Margaret's Ark (37 page)

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.

He hadn't been in this particular neighborhood for quite a while. Just a few miles from the church, this end of Warren Street was an area of the city relatively unchanged in the half century he’d known it. The majority of houses were two- and three-family homes, most standing since the Second World War, some since the turn of the last century when the Irish and Italian immigrants flooded into the region.

McMillan stopped in front of a particular two-family house. It took a moment to recognize it, so long had its alternating dark and light brown color graced the street corner. Like many of its neighbors, it sported new, younger tenants who had firmed up its sagging face and added vinyl siding.

He hesitated a moment, then sat on the porch steps. Somehow, being here brought comfort. Closure. He knew the former tenant well. For eighty-plus years, Nellie lived in the upper apartment, raised six children mostly by herself and by the graces of God, friends and relatives. She was stubborn, passing away at the glorious age of one hundred and one, still mourned by the vast family she'd brought into the world. Like so many others of her generation who had attended his parish, she would recite the rosary every day. Praying for those who had no time for such rituals, keeping the world turning one more day from the solitude of her chair, in front of the window or the television.

He did not feel like an intruder sitting on this porch, not tonight. Here in this special town, a priest walking along a street was not uncommon. People never hesitated to wave, say “Good evening, Father.” Not in vanity did he think this. Regardless of the century, they respected the collar he wore and what it symbolized, more than the man wearing it. Maybe not as much these days as in the past, of course. But it was there.

McMillan sighed. If anyone survived tomorrow, how would they view God and his church? Would they see what will come as His divine grace, or blame Him for everything? If dear old Nellie was not already bathed in His glorious light, McMillan felt certain what she and her kind would do. Smile, always smile, pray the rosary, beseech Mother Mary to intercede and ask Jesus to comfort those too afraid to ask for themselves. These disciples were the rock upon which God built this world. It made sense that they would be the ones the Lord would approach, now that the time had come to tear it all down and start anew.

Above him in the cloudless sky, a few stars gleamed strong enough to show themselves through the artificial light infusing the city. The air was cool. Early summer.

By now, Father Doiron had likely written off his pastor as one never to return. McMillan considered it often, if only for this final night. Maybe he would go back. Later. There was much remaining to consider, so many streets and neighborhoods to see for the last time. What did he have waiting for him back at Holy Trinity? Fears of parishioners more desperate every day, asking how to repent, how to say the perfect Act of Contrition, whether these words would do anything to save their souls? How many more souls
could
he save in such a short time?

Eventually, the old priest stood, dusted off his black pants, and resumed his journey along Warren Street, away from the church.

*     *     *

Everyone smelled like grease. Even for those not taking part in this final step of preparation, the smell of it soaked into their clothes. Margaret wondered how bad the stench was below deck. The smell was thick, but perhaps after the water came much of it would wash away. It wouldn't be needed once that happened.

“All set, Mrs. Carboneau,” Carl said. Even in the dark, Margaret could see by the light of the lanterns that the brush he held was stained up to the handle in grease. “The others are heading over to some of the houses to get cleaned up as best they can.”

Margaret walked up the ramp and onto the deck. Katie and Robin looked tentatively over the railing, their faces wrinkled in disgust and disappointment. The completion of the outer hull's coating meant bedtime for them. “Thanks, Carl. What about you?”

He turned and considered the fire station. “I might go down to Tony's house. I don't think it'll be in very good taste to wash up in there,” he nodded towards the station, “not considering what we've just done.”

“You understand, then, why we had to do this?” From the fact that no one had asked Margaret why, and the somber way everyone worked, she assumed they knew, or didn’t
want
to know.

“Yeah. Sounds weird, but this last thing probably scared me more than anything else.”

Margaret nodded. She wanted to ask about his parents again, if he’d made any peace with them, but did not. She learned not to ask too many personal questions of
anyone
at this point. If it was painful to wonder what Carl was going through, she could not imagine the actual pain he felt. His parents probably expected in a few days their son would appear on the doorstep begging forgiveness. But in less time than that, they would be gone. Carl knew this.

“Get cleaned up, then. I'll be here.”