Margaret's Ark (35 page)

*     *     *

That had been last night. Tonight, Margaret again sat in the fresh air above deck. Almost midnight. The full moon waning into third quarter cast enough light to see the perpetual crowd camped out at a respectful distance across the square. Many were news people – waiting, they said, to cover late-breaking events. Others were either worried or curious as the last day approached. Occasionally a glow blossomed from cigarettes in the darkness. She couldn’t remember ever seeing so many smokers in one place.

Carl and a handful of others in the crew sat along the railing, as well as Father Nick who'd managed to lock up Saint Mary's for the night and sneak away for a long-overdue visit. Carl was spinning a basketball on his finger. It was a habit he'd picked up since sneaking home for some personal items a week ago while his parents were at work. The Bible was tucked between his leg and the deck. Over the past few weeks, the book had become more and more tattered. Though it had been a Christmas gift from Vince years before, Margaret felt a growing comfort seeing how her former student constantly read and worried over it, questioned and cursed its contents. The book was becoming as tattered as a child’s favorite stuffed animal. She would never say anything to him, though, and hoped it was a long time before Carl noticed its condition.

She had not seen the Jorgensons since the town meeting. She assumed his parents were biding their time, waiting to prove their son wrong in his delusion. For his part, Carl never talked about them, except in passing as when he'd gone for his things.

Margaret deeply wished to know what was going through his mind. What process could pull him so completely from his family to follow someone who was in truth only an acquaintance. She supposed she was more than that. She was his teacher.
No
. That was her pride speaking. He wasn't following her; he was following the one thing that tied them all together. Faith. He believed God's message, and was doing what he felt he had to. Some of the others on board, perhaps, believed as strongly. Maybe not. Margaret knew Carl better than most, and tried not to judge anyone’s motivation.

Father Nick reached into the cooler and took his second bottle of Bud Light. Pieces of ice clung to the glass, shining in the moonlight. “Is it always this quiet here at night?” He unscrewed the cap and took a deep swallow.

Carl put a hand against the basketball and the spinning stopped. Without breaking his rhythm, he began to spin the ball the other way. Watching this, Margaret was filled almost to the breaking point with fear, but could not decide what was so frightening about what he was doing. That happened a lot today. Seemingly mundane events twisted in on themselves, forming something always vague but horrific. She took a sip from her bottled water and hoped someone else would answer the priest’s question. No one did.

“Um,” she began, swallowing one more time and forcing herself to look away from the basketball. “Yes. I mean, people have been coming and just sitting on the grass, or in their cars.”

“Like they're waiting for something,” Tony Donato added. Jennifer had fallen asleep leaning against him. She shifted when he spoke but did not wake up.

Nick was silent for a moment. “Same across town,” he said finally. “So many people, returning to church, coming to Mass. I've been given permission from Bishop Leonard to perform two masses a day, by the way. Did I mention that?”

Margaret shook her head.

He continued, “I keep thinking of the pros and cons. I mean, it's wonderful that this has brought people back to the Church, but...” He took another drink. “But I keep thinking that maybe it's too late.”

Margaret said, “It's never too late. Maybe this is why it's happening in the first place. More than simply to save us from what’s going to happen. More like one last call for souls. Or something. I don’t know.”

It was a version of the same discussion, every night. Always talking. Never finding answers but still, always talking. Exorcising the fear by staring into the darkness and trying to see form within it.

“I hardly sleep any more,” Nick said, to no one in particular. “The phone rings all night -
mostly
at night, as people lay in bed and think. They panic, then call me. What can I do? I'm their pastor. I have to be here for them even if I don’t know what to say.” His voice cracked, so he took another sip. “In the middle of the night when I’m in bed, awake, waiting for the next call, I think, ‘at least it will be over one way or another next week’.” He laughed.  “Isn't that a kicker? Imagine me thinking something as terrible as that.”

Margaret put a hand on his arm. “It's not terrible. Just human. Sleep deprivation does nasty things. Carl, please stop doing that!”

Carl grabbed for the ball but couldn’t get a grip. It fell off his finger and bounced away. Tony reflexively put his leg out to stop it before it rolled off the boat.

Margaret gasped. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap like that.”

Carl looked at her a moment and then shrugged. “It's okay. You've been pretty jumpy today. Did....” but he didn't finish the question.

Margaret smiled. “Yes,” she said. “David came back last night.”

The priest raised an eyebrow, though the gesture was lost in the darkness. “Who?”

“Mrs. Carboneau's buddy. The angel. More bad news I assume?”

“Ah,” Nick whispered. “Forgot he had a name.”

Margaret shook her head. “It's been bad news since day one, Carl. Nothing different. Well, a
little
different, but please don't ask. Okay?”

Carl raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. I know the rules.” He smiled then, a true smile that never failed to fill Margaret with a sense of well-being. Feeling the boy's love for her, not as a lover or even a potential one, but as he would his own mother, she chided herself - he
did
love his own mother.

The priest waited to see if they were done, then asked, “What time? Next week, I mean. What time is it supposed to happen?”

“Eight-fifteen in the morning,” Margaret answered; then the shock of what she’d just said hit her. She'd answered him automatically. No one had ever asked her the specific time before. She scoured her memory of past dreams to see when this small but significant fact had been given to her. “I…” she continued, “I honestly don’t know
how
I know that, but I do. Eight-fifteen is the.... is whatever it is.”

“The end,” muttered Tony.

“Yes.”

“It's no different than how you know all the details of this ship,” Nick said, waving his bottle in a slow arc across the hull like a wand. “God's given you foreknowledge of a lot of things, Margaret, and you only realize it's there when you need it.”

“I suppose.” She found herself looking across the deck to where the basketball lay trapped beside Tony Donato's outstretched leg.

“I'm tired,” she said, and got to her feet. “If Robin wakes and I'm not there, she gets nervous.” She looked down. “Father, please, stay here tonight. Get some decent sleep. What time is Mass in the morning?”

“Eight-thirty,” he said. “I really should - “

“You're not going to be any good to anyone this week if you collapse from exhaustion. Please. I'll feel better knowing you're sleeping here, at least for one night. Someone will make sure you're up by seven.”

Nick thought a moment. “Six-thirty. Long showers are a vice I've never been able to shake.”

They smiled, and she said good night.

“Margaret, wait.” Nick sat up straighter as she began to climb down the ladder leading below deck. “You don't come to church anymore. I suppose with the furor your presence might cause some people, I can understand that. Still, I'd like to come by every morning, beginning tomorrow, to say a quick service for you. All of you,” he gestured to the group. “Right after the eight-thirty Mass, or as soon as I can break away.  It'll be brief. I know you're all busy, but I can't stress enough the importance of receiving Eucharist, especially now.” He was half-standing. Gone was the exhaustion in his voice, only firm resolve. “At least,” he added, “those of you who
can
receive. But Mass can be for everyone.”

Margaret looked at him, at the certainty in his expression. She nodded.

“And I'll take confessions as well,” he added. As if this display had taken all of his final reserves, he slumped back against the railing. He picked up his bottle and took another sip.

Carl smiled. “I suppose you'll be passing the collection plate, Father?”

Nick nodded. “Of course. Something as minor as the end of the world would never get in the way of that.” He looked back towards the hatch, but Margaret was already gone.

6

Michael sat on the large wooden box and watched Jack standing alone at the edge of the park. The preacher stared out at the harbor inlet. Far off, buoys blinked red, then white, on and off at this entrance where few ships, save those moored beside the hotel, ever came. Most merely passed by as if in slow motion, heading for the main pier at Long Wharf. The tide was out, covering the park with the stink of ocean life.

The angel checked his watch, one of many earthly habits he found himself falling into lately. Almost one in the morning. The lights from Faneuil Hall still shone from over the hill. Adventurous young couples now and again crossed Atlantic Avenue to see if the crazy preacher was still there. Sometimes Jack offered them what they were looking for, but not tonight. Michael watched two come near, look nervously at the preacher lurking silently far down out of the light, and decided their time was better spent elsewhere. They moved off towards the hotel.

These
people didn't bother Michael. Most of the time he wasn’t visible to them, anyway. Only if they presented some danger to Jack. The gangs of boys got his hackles up. They'd get themselves plastered at Marty's, a
dive
bar located a block and a half south. Once appropriately sauced, they'd come out to see if the “preacher man” was around for the killing. A simple beating wouldn’t do for these people. Michael saw in their hearts, when they’d come lurking the other night, only blood lust. And fear. Kill the prophet and stop the deluge. The other night they’d come close to this place, but there were too many people around and Jack was making enough of a ruckus to keep attention on himself. The gangs slithered back into their whiskey haze shadows.

And waited.

Sometimes Michael saw the glint of light from their eyes far off, felt their loathing drift like noxious gas towards them. He didn't like to let the preacher stay out here when he was alone. The exterior lights of the hotel on one side and Commercial Wharf on the other would shut down in a few minutes, along with all but every third of the park's. Enough to mask the area in a dangerous blackness, into which the jackals would emerge.

“Jack?” Jack usually forgot who Michael was, assumed he was another follower. That was fine. Kept him from being distracted in the angel's presence. “I think we need to boogie out of here soon. Now, even.”

Jack didn't respond. His uncharacteristic silence, staring out across the stinking water, did nothing to ease Michael’s apprehension. He walked over to stand beside the man, stare with him towards the buoys.

“We have to go. They'll be killing the lights soon. Then the kids I noticed the other night will likely come back and try to hurt you.”

This garnered a quick glance from the preacher, before he turned and stared back across the water. Still, his deep mediation must have been broken because Jack sighed.

“So little time,” he whispered.

Michael checked his watch, and Jack's hand came down gently onto his wrist. “No,” he said. “That's not what I mean. Besides, since when do angels need watches?” His smile revealed gaps in his mouth where long ago there had been teeth. “I still remember the vision from last night,” he said.

Michael put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and turned him away from the railing. “Let’s talk as we head back to the place.” Jack never could remember the shelter’s name, so both of them had settled on calling it what it was.
The place
.

At the edge of the park, Jack focused on a spot further down the road. Michael followed his gaze, and wondered if Jack could sense their approach. Jack sighed again, continued to walk. Michael fell into step beside him, guiding him in the right direction whenever they strayed off course. Once they’d crossed Atlantic Avenue and were moving a good clip away from the lights and thinning crowds of the marketplace, Jack began to speak. Michael had assumed he would, in his own time.

“The vision,” Jack said quietly, “was very frightening. And confusing. You showed me the flood. I think that's what you did. So many people screaming, the waters covering them over. So much power. You gave me a bowl of water. Millions of people, screaming for mercy. And there was no mercy. None at all. It all ended as was foretold.”

Jack sounded a lot more lucid than usual. It was how he usually was during the dreams. Michael felt a renewed sense of love for this man, knowing how hard he was struggling to keep it together.

“And that was confusing?”

Jack looked at him; his face twisted into a smile as they passed under a yellow street light. “No. Not that part.” They passed Amelio's Package Store. They were almost home. He repeated, “Not that part. What was confusing was that I wasn't the only one running. So many others beside me, holding their own bowls, running and running.”

Michael said nothing. Weeks ago, when the priest had tried to mention the others, Jack had gotten weirder than usual and wandered away babbling.

“I'm not the only one who's received the visions, am I?”

Michael stopped walking. He could see the lights of the shelter a half block away. He looked at Jack's shadowed face. He simply nodded his head and said, “No, you're not.”

“Where are they?”

“Everywhere.”

Jack looked down, and smiled. “Praise God,” he said. “Sometimes, when I'm like this, usually at night when the world's not poking my head with its sticky fingers, I wonder how the world could be rallying so easily to my cause. Others, you say? Still,” he looked up, shoved his hands into his pockets, “I'll probably forget by morning. You’ll just be a stranger again. I hope you don’t take my forgetfulness the wrong way. It’s nice now to be able to talk, you and I, like normal human beings.” He laughed at the irony, then patted Michael on the shoulder. “But, I suppose, this was your idea, letting me talk to you like this.”