Margaret's Ark (16 page)

She held her palms up before him. “Clay, please. I already said I won’t. We need both incomes; you know that.”

Her spoken acknowledgement of his power over her, even if most was in his own half-hearted self-ego, released some of the fury he'd been building. He sighed, a lengthy dry expiration that offered hope. Holly dared not relax. Not yet.

“You just remember that. No one in this house is going to be chasing angels around in public. I mean it.” His voice was quieter, the calm after a storm passing overhead but not quite breaking.

She bent down and lifted Connor out of his walker. “I'll get some supper going,” she said, and walked past Clay into the kitchen. Holly didn't begin shaking until she was past him and safely into the other room. She heard him flop onto the couch followed by the television’s tinny voice. As fast as possible, she got Connor into a high chair and got him a few Cheerios to gum down, then went to the far corner of the kitchen, out of sight from the living room, and waited for the shaking to subside.

*     *     *

Carl Jorgenson
did
stop at McDonald's on the way home and bought a large Diet Coke and a couple of tasteless Fajitas. He ate them slowly, as the engine idled in the parking lot. Eventually the meal, and time, ran out. He could either go home to face his Mom's wrath (and likely his father’s - Dan Jorgensen would have come home a half hour ago unless he'd been delayed at work), or drive back to the common and hide. Reluctantly, Carl backed from his parking space and pulled out of the lot, turned right, headed home.

His parents were waiting. In fact, as Carl stepped in through the kitchen doorway, his mother had her jacket on and Dan was looking resigned to whatever direction his wife was going.
She was about to head back to the common,
Carl realized. Whatever his decision in the parking lot had been, he understood that avoiding this moment would not have been possible.

Sarah stared at her son for a long moment, her face tight with rage. She said nothing, only tore off her jacket and stormed from the room. She disappeared around the corner to the living room and Carl heard her sit angrily in one of the chairs.

Dan stared at his son, his face a mix of concern and irritation, something Carl had seen on the faces of the spectators around the common.

“Hi,” Carl said. He dropped his keys onto the counter, then regretted the act. What if his mother tried to hide them? She might do that. He remembered the spare key in his wallet and felt less exposed. He left the keys where they lay.

“Carl,” Dan said. “There's a lot we need to talk about, but it has to be said together, as a family.” He turned and followed his wife's path into the middle of the house. “Let's go,” he added, without turning back.

*     *     *

“All week? You've been there
all week
? Why hasn't the school called?” All of the blood in his mother’s body had raced to her face. Still, she remained in her chair. His father had taken a spot on the side of the couch closest to her, but not so as to make it look like an
us versus you
setup.

Carl sat in the other armchair. He'd told them everything. It was the only plan he could think of. All week he'd lied, made up quirky little stories about school or practice whenever they'd asked, enough to quell any fear they may have harbored about something dark lurking under the covers. If he lied now, however, they would know. They were
looking
for lies.

“I called the school the first three days,” he said quietly, hands folded between his knees. “I didn't call yesterday or today.”

“Why not?” his father asked.

“I don't know. Maybe I wanted them to call. They didn't, though, did they?”

His answer succeeded in pulling his mother out of her chair. Dan lightly touched her arm. She stopped but remained standing. His father said quietly, with a growing irritation, “Let's stop bantering about with trivial nonsense. Carl, why didn't you tell us? Why did you have to sneak behind our backs like this? If you felt some responsibility to help your teacher, we could have - “

“We could have told him again to stay away from that loon,” Sarah spat. “That's why he didn't tell us.” She began to pace in front of the couch.

Carl stood up. “She's not crazy!”

Sarah stopped and looked at him. “No, a middle-aged woman who sees angels and builds a boat in front of the fire station is not crazy. Not at all.”

Carl squeezed his hands together behind his back. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with his mother. “Mom, I love you. I really do. But aren't you hearing the news? She's not the only one! They're all over the place. People are suddenly building boats in their front yards, facing others like... people who think they're crazy. Why would they do this if it -”

“Is that it? This is some new fad, the cool psycho stunt to pull? Let's build an ark and yell Halleluiah, God's a comin'!”

“Sarah, that's enough.” Dan patted the cushion beside him. “Sit. We're a family having a conversation about something that's important to Carl, and being sarcastic isn't going to help.”

For a moment, Carl felt hope. His father's voice had been reassuringly calm. But there were other, subtle signs that someone outside the Jorgenson household wouldn't notice. The vein on his father's neck, pulsing quickly; the man's tight-lipped expression when he wasn't talking. He wanted to believe that his Dad's anger was towards Carl's mother, but he couldn't afford such illusions.

Sarah sat back down on the couch. Dan looked at his son. “Carl, we don't want you to be out there with Mrs. Carboneau. There's not much else to say.”

Carl felt the wind blow out of him. There was no discussion. His father had calmed the woman down only to turn and lay down the law, as if his son was still nine years old and had to obey without question. All he could manage to say in reply was, “What?”

“You heard me. Maybe you think you're doing the right thing; maybe you're even a little afraid of all the stuff she's saying. But you'd have to be blind not to realize that everyone in town thinks she's a little crazy, along with anyone who might be down there helping. We'd rather you not be part of that.”

Heat filled his stomach; his chest tightened. Carl tried to remember what Mrs. Carboneau said to him as he left the common, but all he could picture was her set expression, her total seriousness, not the words themselves. She wasn't crazy. She was frightened, much like his parents but for different reasons.

Then again, maybe they were all scared of the same thing. He didn't look up when he said, “Dad, Mom. Do you believe what she's saying? About the flood, I mean?”

“Absolutely not!” His mother's answer, quick and with no hesitation.

Carl looked up. “Dad?”

Dan said, quietly, “No, Carl. I don't.”

“I do. I believe every word of what she's saying.” His mother squirmed in her seat and Carl raised his hand. “Hold on! I don't get to have my own say? Is that it? You haven't talked to her! You didn't see the fear in that lady’s eyes. Yes, it's fear. She doesn't
want
to be out there building a stupid boat! She was
ordered
  to!” Now
he
was standing and pacing, and suddenly his parents seemed very small.

“I'm going back there tomorrow, and the next day, and I wish you'd both come with me because I don't want you to die! Please come with me before all the spots on board are taken.”

Dan Jorgenson didn't look small any more. He slowly rose from the couch, giving his wife a gentle push on the arm as he did so. Sarah remained seated as her husband stepped forward. “Don't you think,” he said quietly, rage burning behind his own eyes, “that this might be some new form of doomsday cult? That come the final day you'll all be on board and forced to drink poison, or simply be shot dead? It's happened –”

“Oh for God's sake, Dad! These aren't religious fanatics. They're housewives, fathers, regular people like us! They're not going to hurt anyone. They're trying to save us!
God’s
trying to save us!”

Dan took another step closer. “You're not going back there.”

Carl forced himself to keep eye contact. “Yes, I am.”

He saw the man's fist as an after-image which vanished a moment after it connected with his face, before the room faded quickly to black.

46

“Tell me, Doctor Ramprakash, will the world be around in forty-six days?” Bernard Meyers grimaced and added, “Hoo, boy! Let's hope this coffee isn’t.”

The director put down the styrene cup with two fingers as if it was covered in filth. He meant the comment lightly, but Neha felt a knot turn in her stomach. She'd been less affected these past few days by the increasing news reports, since she and Suresh had come to an agreement. The morning after the fight, Suresh found her still in the study, asleep in the chair. With sleep, restless and uncomfortable as it was, came the ability to deal with her husband. Seeing his concern, his true love for her as he knelt in front of the chair, her tears came easily. They had been comforting, and useful.

Neha had fallen into her husband's arms that morning, like the starlets in the countless Indian films they enjoyed, pouring out her heartfelt but controlled apologies for her earlier reaction. This seemed all Suresh needed to pull his wife to him. But Neha could not leave things open-ended. With sobbing drama, she begged Suresh not to follow the dreams, to maintain things as they used to be. How frightened she was, for him, for what others might think. She was careful not to fall into specifics of her own reputation, but kept her concerns directed towards him. They had built so much, she explained, had so many plans.

Getting him to agree, to look in her drying eyes and promise that he would put her before anything else, was a prize she carried with her through this week. He'd kept his word, not bringing up the subject unless she initiated the discussion. Which she did, twice, in order to gauge his response. Thursday night she was home in time to watch the six o'clock news. As she expected, there was continuing coverage of another ark, this time in a North Andover back yard. She sat, feet curled below her, nestled against Suresh's chest and asked, “Have you had more dreams?”

He had actually stopped breathing for a moment. She felt his heart speed up against her ear. Then he slowly let out his breath and said simply, “No. No, I haven't.”

He’d been lying, but more than that, she heard such sadness in his words. Sadness because at that moment, curling tighter against her husband, she knew that he would ignore the dreams, respect her wishes. Respect their growing place in the world.

Sitting now in the hospital cafeteria with her employer, Neha took a sip of her own coffee and made a contented noise. “Better than the stuff in the ER. I don't believe they've cleaned that pot since they bought the coffee maker.”

Bernard Meyers smiled at the comment and nodded. Still, he didn't touch his own cup again. He cut a piece of pork chop, chewed methodically, and only after swallowing said, “You didn't answer my question.” Spoken causally, no accusatory tone. “This whole thing about a new
Great Flood
is rather odd. Have you been following it?”

Neha smiled, thinking of Suresh. Knowing that he would keep his word gave her the confidence to be frank. “I can’t really say. I have been seeing reports, and it does seem to be a global phenomenon. Hard to believe this many people, spread across the world, can be part of some major conspiracy.”

“Then you think it's legitimate?”

The sharpness of his question, the fear she could almost smell beneath the older man's skin, told her what her answer must be. She smiled, took a bite of potato, and said, “No. No, I don't. This may be on a bigger scale, but I can't accept this as being anything different than that cult who thought God was an alien coming to get his people in the tail of a comet.”

Meyers said nothing, merely cut a fresh piece of meat and chewed. He looked across the tables in the cafeteria, at nothing in particular. “My wife, Linda, said pretty much the same thing.”
Bingo
, Neha thought. He continued, “I don’t know. You're both probably right. Weirder things have happened in the world.”

Neha felt brave, and said, “Name one.” She held her breath for the reaction.

Meyers laughed, a full, relieved laugh. “Called to the rug,” he said, still smiling, and cut another piece. “Of course, there's that story I heard this morning about flocks of birds migrating east all of a sudden. Experts are blaming the growing pollution levels on the west coast. Normally, environmental ditties like this don't catch my attention, but with the boats going up and all.” He shrugged.

Neha felt a tightness in her belly. Hearing about abnormal behavior of any sort these days sent her into a panic. Meyers didn't seem to need a response, however, so she did not provide one. Too much risk of exposing weakness.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The cafeteria was crowded, though the official lunchtime had passed an hour before. Twenty-four hour food service was one of the nicer perks of working for a large hospital. The director had called Neha in for her second consult that week - this time a teenager complaining of stomach cramps. The invitation to offer her opinion on such a simple diagnosis spoke volumes, and she recognized the opportunity of a few one-on-one minutes with her employer. Moments like that, and this subsequent late lunch, pulled her out of the general flock and into Meyers' eyes as an individual - a physician the man knew personally.

His next question, after swallowing his last piece of meat, proved the point, more than Neha could have dreamed possible. As he slowly gathered the trash together on his tray, a silent signal that lunch was over for both of them, he said, “Listen, Nee. Linda and I are hosting a small dinner for some folks from the hospital on Friday. It's nothing fancy, just a chance to get to know some of you better over food that's only a slight improvement over what we've just had.”

I doubt
slightly
is the right word
, she wanted to say, but was too dumbstruck to speak. Instead, she raised her eyebrows in as casual a look as she could muster.