Margaret's Ark, page 9
Margaret shook her head. “You can't. Edgecomb will be back. You know that. I appreciate what you're doing, but I don't want anyone losing their job over this.” Not until she said it did she realize the irony of her words.
The normally silent Al said what she was thinking. “But, if what you're saying is true, Margaret, then having a job doesn't mean anything.”
Marty looked at him, then back at the supplies. “Listen,” he said, almost whispering. “There's no way you can stash all this stuff at home. I assume you'll be coming back tomorrow?”
Margaret nodded.
“Then we'll keep an eye on it for you. Shift's changing at eight o'clock, but we'll tell Rachel and company to do the same.”
Al said nothing, but seemed to agree.
Margaret smiled. “Thanks. Will I see you tomorrow?”
Al nodded. Marty hesitated, but just for an instant. “Sure, I'll come by. Promise.”
As they walked back to the station, Margaret felt a sinking in her chest. It was that last “promise” of Marty's that told her she was going to lose his help. The two men crossed the street and went inside. Al never looked back, as Margaret hoped he would. Some sign to confirm his promise.
“Mommy, we're hungry.” Robin again. She had been playing the role of moderator within the family today. Though her older sister appeared most of the time to be enjoying herself, Katie carried a brooding expression whenever the play stopped. In fact, Katie hadn't spoken directly to her mother all day, except through Robin.
“Okay; we'll stop for a pizza on the way home. I'm too bushed to cook anything. That all right with you, Katie?”
The seven-year old nodded. It was a start.
They headed for the station wagon. The dwindling crowd, sensing the show was over for the day, wandered off. There were still cars at various points along the curb, and another slowly pulling to a stop, but no one spoke as Margaret buckled Robin in beside her sister.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Margaret straightened, made sure to close the car door before turning around. The couple was older, in their early seventies, she guessed. The man who'd spoken stood slightly hunched, his head bald save for a few wisps across his scalp.
“Margaret,” Margaret said, and offered her hand. The old man took it. “My name is Harold Baker. Harry, please. This is Ruth.” The two woman nodded to each other.
“How can I -”
Harry interrupted, “We came by a couple of times today, but you looked busy. We're just wondering, well,” he didn't seem to know what to do with his right hand, letting it turn and twist at the wrist beneath his long-sleeve shirt. “What I mean is, you're one of those people who had a vision?”
Ruth added, “From God?”
Margaret said nothing; simply nodded.
Harry cleared his throat. “We're just wondering, if maybe you haven't filled up the seats yet, maybe we can join you. Be on the ship when the water comes.” He looked as if he was about to cry. His wife took his right hand, to give him support or maybe to stifle its random movements.
A sudden warmth spread through Margaret and she took his left hand and smiled at both of them. “Of course,” she said. “There’s plenty of room.”
They made quick plans for the couple to return the next day, after they'd attended mass – the first time in thirty years, Ruth reluctantly admitted.
Driving home, Margaret tried not to worry about how these people, the man, especially, as he seemed so frail, could help build anything. She decided they'd do whatever they could. God would provide the rest.
52
As he drove to the common, Father Nick Mayhew tried to remember the last time the Carboneaus had missed Sunday Mass, not counting vacations. Today being Palm Sunday, their absence was conspicuous.
At one-thirty in the afternoon, he turned with the traffic, onto Cambridge Street. The roads were crowded for a Sunday, and Nick wondered if some of the congestion was due to people flocking to witness the spectacle at the center of town. This morning, one of his parishioners, Lucille Thompson told him what was happening, a little too self-righteously he thought. In a conspiratorial whisper, she'd said, “Oh, I haven't been there to see for myself. I'm much too busy on the weekends.” Lucille then went on to explain that the “poor confused woman” had fallen in with “that doomsday crowd”, and was building a boat in the center of Lavish.
If it was true, Nick privately applauded Margaret's faith. He also feared it. Faith was like that. True faith. It's what led the saints to their own glorious deeds, and often their tragic demise.
Cresting the hill, he saw what loomed on the southern edge of the square.
“Oh, my God.” The embodiment of Lucille's words rose before him. He felt cold. Nick pulled the car over to the first available spot. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then stepped out of the car.
Standing at the edge of the grass, the priest watched the small crew move about the boat. Margaret and two other men lifted a large wall against the front, or the back of the boat. It was hard to tell. Nick took a few steps forward, squinting away the bright sunlight, watching them raise the wall. A brief flash of someone inside, followed by the sound of hammering.
God bless you, Margaret Carboneau . He couldn't help but smile.
“Father! Oh, thank God you're here!”
From his left, a man and woman, both parishioners, were trotting his way. Nick smiled and nodded his head. “How are you two, this beautiful morning?”
The woman stopped, taken aback by her pastor’s good humor. “Why, I'm fine, thank you. Oh, Father,” she said, getting back into the spirit of her dismay, “you have to stop this. She's making a mockery of God’s Word! Do you know what she's building?”
Nick looked at the construction and nodded somberly. “An ark, if I'm not mistaken.”
“Mrs. Carboneau's gone crazy! Not that I can blame her, what with her husband dying so horribly – ”
Nick shot her an angry look; then, realizing what he'd done, said softly, “I would appreciate it if you wouldn't phrase it like that in front of her.”
The woman blushed. “Of course. I'm sorry. It's just that I can understand what she's going through. I mean, if I lost John, I don't know what I'd do.”
John simply looked at the ground, content to let his wife do the talking. He looked as uneasy as Nick felt. “Still, she might listen to you. I mean, if her own pastor says this is wrong, maybe she'd understand and get some help.”
Nick continued walking towards the ark. “Have you spoken to her yourself?” His question was like a rope, pulling her reluctantly forward. Margaret was now shading her eyes to see who was coming.
“Well, no. I'm almost afraid to. What if she takes it the wrong way? She's holding power tools, for God's sake. Oh, I'm sorry, Father.”
Recognition crossed Margaret's features. She dropped her hammer and ran towards them.
“Oh, no. She's coming.” In light of the approaching madwoman, all courtesies were dropped. “Please,” a quickly receding voice, “tell her to stop. She's frightening the children.”
“Of course,” Nick said and embraced Margaret. She was crying. He held her for a long time, until he felt her retreat slightly and knew it was time for space.
Her face was wet with tears, but she smiled. “Sorry,” Margaret said. “I've been crying a lot lately.” She laughed and pulled a handkerchief from her jeans pocket, wiped her face. When she stuffed it away, the woman waved her arms dramatically towards the ship-in-progress and said, “Welcome to my nightmare.”
* * *
“Holy Trinity, Father McMillan speaking.”
“Good evening, Father. It's Nick Mayhew.”
“Evening is a relative term, Nick. Need I remind you that you're three hours behind the east coast?” Father McMillan's Irish brogue was strong, despite the fact he had emigrated from Ireland fifty-two years earlier. The older priest blamed it on his Arlington, Massachusetts parish. According to McMillan, it was a venial sin to lose your accent in that predominantly Irish neighborhood, worse if you were the pastor of the church. Nick spent his entire residency at Holy Trinity under this man, until his transfer three years ago to California.
Nick looked at his clock. Eight-thirty, which implied eleven-thirty in Arlington. Still, McMillan had answered after one ring. “I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”
After an appropriate pause to imply that his answer would be given out of politeness only, the priest said, “No, not at all. How are things in California?”
Not in the mood for small talk, Nick jumped right in. “If my guess is correct, about as interesting as on your end.”
“Indeed,” the older priest said. Normally Nick found his pseudo-Irish brogue and high-browed speech ingratiating. Not tonight. McMillan continued, “I assume the west coast has just as many doomsayers as the east?”
“You sound skeptical.”
Another pause, then, “And you don't.”
Nick took a sip from his coffee, collected his thoughts. “On the contrary,” he said. “Though it's our job to teach faith, we're obliged to be critical of anything that appears as false prophecy. Anything that might draw the faithful away from Jesus' teachings.”
“I see, taken verbatim from the lesson books, was that?”
Nick's face flushed. “Listen, Tim,” he said, “do me a favor and stop your posturing just once?”
McMillan laughed. “Ah,” he said, “Young Nicholas comes of age. A bright spot in an otherwise frustrating day. I apologize for being such an ass, Father.”
Nick smiled in spite of himself. “No problem.”
McMillan took a deep breath, and said, “Strange times we're living in.”
“One of my parishioners, a woman named Margaret Carboneau, claims to have received the visions. She's building an ark in the middle of town.”
“How well do you know this woman?”
He told him, then added, “Do you, I mean --”
“Do I think these nocturnal visitations by angels are legitimate? That the people receiving the visions – what they've experienced – are messages from God? Is that what you want to ask me, Father?”
Nick felt himself sink deeper into his chair. He wondered if McMillan wasn't as sarcastic as he tried to sound. He thought about the question, felt a warm and familiar sense of certainty fill him. He said, “Yes, Father. That is what I'm beginning to think.”
“Under other circumstances, I'd stop the conversation right here, hang up and call Bishop Leonard to have you removed. However, as I assume you're also doing,” a hint of a warning in his tone, “I've been quietly inquiring of other parishes, and doing my own research.”
“And...?”
“We’re still having this conversation, aren’t we?”
The man's answer didn't sit well with him. Nick needed to hear something concrete. “But do you think it’s possible, Father? That these are from God, Himself, I mean?”
McMillan at first did not reply, but when his voice returned, even with his short answer, Nick felt his sense of reality tip. He was sliding into a dark new world. One that looked the same as yesterday, but felt completely alien.
“Anything is possible with God,” the priest answered.
* * *
The sanctuary was quiet at night. Ten thirty, and the usually darkened church was softly aglow in red candlelight. Normally, Nick would make his way through the church and extinguish any lighted votive candles, the prayers they represented having long reached God's ear. Since his conversation with McMillan, he wasn't yet ready to snuff the flames. The altar wavered in the light cast by the glass. He sat in the first pew, staring at the red-cast image of Jesus hanging on the cross behind the altar. It was comforting, sitting in the midst of Lord's refuge. He knew, even now, that it always would.
Nick didn't know which disconcerted him more. That a miracle of biblical proportions was unfolding before him, or that McMillan actually believed it. Most likely the latter. His mentor was always the voice of reason, taking the logical stance on every event. Keeping fellow priests and parishioners from drifting too far into speculative obscurity.
The man believed – or at least did not deny -- that God was, indeed, behind these people’s visitations. This belief somehow brought the ever-intangible spiritual nature of Nick’s own vocation home to him.
Red light danced on the image of Christ, darkening the painted blood on the hands and feet, setting the face of the world's Savior afire.
Father McMillan had relayed his own observations over the phone, of similar scenes to what Nick witnessed in the center of Lavish. One was being built in an Arlington front yard - no small feat considering the claustrophobic closeness of neighborhoods in that historic, over-built city. McMillan also planned a drive soon into Burlington a few miles to the north, where construction of yet another ark had begun on that town’s common.
A troubling point to Nick's visit with Margaret this morning was the crowd. The police had set up haphazard barricades around the perimeter of the building site, perhaps to show the townspeople they weren't ignoring what was happening. They didn't seem to know what else to do about it. Vincent Carboneau had been well-liked, and the police and fire departments were hard-pressed to hide their protectiveness towards his widow.
Their support was thin, however. Nick could feel the derision of some onlookers. More than simple mockery. He sensed fear. The what if she's right questions that might turn onlookers into a mob-like she's a threat. When he mentioned this to one officer standing duty, speaking in a forced casualness, the man simply nodded and said, “That's what we're afraid of, Father.”
Now, Nick looked at his watch. Almost midnight. He rose from the bench and blew out the votive candles one by one.
51
When Carl Jorgenson came downstairs for his usual, quick bowl of Cheerios and glass of orange juice, he knew something was wrong. His parents weren't very talkative this early in the morning, but halfway down the stairs, he could hear a heated, whispered discussion.
As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, the talk stopped. Dan and Sarah Jorgenson looked at him with somber expressions. Carl stood in the doorway and wondered who had died. He thought of his grandfather, and suddenly the sparse appetite he garnered every morning drifted away.
“What's up?”
His mother finished her coffee in one last, over-exaggerated swallow and stood from the table. “Nothing. You'd better get moving.”
Carl accepted the response long enough to pour himself a bowl of cereal and add the milk. The orange juice was already on the table, a routine his mother went through every day, preparing a glass for Carl and his father at the same time she poured her own. In fact, Carl was so used to this routine that if one day she did not pour the glass, he’d likely go without it and never notice.
At eighteen, an age when boys were supposed to think of their parents as being out-of-touch with the outside world, Carl appreciated how good he had it. They loved him but didn’t dote, were strict, but not overbearing. He felt fortunate to have realized this early on, especially when he contrasted them with some of his friends' families -- Max more than anyone.
He sat across the table from his father. The man was tall, with short cut hair and a moustache that never grew in thick enough to warrant the title.
“What's up?” Carl asked again. He held the spoon but dared not eat until he heard the news. Dan Jorgenson smiled weakly, looked at his wife as if to say, May as well tell him. Carl braced himself for the first words he knew were coming: It's your grandfather....
When Sarah said nothing, Carl’s father flipped the sheets of newspaper and turned a particular page to face him. “It's your science teacher.”
* * *
Carl did eat breakfast, but not until after finishing the entire article. Its neutral tone was neither accusing nor flattering. It didn’t have to be. When you write about a woman who leaves her job to build a boat on the town square because God says there's going to be a flood, you don’t need to call her crazy.
And then there was the photograph. Random piles of lumber beside a makeshift construction of beams and plywood that looked no more seaworthy than a pile of bricks.
Al ong with Mrs. Carboneau, the article interviewed a few firemen who were quick to point out they were merely helping a colleague's widow (that was how one man phrased it). No mention of God from these people, nor a flood. In contrast, Mrs. Carboneau had no qualms about explaining why she was doing what she was doing. Her words were a rehearsed version of her brief speech to Carl’s class on Thursday.
When the article trailed off to discuss the fire last year that killed her husband, perhaps to offer some explanation for her behavior, Carl skipped ahead. There was no further mention of the boat, save a quick reference to the ark in the Bible and Mrs. Carboneau’s statement that there would be no animals brought on board. “Not this time,” was the quote that ended the piece.
Carl ate his cereal slowly. His parents busied themselves with preparations to leave. He wondered why no one had mentioned anything during baseball practice, or the two games played this weekend. Granted, Saturday's was in Medfield, but Sunday was a home game. Someone might have mentioned her, but that particular line of discussion had burned rampant among everyone since Thursday. After a few initial forays into the talks - usually centered around their teacher’s obvious nervous breakdown - Carl did his best to avoid them. He liked Mrs. Carboneau. She'd always struck him as the least nutty person he knew. The exception had been that day in the school parking lot, but....
Mrs. Carboneau was not the only one. Carl remembered this detail even before following the instructions to “See related story, page C4.” Another mention, though brief, of an ark going up twenty miles away, and another on private land near the Presidio in San Francisco. The latter was being sponsored by a televangelist named Mick Starr - a California nom de plume if Carl had ever seen one. Built within the compound of the Holy Rock Church, the project was “under a cloak of secrecy”.
