Daniel Keohane - Margaret's Ark

Meyers smiled. Derek and his wife were perhaps the only true friends he'd invited for the event. The rest... well the rest were comforting, in their own distracting way. He looked at his watch. “Let's see. We're on Mountain Time now, that's what, two hours behind the east coast?”

Derek nodded. “Sounds right.”

Meyers tried to recall what the news had said, adjusting the time on the reports to their new location. He found himself lost in the steady progress of the second hand. When he realized everyone was staring, he looked up and said, “Forty minutes or so,” and quickly took another sip of his highball.

Derek smiled, kissed his wife on the cheek and turned around. “Forty minutes, everyone! If you have something you need to do on this earth you'd better do it now.”

On that, everyone drifted apart, except Meyers and Neha. He watched the Indian woman, who in turn glared at the man sitting at the end of the dock. To the relief of the director, she seemed to have forgotten for the moment about trying to make points with him. He swirled the ice around in his glass, and looked again into the clear mountain sky.

* * *

As soon as Father Nick donned his white vestments, the phone rang. Normally, he'd have time to answer it. Daily mass usually didn't start until eight thirty. Today was different. Already, the pews were filled to capacity, people lined up along the inner walls. Today’s service was beginning at seven forty-five. As early as five o'clock that morning Nick found people lingering in front, waiting for the doors to open. They were frightened, and their faith, even if spawned by nothing more substantial than fear, warmed him. He again thought about the circumstances under which the people now flocked to the Lord's house, his own emotions ranging from pity to deep terror.

The phone stopped ringing and the answering machine picked up. Nick adjusted the robes, straightened his sleeves and the portable microphone's wire. This morning, like all weekday mornings, he would go without the aid of altar servers, and there would be no walking up the aisle from the front doors. There was no call for pageantry today.

“Father Mayhew, this is Bishop Leonard’s office.” The woman’s voice startled him for a moment, until he realized it was coming from the speaker on the answering machine. “We’re trying to reach as many parishes as possible. The Holy Father in Rome is making a statement at this moment. Most of the news stations are carrying it live.” A pause, then, “Perhaps you’re watching it now. In any event, our office received the official transcript via fax from the Vatican twenty minutes ago. Father Mayhew, is someone there? Bishop Leonard needs all parishes to be consistent in their messages this morning. In short, the Holy Father is saying –”

Nick turned off the answering machine. It had taken him a moment to find the switch, while the bishop’s secretary droned on. He was glad he’d found it in time. In the other room, the television was off. It would remain so. What Nick knew and felt at this moment would not be swayed by anyone. Not now. He wondered what he would have heard had he listened, and why there had been such a delay in response from the Holy See. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was what God was saying now, in whispers to everyone's heart.

The young priest took a breath and uttered a hurried Act of Contrition, as he'd done before every mass since joining the priesthood. For strength, and focus. He walked from the back room and stood in front of the altar. In the corner of his vision, he saw the crowded congregation stand.

* * *

Clay heard the shower start up. It sounded like a scream to him. Everything did. Outside, the morning sun tore through the curtains, taunting him. It's nice outside! it seemed to shout. Come out and play!

Come out and die. Die with everyone else.

He stared into the crib. Connor smiled up at him. The kid was always smiling. Something must be wrong with him. A familiar feeling took hold, one that welled up often, even before this mess with God started. Pain, a hole in his gut, seeing the boy in the crib, wondering who he looked like. Like Holly, of course. Not him.

Clay held the pillow against his chest, feeling his fingers curl into the thin stuffing. The pillow was stained in the center, where Holly's head had lain for so many days.

The sound of the shower was a constant background noise. She'd probably stepped in by now; the hot water didn't take long to crank up. She promised she wouldn’t leave. He knew she wouldn't. Not with her son stuck here with Clay the Monster. Her son. Her son...

He leaned over the edge of the crib, holding the pillow overhead as if to shelter the baby from rain. In a way, he knew, that’s exactly what he was doing. Sheltering the bastard from what was coming. Saving Holly the grief of seeing her son die.

The baby smiled wider, made a cooing, gurgling noise that was his trademark laugh. A sound of joy. It was a good sound to end with. Clay lowered the pillow.

“Clay, don't.” The woman's voice behind him was soft. Calm. He wanted to ignore it. The pillow hovered a couple of inches above the child's face. Connor gurgle-laughed and gripped the pillowcase with both hands, playing the game. As if sensing Clay’s muscles tightening for the final push, the voice behind him said, more sternly, “I mean it. Stop now.”

He didn't want to turn around, but neither did he lower the pillow.

“You're not real,” he whispered.

He sensed her moving closer, but like the other times when she'd come to him, she made no contact. He risked a look back. The angel was more beautiful than he remembered, so much more beautiful than Holly with her earthly flaws and blemishes. This woman’s long blonde hair fell over a white dress, highlighting the perfect contours of her body. Revealing nothing. As before, Clay expected to feel a wave of lust when he looked at her, but did not. Just a strong, loving attraction. A joy from simply looking at her.

She said, “I know you sent me away. I'm back only to say what you're doing is wrong. It's too late for you to do anything.”

“You're not real !” he shouted, felt the rage, the comfortable, familiar surge through his body. That he understood. The anger.

“It might not be too late for them. For Holly, or the child. Nothing is certain, but there still is a chance.”

A sob caught in his throat. He said coldly, “The boy's not mine. He's not, is he?”

“What does that matter?”

“Is he?”

“No.”

Hands tightening on the pillow. As if sensing what was coming, Connor let go of the edges and let his small arms fall to the mattress.

The woman whispered, “It's never too late for redemption, Clay, even something as small as setting them free.” She moved closer until she was beside him, leaning on the crib. “It's never too late for damnation, either.”

“Too late for me. For everything.”

She nodded. “Maybe. You've been bad, that's for sure. It's not my call. What you do next, though, is your decision.”

Then she was gone.

“Not real,” he whispered. The sound of the shower stopped. Clay looked down and whispered, “You're not mine.”

* * *

Holly knew she'd spent too long in the shower. The heat allowed her to work out most of the stiffness and aches. Now she dried, feeling the soft comfort of the towel, and longed for clean clothes, to be whole again before it all was gone forever. She wrapped the towel around herself and stepped from the bathroom, paused. There was the phone, sitting on the table in the living room. She should sneak over and call Dot, let her friend know that she and Connor were okay, that they hadn't forsaken her friendship. She wanted to say goodbye.