Daniel Keohane - Margaret's Ark

“Say nothing,” he whispered. “Just know, and be prepared.”

At that moment, Carl ran through him. David dissipated into tendrils of mist.

“Mrs. Carboneau? What are you doing out here?”

Margaret looked up, saw the sky graying with the dawn. She sighed and whispered, “Are you ever going to call me Margaret, Carl?”

The boy's shoulders sagged in relief. “No,” he breathed. “I don’t think so.” He chuckled. Margaret got up slowly and walked past him, up the ramp and down below deck. She fell back into dreamless sleep in the sleeping bag beside her daughters.

* * *

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?”