Authors: Daniel G. Keohane
* * *
It felt like the middle of the night. Margaret glanced up at the clock. Only eight-thirty. Without speaking, Al placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of her, laid a hand briefly on her shoulder before moving on to converse quietly with his former co-workers. The fire station buzzed with the influx of people. The entire contingent of firefighters had been called to duty, woken or paged from their private worlds.
Margaret wanted to ask if the coffee was decaffeinated, decided against it. If it wasn't, she'd be up all night. If it was, she probably wouldn't feel much different. She
was
tired. Exhausted past anything she'd felt since the days following Vince's death and subsequent blur of wake and funeral. She took a sip and winced when the coffee burned the small cut on her bottom lip.
“But, how? Plywood's not exactly waterproof.” The man beside her had given his name, which Margaret quickly forgot. Not that she'd been listening when he came into the station, shadowed by Carl and Marty Santos. The fire chief had taken the role of receptionist, screening anyone wanting to speak with Margaret within the dry confines of the station's upstairs living room. Carl wasn't accompanying Marty but simply checking in. He'd been arrested, along with half of Margaret's crew and a dozen others from the mob who’d refused to move outside the circle of cruisers and fire trucks. Then, Margaret had shouted to her people to go quietly. She'd get them out when she could. With the crowd subdued, or at least contained, Al had gone to the police station and, in his words, “Had a hell of a time getting anyone to even talk to me.” In the end, he'd convinced the night Sergeant to release the crew. They left under the wails and derisive shouts of those left behind in over-crowded cells.
Margaret made notes along the edges of the paper, writing as legibly as possible with her cramped fingers. The sheets had been printed from one of the detailed web sites Carl found on the Internet, offering “blueprints” of the ark to anyone interested. Not everything was exactly as she envisioned, and those points she corrected or amplified with the pen.
“You need to get enough sealant tape to cover every seam,” she said, “and lather the glue across the whole exterior. You can't miss one seam. Here. I'll start a clean sheet for a list.” The man beside her nodded, a little too often for Margaret to think he was taking much of it in. Still, she discussed wood and nails and cross-supports and the short mast, pointing out the storage compartments and making sure he understood that the lower deck required additional beams to support the harnesses. Thirty of them.
Al and Carl stood close by, listening intently. Though Margaret had covered the erection of the additional beams with them, she hadn't said much about the harnesses. Their installation wasn’t yet required. Estelle was the exception, responsible for tracking and monitoring supplies, and her obvious situation with the wheelchair. Margaret had gone into this particular requirement with her early on.
The only thing she was not able to explain, to either Estelle or the man sitting beside her, was their actual purpose. It seemed like overkill. In the worse storm that might happen at sea, she could think of better handholds, more conventional seating during calm weather.
But the harnesses, adjustable for the largest man or the smallest infant, were a requirement burned into her brain as deeply as the placement of every nail. She could not question it.
The man beside her
did
, and Margaret tried to press home the one point that was now a natural assumption for her. He had no choice. These specs were from God, and there was no room for modifications. The man nodded. Again. She saw in his contemplative expression that he was already changing things in his mind.
Carl and Al moved on to other distractions, mostly standing by the window and staring at the ark capsized on the grass. The area was bathed in rain-dimmed brilliance from twin halogen spotlights, powered by electrical chords running from the station. The two men kept any questions they might be forming to themselves. Carl held Margaret’s Bible in both hands, absently turning it over and over. When she’d learned the teenager had spent a lot of that first night at her house reading it, she gave it to him. He’d refused at first, having seen the inscription from her late husband on the inside cover. In the end, they’d compromised on him borrowing it for as long as he wanted, or as long as it took for him to get his own. She would have liked to spend more time with the boy, answer his questions, but there never seemed to
be
any time and there would probably be even less as June approached. Maybe later, she thought.
After
.
Margaret brought her attention back to the moment, drawing rough schematics with her Bic pen when the printed image was not enough. This man was planning on building on the opposite end of the common. Margaret reminded him again that he was free to inspect her own ship, see what her artless scribbling actually meant.
The well of knowledge implanted in her was running dry by nine o'clock. The man looked tired. A few minutes ago, Estelle had called from Margaret's home to say the girls were in bed, though not yet asleep. Fae had returned from the house with extra dry clothes for her and Carl. the day after he arrived at her door, Margaret had sent him to Wal-mart for a new wardrobe using her credit card. The rest of the crew, save Carl and Al, reluctantly returned home. It made no sense to try righting the ship tonight. Privately, Margaret wondered if it wasn't better off where it lay. Not much rain could build up below deck in this position.
Not long after Fae arrived with the clothes, Margaret caught a glimpse of Adrian Edgecomb. The selectman had stormed through the town hall and police station, and judging by the occasional shouting during the evening, he'd paid a number of visits to the fire station. He was not happy. The town had been turned into a circus. His words. Three people were in the hospital because
that nut
decided she was a twenty-first century Noah. Those were snippets of conversation Margaret overheard during his brief visits with Marty. She didn't want to know what he was saying about her. She
did
wonder about the other two selectmen. Edgecomb seemed to have taken the most vociferous stance so far.
Edgecomb posed more of a threat to her completing the task than any mob that might come in the future.
Her free ride on taxpayer property
, yet another quote, was about to end.
No sooner had she begun wrapping up her overview with the man beside her, and organizing her notes, than Marty Santos walked in with a dour expression. He was followed by a woman similar in age to Margaret, heavier, wet hair matted against her dark skin.
“Mrs. Carboneau,” the woman said from behind the chief. “My name's Alicia, and… “
“
She
wants to build an ark, too,” Marty interrupted, no longer trying to hide his irritation. Alicia looked at him for a moment, then simply nodded.
Margaret looked at Carl standing by the window. He shook his head. She needed sleep, his look said. He was right.
“Can I see these for a minute?” She gently took the stack of papers from the hand of the man beside her. He held on a moment longer, but a quick tug and she had them back. “Marty, I don't suppose you've got a copying machine somewhere handy?” She held up the papers.
* * *
Fae pulled into the fire station a few minutes past midnight. Her hair was tangled, matted down on one side as if she'd been sleeping when Margaret had called. The cell phone connection was worse than earlier. She didn’t remember rain ever wreaking so much havoc with phones in the past. Margaret looked back at Carl. “You sure you don't want to come back to the house tonight?”
He gave her a quick hug and ushered her into the passenger seat. Rain dripped from his face and onto her lap. “Too many women in one house for my taste,” he said. “Me and Al will stay here and keep an eye on things tonight. The guys said it was okay.”
Al waved from inside one of the large empty garage bays. The engines remained on the common, save one called for a downed power line. His face was lost in the shadows. She waved back.
Fae drove her home in silence. Margaret had fallen asleep by the time the car had pulled into her crowded driveway.
39
The rain continued throughout the day Saturday, falling as unrelentingly as when it first began. The news covered the ensuing hysteria across the world, mob scenes like the one in Lavish. Some were less dramatic, others bloody. In some states, governors threatened marshal law. The builders of the arks pleaded over newscasts that this was only a sign, a divine warning that the visions were true. The real flood would be upon them soon enough.
Flooding had already begun, however. Estimated rainfall figures ranged from eight inches to over a foot. Margaret thought these numbers were exaggerated, even
with
scenes of rivers cresting their banks and pouring into streets. People waved to news cameras from second floor windows. These were low-lying areas, already prone to flooding. The rain showed no sign of abating, however. Forecasters pointed with shaking hands at the unmoving mass of clouds.
The rain served its purpose. Margaret now had a full contingent of crew, and imagined the same was happening everywhere.
A wicked and faithless generation seeks after a sign
, Jesus said once in Matthew’s gospel.
Al so receiving a boost was the widely-covered construction of the San Francisco televangelist Nick Starr. His massive ark looked more like a small ocean liner. According to his press release, all three hundred seats within the two lower decks were nearly sold out at a price of one thousand dollars a berth (fifteen hundred for a limited private cabin). “At the rate we're going,” he’d chirped merrily during an interview, “I'm gonna have to build us a second ship!”
Margaret had paused before the television to watch the story, then walked away knowing that Reverend Starr and his passengers were probably all going to die.
Over the course of the day, the fire trucks pulled away from the building site to more areas of flash flooding. Normally dry riverbeds had begun claiming people and livestock. The
911
system was a steady necklace of lights. “I haven't heard from my daughter. She was playing in the street and now she's gone.” “The water's up to the baseboards; should I try and shut off the power?” “I can't find my dog.” And so on.
The crowd around the common never thinned, but made no further move towards the ark, which lay on its side like a misshapen whale. Cars, pickups and mini-vans held vigil, waiting for Margaret and her people to return to work.
Her people
. Margaret stood at the second story firehouse window and watched the rain pound against the ship's hull. A full crew. Thirty including herself and the girls. More wanted to be included. The man with whom she had shared the ship's architecture last night had nearly a full crew already, most from her own waiting list. He wandered in the rain at the far side of the common with his recruits, waving at various points and obviously explaining what they'd have to do. Alicia, the woman who'd listened with less nodding and more understanding decided to build her ship in her front yard in Greenfield. The town where, an eternity ago, Margaret's husband had burned to death.
And the people waited in their cars, late-comers praying for an opening in one of the projects, or vultures waiting for a chance to take what others had built. Margaret thought she could tell who was who. The late-comers wrung their hands, stepped out of their cars more often, looked around for any sign they were welcome. The vultures sat behind the wheel, staring through the watery windshield with calculated expressions of patience and loathing. They emerged from their cars only to run to the House of Pizza one block down, for food or to use the restroom.
Margaret watched them watching her, waiting for the rain to stop.
The opening in the ark’s upper deck, facing away from the station, was completely covered by the triple-sewn tarp. Carl, Al and a few volunteers had rigged it last night after Margaret went home. As long as the ground water didn't rise, the interior wouldn't take on any more water.
At six fourteen in the evening, the world became dark. The clouds looked black in their thickness. The rain fell, and fell, then dropped suddenly to a drizzle.
The blackness of the clouds faded to a swirling gray.
The rain stopped.
The change was sudden, happening within a couple of minutes. At first Margaret wasn't sure what was different. The window was rain-spattered, but there was no sound on the flat roof. Everything had stopped. The constant rush of water down the drain pipes flowed with less urgency. Draining, but no longer filling.
She disbelieved what she was sensing. The world outside lightened. No shadows. No bright sunbeam tearing through the clouds, but there
was
a discernable glow filling the world.
Margaret walked across the room, considered waking Carl asleep half-on and half-off the couch, the black book open against his chest like a sleeping child. She left him and walked downstairs to the garage bay. The doors were closed. She pressed a red button and the town square slowly opened before her.
She took two steps outside.
The rain had stopped. Water dripped from the garage doors, from the sapling Juniper tree on the small, grassy front yard of the station. Dripped from the twin spotlights, which had not yet been turned on for the night.
Margaret went no further towards the common. She waited. Slowly, car doors opened. Sides of mini-vans slid aside. A hundred people emerged from their sanctuaries. Many looked her way, but none approached. Ben, one of the firemen who'd originally helped her begin work on the ark, walked up to stand beside her. Since the day he and the others had stopped helping out of fear for their jobs, he hadn't spoken to her. Margaret understood. Can't make it seem you're
one of them
.