lifted the panel again. “We really should seal these compartment doors with some kind of gasket,” he said. “Do we have any weather stripping?”
“Weather what?”
“You know, that stuff they line the doors with to keep the drafts out. Sticky on one side?” When Tony's blank stare remained, Al slammed the compartment back down. “No,” he said, “of course not. You native Californians don't even know what a draft is, unless it's in a beer glass.” He rose, stretched and headed towards the bow and the ladder leading above deck. “Try living in Seattle for a winter,” he called back. “I'm off to the hardware store... again.”
Tony adjusted the panel tighter over the compartment and locked the brackets in place. The boat could tip upside down and it wouldn't budge. Yet another of Margaret's frightening little design specs. He watched Al's foot disappear into the sunlight above deck, and smirked in spite of himself.
* * *
“What's that?”
Al held up the three plastic packages. “Weather stripping. I guess it's not as alien to this climate as I thought. Gotta seal up the compartments in the hold, in case it gets wet in there.”
Marty Santos shrugged. “Always something last minute, huh?”
Al nodded. “What's up? Thanks for the fire extinguishers by the way.”
“What? Oh, no problem. Still stink in there?”
“Not too bad. A little.”
Marty looked around the square. Every day brought more cars. Now they were parked two-deep around the area, regardless of how often the police sent them away. Closing in, he thought. “Al, what do you think all these people will do on Wednesday, when everything hits the fan I mean?”
Al looked at his former boss, squinting even though the sun was behind him. “Thought you didn't believe any of it.”
Marty looked at him. His expression was tight, the lines of his face flattened. “No,” he whispered. “I believe it. After that rain in April, well, I have to, don't I?”
Al wasn't sure how to respond. Weakly, he waved towards the ark. “Why... don't you get onto the list?”
Marty laughed. “In four days, do you think the list would ever get to me?”
“No,” Al said. “No, it won't. But - “
“But nothing. How's Margaret?”
“She's fine. Wonders why you haven't come by. Thinks you avoid her when she comes into the station for stuff.”
Marty smiled. “Yeah, well. You know.”
Al didn't, but decided to drop the subject. “You've helped us, helped her, more than you had to. Thanks.”
Marty looked at him for a while, a long penetrating stare which Al returned silently. Finally, the fire chief said, “The way you just up and joined like that. Dropped everything. Your career, your future.”
Al shrugged, and his mustache twitched in the only semblance of a smile Marty had ever seen on him. “I'm not a big fan of coincidence. It was too much not to believe.”
Marty wrinkled his brow. “You take care of Margaret, okay? Whatever happens, I can tell she's come to depend on you. I can see it, even if it's just from the station window.”
Al just nodded. Marty pressed on, as painful as it was for him to say. “Maybe, well, who knows? You two can get together after. She's been alone too long.”
Al 's face broke into a wide grin then, making him look even more the part of the Marlboro Man as others often likened him to. “That's one thing you won't have to worry about, Boss.”
“I never said I was worried.”
Al patted him on the shoulder, still smiling. “Yeah, well, regardless. She’s not exactly my type.” He looked as if he was about to say something else, but only walked towards the ark, swinging the bag full of weather stripping packages beside him. Marty rubbed the spot where the man had had hit his shoulder.
Margaret emerged from below deck, saw Marty and waved. He waved back, thought of going over to her. Instead, he turned and walked slowly back to the station, feeling her gaze on his back. He couldn't say goodbye. Not yet. Maybe later. Maybe never.
In a few days, they'd be sailing away. He had no idea how, but they would. They'd leave him and everyone else behind. He kept walking, feeling more weary with every step. For a moment he had an irresistible urge to lay down there on the grass and sleep. The town common swayed around him. He wasn't going to fall down. He was going to stay focused until the end. Five days, God, that's all I ask. Five lousy days.
The exhaustion faded. He continued towards the station with only a minor wobble in his stride. Maybe he'd lie down when he got inside, see if a few minutes’ sleep might present itself.
4
“Receive the body of Christ.”
Nick worked around one of the beams, brushing against a harness as he moved to the next person; hands were raised before them as they awaited the Host.
“The body of Christ.”
“Amen.” Jennifer took the communion wafer with her right hand and put it into her mouth. Like everyone attending Mass inside the ship, she was kneeling. Those not receiving had moved towards the back, though continued to kneel like the others. Nick stepped aside and gave communion to Margaret's daughter Katie, who had completed her First Communion class just prior to the start of this nightmare. Beside her was Robin, only four years old. Nick had the urge to offer her the Host anyway, but it was a fleeting whim. He put his hand on her head and said, “May God bless you and keep you all the days of your life.”
She smiled gleefully at this, like most younger children did when they came with their parents for the Sacrament.
“The body of Christ.”
Margaret said, “Amen,” and took the host.
Thank you, Lord, for allowing me this day , Nick thought. He continued moving among the tiny congregation.
3
“Attention, please. It seems we're slightly overbooked this afternoon. If anyone would like to give up their seat, we'd be more than happy to give you passage on the next available flight to your destination plus vouchers for free air travel to any destination in the continental United States.” The flight attendant looked nervous behind her smile.
“Damn greedy airlines,” Neha muttered. “Always asking favors from passengers but never supplying product.” Suresh nodded but said nothing. He had not been very talkative these past few days. Neha watched a family of four work their way excitedly up the aisle, dreams of a second vacation to the Grand Canyon or other such tourist trap dancing in their heads. Neha's own seat offered a sense of security she found discomforting. She didn't like her situation feeling so tenuous. It wasn't as if anyone had the power to force them off the plane, not now. When she and Suresh had waited in the hard plastic chairs in the terminal, they watched a line of people argue for seats. “You sold us the tickets!” they shouted, or “I have my online confirmation right here” waving a sheet of paper in the clerk's face.
So many people, arguments at booking counters, flights sold out. Looks of desperation on everyone’s face, even those who’d already checked in and held their boarding pass in trembling hands. One red-faced man had scanned the seated crowd. From what Neha had heard of his argument, he'd been screwed over and was plainly thinking of how to screw someone else in return. When his sweaty gaze met hers, she returned the look and thought, Mess with me and I'll cut out your heart. She continued with the telepathic barrage until he looked elsewhere.
Meanwhile Suresh took it all in from his seat beside her with a calmness that infuriated her. Now, thank God, they were sitting in the plane, watching the desperate flight attendant move back towards the microphone. Again, she asked if anyone else would like to take the airline up on its generous offer. No one did.
Neha wasn't surprised. The flight was non-stop to Denver. Mountain country. High above the fray. Safe haven.
Morons .
Eventually, all trays were raised into their upright and locked positions. The attendants did their how-to-breathe-if-the-plane-smashes-into-a-mountain dance and the airplane mercifully backed away from the terminal.
Neha wondered what she'd expected to happen. Perhaps the red-faced guy would storm inside, gun in hand. People were hurting each other a lot lately. As the plane accelerated along the runway, she felt her fear fall away. The plane rose, banked slightly to the right, and sailed away from Logan airport, away from Boston and the East Coast. Leaving it all far, far behind.
She’d been staring through the small window since they took off. Now she looked at her husband. Suresh was holding her hand. When her eyes had adjusted to the interior light, she saw he was crying.
“What's wrong with you?”
She tried to sound comforting. Just a few days more, she reminded herself. Just a few more days.
Suresh smiled, a single tear finding its way down his dark face. “Nothing,” he said. “Everything is perfect.” He squeezed her hand. Neha couldn't stand it any longer. She pulled her hand away and reached under the seat for her bag. She'd picked up a random book at the gift shop. If Suresh was going to be weeping for the next five hours, at least she could mentally escape to a world other than the one containing her husband's sad, lonely face.
2
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been ten years since my last confession.”
Father Doiron listened to the woman on the other side of the confessional screen. She offloaded her sins of gluttony, the incident three years ago when she struck her son, the illicit thoughts for a man at work, which had not been acted upon. Doiron forced himself to sit straight in his chair, grateful that his parish at Holy Trinity still had the old phone-booth styled confessionals. These days, some merely used two chairs with only a thin screen between, if that. Normally, he thought of this modern method for the Sacrament of Reconciliation as noble. Not now. Not when there were so many people coming to unload their sins. He felt shame for wanting to keep this solid barrier between him and his flock.
So many of them.
“Father?”
Doiron spoke at once. “Is there not something you are holding back? A confession before God should be complete.”
The woman was silent for a moment, then, “No, Father. I don't know. Not that I can recall.”
“Very well. Are you sorry for these things, truly repentant in your wish for God's forgiveness?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then it is given.” He uttered the rite of Penance. The words, though sacred in his heart, came as automatic as breath from so much repetition. He then instructed her to pray three Acts of Contrition, a decade of Hail Mary's, explained to her what a “decade” was, and offered a final blessing.
Shuffling sounds as she rose and left. Someone immediately took her place. The priest leaned forward a moment and looked through the slats of his confessional door and into the rest of the church. Too many people to count, lined up along the sides of the pews all the way into the back.
So many of them . As he had been doing every day since the shooting, he prayed that Father McMillan would return. Even for a little while. There were so many people, so many in the parish needing him. Doiron felt as if there was nothing left of him to offer these people. Still, they kept coming.
He was so tired.
Someone on the other side of the screen whispered, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
1
Father Tim McMillan walked along the streets of Arlington, Massachusetts. He knew these neighborhoods not only from his own memories, but from the intimate pictures - some happy and some dark - drawn for him over the years by the people of his parish. The houses and streets always offered something new each time he walked by them, especially at night. The world of day bred familiarity, but in the dark the world changed, cooled, washed away the dirt and grime built under the sun’s glare.
