Margaret's Ark (36 page)

Michael smiled, knowing it wasn’t he who gave Jack these moments, but simply a random
rightness
in how the man’s injured brain worked. “Maybe you'll stay like this for a while?”

Jack shook his head. “With a clear mind come clear memories. And there are too many of those to want to stay like this for very long, even if I had a choice.”

A knot tightened in the angel’s stomach. In moments like these, he wished for his assignment to end. Too many human frailties in this form. Still, it seemed as if Jack wanted to talk about them. Already knowing the answer, he asked, “You miss her?”

“I miss everyone.”

“They were good people, God fearing, loving. They’re in a better place.”

Jack nodded. His face tightened. Through clenched teeth he said, “I hate them. The men who did it. I can’t forgive them.”

Michael kept a hand on Jack’s shoulder, squeezed a little. “You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head. “But I do have to, don’t I? Even the mindless, lost souls who blow up hotels while families are inside, celebrating weddings and dancing....” He closed his eyes, let Michael continue guiding him down the alley. “Why did I live? I suppose one benefit of this cracked brain of mine... keeps me from remembering too long. Hurts to, but I do, sometimes. Once. Or twice. Round and round we go.”

“What -” Michael began, before headlights cut across the alley behind them. He turned and raised one hand to block the light. The car stopped a few feet away. Voices over the sound of the idling engine. Slurred laughter, angry noises.

“Hey, Preacher Man,” a voice said through one of the open windows. An arm emerged, brandishing something that looked like a baseball bat. “We're here for church. You left early!” Guffaws from inside. The sound of someone pulling the door handle. Michael gently nudged Jack to walk with him towards the door of the shelter. Jack held his ground, and began speaking.

“Holy, holy,” he said, quietly, with no quaver in his voice. “The Lord doth say the unbelievers and frightened children shall scorn the prophet and try to silence his tongue.”

More sounds of door handles being pulled, snapping back. Curses from inside.

Jack continued, louder, “Rather than prey on the weak, raise your arms to the Lord! Repent; cleanse your hearts of evil - “

“Unlock the fucking door, man!”

“I'm trying. It's not working.”

“See the pure white light of God's love!” Shouting now. “Feel His embrace!”

“There! Got it!”
Thunk, thunk
of more pulled door handles. “What the...? He’s gonna get away!”

Michael began to push Jack towards the shelter. “We have to go, Jack; okay?”

Jack resisted. He raised his voice over the shouts from inside the car. “Prepare ye the way of the Lord! See His glory, for His power will be mighty when the waters come.”

“Climb out the friggin' window!”

A head emerged from the driver’s side, behind the glare of the headlights. Then a whirring and a shout.

“Who's closing the window? Cut it out! I ca-” The voice cut off to a choking gasp, then a gurgling. The head wriggled, caught between the glass and the top of the door.

The angel pushed the smiling preacher backwards. “Can we go in
now
?”

“My angel will protect us,” Jack said.

“No shit,” Michael said, unable to suppress a smile, “really?”

Jack relented, and walked calmly alongside him. Far down the opposite end of the alley, the small red glow of a cigarette. Michael ignored it. Behind them, glass broke. The jackals had finally realized they could put those bats to good use. As he and Jack got to the door, there were footsteps and shouts of anguish from down the alley. He turned to see three large shapes pacing nervously beside the car. More glass breaking as they freed their friend from the window, then more curses. The four shapes ran away in the opposite direction, one moving more awkwardly than the others, abandoning the car where it sat idling.

*     *     *

Nothingness. Comfort. The sensation of warm air blowing across his legs and chest. Deep underwater, without fear. Rising slowly, all worries gone. Everything was all right now. He was home.

Carl opened his eyes. Like every morning, it took a moment for him to remember where he was. He never dreamed, not once that he remembered in all his life. When he slept, it was in a state of complete non-functioning. All systems shut down. He often wondered if this complete oblivion was why he slept only a few hours each night. He awoke refreshed, a soft blanket of peace across him. Slowly, his brain began to turn on various switches as he lay on his back staring at the night sky. First, the realization of where he was. On the foredeck of the ark. Then the stars took on meaning. They'd shifted, rearranged themselves into a new patterns since he’d gone to sleep. He'd begun to consider the constellations his own private clock, noting what patterns swung about at what time. At the corner of his vision, a dull pink glowed on the horizon. He guessed it was four or four-thirty.

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.”