Authors: Daniel G. Keohane
Margaret laughed. She looked at him closely. “You created quite a stir on Sunday, I hear.”
Nick grimaced. “Yep,” he sighed. “Didn't do wonders for the collection basket.”
By midnight, the three women assigned to counting were busy at work. Behind each stood one police officer, under pretense of protecting the counters from any undue influence. Margaret noticed their eyes remained riveted, not on the waiting crowd, but on each individual vote and how the women marked them on their sheets.
By the time the sixty-four percent “yes” vote was announced, Margaret was too tired to offer any reaction except a relieved sigh. She hugged Nick, then Carl when he joined her onstage. She thanked selectman Major quickly before being led from the building by two police officers who insisted on driving her home. She tossed her keys to Carl who’d follow in her car.
Three television crews and a handful of newspaper reporters, barred from the proceedings, were waiting outside. She begged them off, offering plenty of interviews for the next day. A fourth news crew waited in front of her house. The police sent them away before allowing her out of the cruiser. When she and Carl entered the house, accompanied by a small round of applause from those waiting up for them inside, Margaret looked out through the curtain. One cruiser pulled away after a brief discussion with the driver of a second pulling to the curb. The remaining policewoman looked up at the house, got into her own car, but did not pull away. She turned off the headlights and from her silhouette cast by the street lamp was settling in for the evening.
The ad-hoc celebration ended quickly. Carl was soon stretched out on the couch. In the girls’ room, Robin was wrapped up in her sheets, breathing easily, her face soft in the glow of the nightlight. Margaret turned to see Katie staring back at her from her own bed. Her expression remained as hard and angry as that morning. When her mother moved to approach, the girl rolled over to face the wall.
Margaret left without speaking and lay atop the folding cot in the kitchen, for she’d given her own bedroom to Estelle. Even with the heart-splitting sorrow at Katie’s reaction, she was asleep in minutes, and did not dream.
27
The ark across the common was never completed, nor was any effort made to re-build what had been started. The day after the town meeting, Margaret's group learned of Benson's suicide. He had lingered all day at the building site after the fire, not saying much to either his own crew or to Margaret when she'd offered whatever help she could. The next day she was struck dumb by the news that, as she’d stood on the stage and pleaded her case with the residents of Lavish, Benson had climbed a ladder to the roof of his house under cover of night, secured a rope around the chimney and then his neck, and jumped, or slid, along the shingles and over the edge. He left no note, his legacy reduced to an ex-wife living near Baltimore and a pile of ashes in the center of town.
The rest of his crew were like sheep without a shepherd for most of Sunday. A tall, ungainly man with a poorly-trimmed goatee emerged from the flock as leader and organized the shipping of what unused lumber hadn't been burned to his own back yard. Margaret and her crew never heard from them again. No one had come to her for the specifications with which to rebuild. Either the goateed man had worked it out himself, or they hadn't gotten very far before giving up entirely.
Over the next five days, Margaret's crew managed to jury-rig a new stern, cutting and re-forming the beams and wall, sealing it with nails, seam tape and shipper’s glue. Even with the added ventilation, the interior reeked with a dark, burning odor. Margaret accepted that they would never get the smell out. Jennifer built a few makeshift shelves along the back and laid out vases of flowers, potpourri wreaths, anything she could find to compete with the stench. The result was more overpowering than the smoky odor they'd started with. The repairs tapped them of most remaining lumber, leaving inventory well shy of the required work left to do.
Thursday morning found Margaret and Carl back at the lumber store. The warehouse-sized building looked like a department store on Christmas Eve. Many shelves were empty, dozens of pallets lay discarded on the floor or stacked against the walls. Margaret hadn’t come back herself since last month. Even with the recent reports of lowered inventory since the rain, she hadn’t adequately pictured how bad it had become.
The girl behind the desk looked familiar. She'd been working when Margaret had ordered her first load of wood.
“I'm sorry, Ms. Carboneau,” she said. “We had a small shipment in on Friday, but it wasn't much. Demand's been so high.”
“That's all right,” Margaret said, keeping a neutral expression to hide her disappointment. “We don't need much.” She handed the list Estelle had written up that morning.
The girl, “Holly” according to the nametag pinned at a crooked angle to her shirt, looked over the list. The fact that her face didn't register any sort of relief wasn't a good sign.
“Well,” she whispered, not looking up from the paper. “Maybe I can get
some
of these things.”
“I'm afraid not.” A man in a green shirt similar to Holly's approached from behind and did a quick scan of the order. He looked at Margaret and Carl. “I'm afraid we can't help you anymore.”
Carl leaned against the counter. “Why not? We're paying for all this - “
“I understand,” the man interrupted. “Not that this ark nonsense hasn't been good for business, but you aren’t my only customers.”
The man was obviously a manager though he wore no nametag. Margaret laid a calming hand on Carl's arm and said, quietly, “What does it matter who buys your wood? We'll pay double what you're asking.”
The man's expression softened, but Margaret felt this turn of mood had nothing to do with a change of heart. “Listen,” he said, “I've got over two hundred contractors, some big, others only one-man shows. They depend on my inventory to keep their businesses alive.” He waved an arm indicating the store. “Look around you, lady. Our suppliers can't keep up with the hysteria you caused over that rain. You're sucking us dry. Business may be booming now, but next month when you shrug your shoulders and say 'Oh well', where's that going to leave me? My regulars will have found a new supplier - not that other stores are overflowing with wood lately, either.” He added the last caveat more to himself, looking around his store as if suddenly forgetting he'd been talking to someone.
Margaret kept staring at him. He did not look back. She felt the muscles of Carl’s arm tightening and loosening as he opened and closed his fists. She said, “Next month all of your
regulars
will be dead. Next month, this store will be gone. Next month, we intend to be on our ship per God's instructions, one way or another.”
Carl's muscles stopped their flexing. Her bluntness had caught not only him by surprise. The manager looked back at her, the fire behind his eyes no longer suppressed.
He hissed, “Get the hell out of my store.” Holly stood between him and the desk and looked terrified, as if this man would at any moment beat
her
up, if only to show he meant business. “And don’t think I didn’t hear the threat - ‘One way or the other’. You try stealing one piece of sawdust and I'll blow your Jesus-loving brains across the floor.”
Carl hopped over the counter, shoved Holly aside and had the man's shirt bunched up in his fists. He spat a steady stream of threats and obscenities, face a hair's length away from the manager's. Margaret's first instinct was to run around the counter and pull him away, but she waited. Carl didn’t hit him, did not shake him back and forth but merely stood there, shouting words and curses so vile Margaret would have laughed at their absurdity if the situation had been different.
Then a crowd of men in similar shirts were running up the aisles, converging on the center sales desk.
“Carl.” She spoke his name, calmly, and Carl stopped, his face lingering for another moment before he shoved the manager backwards. The other’s face was red, but he said nothing, merely watched as Carl jumped back over the counter, surrounded by employees who weren't sure what to do.
Margaret and Carl walked from the store in silence. No one stopped them.
Holly watched them go. Only when they had disappeared from sight did Clay move. He stared at her, but she knew better than to look back at him. He took a step forward. Her shoulders bunched up in expectation. People were crowded around the counter, shouting questions at both of them.
Too many people
, she thought. Finally, Clay told them to shut up and stalked off towards the stockroom. As he did, Holly heard him mutter, “I can't wait until they all float away and leave the rest of us alone.”
His words were intended for no one in particular, but they struck her with more power than his fists ever had.
I can't wait until they all float away
. What did he mean by that?
Having watched the Carboneau women and her teenage son walking down the aisle, Holly felt a new panic rise. It was going to happen. She believed that. She’d always believed it. Did Clay?
She thought of Connor, her baby. The store disappeared around her. Now was the time, if ever. Holly wondered if Clay was going to go home. Probably not. Not yet. People lingered about the sales desk, asking questions, but she ignored them and picked up the phone, dialed '9' then her home number. All the while, a sense of nervous urgency filled her. If she was going to go through with her plans, she sensed somehow it had to begin now.
“Dot? Hi; it's Holly. Is Connor sleeping? No? How’s he doing?”
She hoped her friend Dorothy Lang did not hear any panic in her voice. The woman merely proceeded to describe Connor's morning. Hearing the adoration in Dot’s voice reminded her of how good a choice she'd made in picking her friend as a full-time baby-sitter. Dot had been laid off from the Gonzales school system a month before Connor had been born, and was more than happy to be doing something, especially since she and Phil hadn’t been able, not yet at least, to have any kids of their own.
Holly only half listened to Dot’s words. She and Clay had driven to work together this morning. Holly had the keys. Clay couldn't leave without her. She had a chance. She let Dot ramble on about Connor's adventures with creamed carrots. He'd only started solid food last week, and it had been a glorious adventure getting him to try. With Holly ignoring their questions – her attention riveted on the lighted button of the phone – those gathered around her migrated away from the desk and back to their own depleted department shelves or into the back to get answers from Clay.
When she was alone, Holly interrupted, “Dot, listen, do me a favor?” She looked around. No one was close enough to hear. “I'm leaving work a little early. My chest is killing me and I think I'd better nurse Connor myself instead of pump.” A pause, listening. “I know, but phasing that out has to be gradual. And Dot? Can you dress him up for going outside? Get his diaper bag ready and a change of clothes... in case he makes a mess. Yes. I'm taking the rest of the day off, thinking of bringing Connor to the park for the afternoon. That’s right. Thanks, Dot. Bye.”
Talking about feeding the baby set off the inevitable physical reaction in her breasts. The nursing response still amazed her. The sound of a baby crying in the store was enough to get her body producing milk. Still, it was a secondary consideration at the moment. She'd have to nurse Connor when she got home, but only enough to take the pressure off. It wouldn’t be long before Clay realized she was gone, and he'd grab the first person with a car to see what she was up to.
Holly looked around. As casually as possible she grabbed her pocketbook from under the counter and left the store. As she got in the car and pulled out of her space, she kept looking in the rear view mirror, expecting to see Clay running out the door after her. She saw nothing but the ever-dwindling crowd of customers walking in and out.
She didn’t have much time.
* * *
“What are we going to do now? I say try Dexter's lumber down in Soledad. They're bound to have better stuff anyway.”
Margaret kept her eyes on the road. “Have you ever been there?”
“Well, no. But what choice do we have? We have to try someplace.”
Margaret found herself taking random turns, navigating through town but not having any real destination. Carl was right. What choice did they have? Not that she expected to find anything different
wherever
they went. Already, an alternative plan was forming in her mind. One that seemed so radically permanent in its scope that it frightened her to consider it.
Instead, she said simply, “What's the fastest way there?”
* * *
The temperature that day had reached eighty-nine degrees at its zenith. With the evening came a refreshing coolness pushed in from the ocean seventy-nine miles to the west. Daylight lingered longer every day, and as Margaret's crew gathered in her front yard at seven-thirty, she estimated they still had an hour of workable daylight left.
The store in Soledad had been more responsive, mostly because she hadn’t been recognized. It didn't take long for people to figure out who she was, and subsequently her purpose for the materials. Still, she and Carl had managed to get half of Estelle's list. As they left, the manager caught her at the door and in a beseeching tone asked her not to return. Carl's face burned with a newfound rage, but he kept any comments to himself. When Margaret explained that the man's customers would not need the wood in a month, his reaction was opposite that of the manager at the first store. He simply nodded his head and said, “I know that, ma’am. But that doesn’t change what
my
boss thinks, and that's where the decision comes from. I'm sorry.”
Margaret wondered if she'd ever been called “ma'am” this often before the dreams. Already, her alternate plan looked to be the only way out. She explained it to Carl on the way back to Lavish, and he’d shifted uneasily in his seat. His ranting about the “lunacy” of the plan made her begin to doubt his belief in what was going to happen. She told him so, in quiet, hurt words. He fell silent, and as they'd approached the town common to call everyone together, he simply muttered, “It just seems so much like the point of no return.”