Margaret's Ark, page 8
When she was finished, Marty remained quiet. Then he turned and walked away, stopped, looked back at the piles of lumber, and returned to stand beside her again.
“Margaret, do you know the least bit about building a ship?”
“No. I mean, not before the dream. God showed me how. I knew what to get, didn't I?”
“Well... plywood? You can't build a boat out of plywood. It'll fall apart.”
Details of the ship's construction hadn't waned in their circuitous journey through her brain. She saw everything, the finished product. The feeling was stronger now, building to some cerebral climax threatening to send her into madness if she didn't act soon. God's way of screaming, Get your ass in gear, woman! It wouldn’t have been the first time.
“It will float. If we build it right, it will float. God said it will.” She stood straighter, trying to sound convinced. “So it will.”
Marty tried not to smile. Or was it a grimace? He thought she was nuts. “What do you mean, we?”
Margaret shrugged. “I could use the help. At least for a while, until I can find others to join me. I mean, unless there's something else you have to be doing. I assume you're on duty, but - “
Marty raised his hand and said quietly, “Okay; okay. You're scaring me, Maggie. I've never heard you ramble like this before. I'm not saying I believe you. But I guess I can help. For a while, at least. Edgecomb is a jerk and will probably chew me out for doing this, but you know the old saying. Don't ask and they might not say 'no'.”
Adrian Edgecomb was one of Lavish’s three selectmen. The other two usually cow-towed to his belligerence so in effect he ran the town. Until this moment, it never occurred to her that someone might actually take some action against a person building a boat in the center of town.
Two other firemen approached casually from the station. Unlike the police who could cruise around town between calls, firefighters tended to hang at the station during any down time. They were always ready for a distraction.
The younger man, Ben, crouched down to listen to the girls as they gave him the basic run-down of events. Seeing them talk to him like that made Margaret realize she'd neglected one of their old pleasures from the time before Vince died. They loved visiting the station, being spoiled rotten by those on duty. As if on cue, Ben produced a tootsie roll, probably left over from their recent “Traffic Light” fund-raiser.
The second man was shorter, with a stereotypical bushy moustache. Margaret nodded to him, trying to recall his name. He nodded back almost imperceptibly. His eyes studied her for a long moment. It was the same look the men from the delivery truck had worn.
“Building an ark?” he finally asked. The eyes burned into her.
The chief tried to sound conciliatory. “We listen to the news, Margaret. This shit is the talk of the country. Oh, sorry, girls.”
Robin looked up. “Is 'shit' a bad word, Mommy?”
“Yes.”
Marty faced the other men. “Listen, guys. Like it or not, Margaret's planning on building this thing. She's alone,” he lowered his voice but not so much as to keep Margaret from hearing, “and she's Vince's widow.” Then, louder, “What say we help get her started at least?”
The man with the moustache glowered at her, then nodded his head and walked towards the lumber. Ben rose and said, “They're not going to like this too much.”
“Well, for the moment, I don’t really care,” Marty said. Ben hesitated and looked over his shoulder towards the town offices, then joined in undoing the metal braces around the woodpiles. The chief turned back to Margaret. “Well, you've got me, Ben and Al for a while at least.” His name is Al; thank you, Marty. “So? Where do we start?”
Margaret wanted to cry again. As much of an insane nightmare as this seemed, God was providing. He wasn't going to make her to fend for herself. Not today, at least. The details of the ship's construction played through her mind. She smiled and said with an authority in her voice that surprised not only her but the others, too, “Get those sheets of plywood separated. Lay six of them out...” she scanned the area. “...there. It's pretty flat. We need to build the floor first, then curve it down.”
She walked around the open green space between the lumber and the road running in front of station. “Here,” she said. “The ark will be forty-eight feet long, sixteen feet wide.” She raised and lowered her arms like a conductor. “Lay the sheets here first, two-by-two.”
Al looked up and mumbled, “No pun intended, I assume.”
She blushed. “No pun intended....”
* * *
“The truck will arrive sometime between noon and four o'clock on Tuesday. Sorry we can't be more specific.” Holly stapled the credit card receipt to the packing slip. The man nodded and moved off towards the front of the store.
“Another Jesus freak?”
Holly jumped at Clay's voice behind her. How long had he been standing there? She turned around and said, “No, just a regular order.”
“Just a regular order,” he repeated to himself. His lips tightened and the vein in his neck throbbed. Seeing these signs at home would send her on a stream of apologies, whispered, calming tones, to quell the storm before it grew. She felt safer at work. Most of Clay's other employees knew the look, too, and avoided it. He took the store's copy of the packing slip from her and scanned the list.
“Looks like he's doing a basement,” Clay said. He enjoyed guessing what projects customers were up to by analyzing what they bought. No one dared correct him, though the man who'd just left had mentioned water damage in a spare bedroom. Holly nodded. “I'll bet you're right.”
Clay stared at her, trying to decide if she was being condescending. He laid the sheet on the counter and said, “You scheduled the Carboneau’s order for first delivery.”
“So? Lavish is the next town over. It's the first place they'd hit.” Careful, she thought. In order to knock herself down a notch, Holly broke eye contact and slid the paper into the shipper's folder.
“So?” he repeated. “Bad enough there's going to be a run on our inventory by these nutcases, not that it's hurting business any. But I don't want to start thinking you're doing them any favors. Makes me think you believe this stuff.”
“You don't think it's a little weird that so many - “
“I think it's very weird,” he interrupted. “You don’t think so?”
She shrugged, afraid of answering either way. He took it as an affirmative and moved closer to her, as if preparing to kiss her, which she knew he'd never do at work. When he spoke, she smelled chocolate on his breath. “Don't even start,” he whispered. “You going to tell me next you had one of those dreams?”
Holly shook her head. She hadn't, and at this moment was very grateful for that. She’d have had a hard time lying when he was this close. Clay knew it.
He nodded, staying his ground a little longer. “Good. Did that woman yesterday ask you to join her?”
Time to lie after all, Holly realized. She looked directly into her boyfriend’s pale blue eyes and said, “No, Clay. I'm guessing she was too busy getting the order in. I didn't understand what it was all about until you figured it out later.”
Keep the gaze on him , she thought, make him look at my eyes. She needed to keep him from seeing the splotch of red on her neck, which showed itself like a birthmark whenever she tried to lie.
Her appeal to his ego worked. He nodded more vigorously, stepped one pace back. He looked around the store. Holly kept the I'm Lying mark on her neck turned away.
“If any of them come in again, just take their money and keep it business only. No more than that.”
“No problem.”
He moved around from behind the counter and strutted away. He strutted a lot.
Every time she had one of these close encounters with Clay's dark side, here or at home, Holly felt an overwhelming need to seek out Connor and hold her baby close. The thought sent her breasts to aching, though it wouldn't be time to pump for another hour. Interesting the way a mother's body reacted when she thought of her child. Maybe she'd go home at lunch and feed him herself, though Dot -- her best friend and babysitter -- would remind her that would waste yesterday's milk in the refrigerator at home. Throw off the whole schedule. She tried to ignore the sensation, and hoped she could last another half hour until break.
* * *
The base of the hull was a forty-eight foot rectangular plank of plywood, four sheets wide, twelve sheets long. They'd laid it out and attached each section with white nylon seam tape at the adjoining edges, then covered everything with the boating glue. They'd finished the initial layout by two-thirty. As Ben and the girls ventured off to get late-lunch sandwiches for everyone, Margaret led Marty, Al, and two other firemen (one being off-duty but having come by to check his schedule then deciding to stay and help), in laying out a second layer of sheets, staggered so that the seams of the first were covered by the second. Glue again, seam tape all around, then more glue to seal the wood.
Al 's moustache was caked in sawdust as he finished cutting off the protruding half-length of the upper and lower sheets. Along the outer edges of this plank, thin half-inch beams were glued then nailed. Katie and Robin, sporting oversized work gloves, carried the scrap wood to a new pile for use later. A considerable charge was going to hit Margaret's credit card for the supplies. She couldn't waste anything if she could help it. She expected a message at home from the bank asking if the sudden spike in purchases was legitimate. She wondered how many other sudden purchases were being made from home supply stores around the country.
The finished construction had been raised up on the cinderblocks which had been delivered an hour after the work began. The blocks were stacked five-high at each end, at what would be the bow and stern. More concrete blocks were placed on top, dead center, of the wood. When Marty put down the last of them, the forty-eight foot panel buckled under the concentrated weight, bowing until it touched the grass. It didn't happen all at once, as the half-inch beaming along the sides added some tensile strength to the structure. When it did touch bottom, Margaret felt a rush of excitement. The bottom hull was now curved front to back, a prelude to the finished shape.
By the time the decision was made to stop for the day, one of the sides had been constructed in much the same manner as the base. Forty-eight feet long, eight feet high, with seam tape and glue all around. This side was raised while Al and Marty climbed over the sagging floor, and fastened the side of the hull using nails through the half-inch support beams. More glue along these seams. Ben took his turn with the hand saw and cut the side corners away, as close to the curved hull as he dared.
The town common smelled of sawdust and glue. Margaret felt like both crying and laughing. She decided on neither, knowing that some of these men, though obviously having fun working on the project, already assumed she was insane.
At this rate, the ship would be done in a couple of weeks. It would look clunky and un-seaworthy, but it would be finished, and it would float. Such was God's promise.
Everyone gathered a few paces back from the construction to admire their handiwork. The men commented on their progress as if they'd been working on nothing more significant than a house deck.
It looked like a cross-section of an incomplete ship, with only one side up, but it did look like a boat.
Adrian Edgecomb pulled alongside the curb and slowly got out of his car. With an “Uh, oh,” Marty broke from the ranks and moved to intercept the selectman. The other firemen exchanged nervous glances as Marty and Edgecomb fell into loud debate. Why were town employees making “doll houses” on duty, and “what was that monstrosity doing” on his town square. Marty spoke in a lower voice, now and then looking towards Margaret and the girls who hovered close to their mother.
Ben and the two of the other firemen quietly debated the logic of hanging around and made noises about heading back. In contrast, Al busied himself laying out the planks for the starboard side, as if nothing untoward was happening. He'd said very little to Margaret the entire day, but she felt less intimidated by him. She stayed her ground, trying to catch snippets of the conversation at the roadside.
“I know what it is,” Edgecomb was saying. “They're starting to crop up everywhere. Are you.... she's one of those nuts, too? “
Low murmurs from Marty, and more derisive curses from the man who was, in every sense of the word, his employer.
Finally, the selectman got back into his car with a slam of the driver's door and pulled from the curb with a flair he usually reserved for the monthly selectmen's meeting. Visibly humbled, Marty walked slowly back to the waiting group.
“We're in Dutch, boss,” Ben said, “right?”
Marty looked at him blankly for a second, then, “Oh, are we in trouble, you mean? Kind of. He's off our backs for now, but he's not too keen on....” he stopped and gave Margaret a sheepish grin.
She finished for him, “On catering to the delusions of a madwoman?”
“Not exactly his words,” Marty said, “but that's the gist of it, yes.”
Ben slapped his palms together. “Well, I guess that's it then. Come on, guys, shift's over in a few hours anyway, and we still have to wash twenty-one.”
Marty raised his hand. “Hold on. We're not leaving Margaret with this thing half-done.”
Ben sneered. The young man's expression had darkened considerably since first arriving that morning. “Half done? What are you talking about? You heard the man; we're not supposed to be helping her. Besides, we're not anywhere close to half done.”
“We can at least get the other side up. “
“No way,” Ben said. “Listen, you may be the boss, Marty, but that guy's your boss, and he signs the checks.”
Margaret tried to interrupt. “There's no need to - “
“There's no need is right,” said Ben. “I'm sorry, Margaret. I liked Vince a lot; we all did. But Sue's due in July and I can't afford to lose my job over... well, this.” He waved dismissively at the ark. “Personally, and I don't mean to sound snide, I swear, but I think you need help, Margaret, but not what we can give you -”
“That's enough, Ben,” Marty said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is. Sorry.” He turned and walked back towards the firehouse. He moved stiffly, as if expecting to be tackled from behind.
Margaret's stomach tightened. She turned to the others. “You don't need to stay.” One muttered something about “making sure Ben's OK” and followed his path in retreat. Another followed, but the third looked at Margaret, then the chief, and moved to help Al tape and glue the starboard side together.
By six o'clock, the sun was setting and the western sky behind the fire station was afire in red and yellow. A myth from her childhood told her that a blazing sunset meant good weather the next day.
Reluctantly, she agreed it was time to stop.
Marty finished trimming the hull to conform to the curve. As he did so, the others leaned temporary supports against both sides to keep them from falling overnight, securing them with a few nails each from inside. The bow and stern remained open.
Katie and Robin had already forgotten the earlier tension, and were busying themselves stowing away the tools. Marty hefted anything portable into the back of Margaret's station wagon.
Waving at the other fireman as he wandered wearily back towards the station, Al brushed at his moustache and stood facing Margaret. He was looking beyond her.
“I think we've got company.”
Margaret turned. Throughout the day, cars had been pulling to the curb to see the spectacle taking place on their common. Some ventured out after parking on the far side, but came no closer than the gazebo in its center. Eventually, Margaret stopped noticing them. Now she turned and followed Al's gaze.
A woman with a 35mm camera slung over one shoulder and a yellow notepad walked briskly towards them. As she neared, Margaret could see a small portable tape recorder pressed against the notepad.
“Are you in charge here?” the woman asked Al, who merely pointed to Margaret before turning to help Marty with the last minute pickup.
“I'm Margaret Carboneau. Can I help you?”
The woman offered her free hand. “Kristy Cowles. I'm a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle. I was wondering if I could interview you. I assume you're one of the people claiming to have a vision and --”
Margaret raised a hand between them. She was about to tell the woman she wasn't interested, then hesitated. How else could she reach the people she needed, especially now that her workforce was about to abandon her? “How soon,” she asked, “would the story run, if I agreed?”
Kristy looked taken aback at being interrupted. She stared at the ark and said, matter-of-factly, “Well, if we can talk now, after letting me get some pictures of the boat before it gets too dark, we should make it in for Monday morning's edition. Tomorrow would have been better, since everyone reads the Sunday paper, but you know how it goes. Some things just won’t keep the presses from running.” She laughed.
Margaret's arms ached. All she could think about was an extended, hot bath. “Listen, I'd very much like to talk, but as you can imagine I'm pretty beat. I'll be here as early as possible tomorrow morning. Can we talk then? Will that make you too late for Monday?”
The reporter shuffled uneasily. “Well, that would be OK, I guess. I'd certainly like to be the first to get an interview with you.”
“If you can wait until tomorrow morning, I won't talk to anyone else. I promise. Come around nine o'clock.” Before the reporter could object, Margaret smiled weakly and walked toward Al and Marty, who looked ready for a bath themselves. She asked, “Is she leaving?”
Al nodded. “Yep.”
Margaret looked at the two men. “Thank you. For everything. I –” her voice broke. She looked down.
Marty put a hand on her arm and said, “It's okay. We'll try and sneak out tomorrow to help some more.”
