Margaret's Ark

weather would come early this year. Spring would never come again.

“I will stand here when the deluge comes. God has lavished such gifts upon the Earth, and all - “

“Jack.” An arm on his shoulder. Jack pulled away.

“- you people have done is fattened yourselves on his graces. Now -”

“Jack!”

The arm spun him around. He almost fell off the wall again, half-expecting to see the angel Michael standing before him. He didn’t. The man was shorter than Jack, but wore the dark blue jacket and cap of the Boston Police Department.

“Good morning, Officer. Please, I'm in the middle of my sermon.”

Mitch Leary shook his head. “Jack, I've asked you a half-dozen times to stay away from here.”

“God has asked me - “

“God's not responsible for keeping scary people away from the lunch crowd. Now come on.” He pulled the preacher off the wall and onto the sidewalk. Jack resisted and tried to regain his footing.

“You don’t understand. We're running out of time.”

“You're going to jail, Preacher.”

Jack froze. Jail. No, he had a duty.

Officer Leary saw the look on the preacher's face and sighed. Keeping his hand on the man's shoulder, he led him away from the crowd. They stopped at a round ticket kiosk, still closed on weekdays this early in the tourist season.

“Listen, buddy, I don't want you in jail. But if you don't knock this off, especially in such a public place, I'm going to have to take you in.” He stopped and eyed him warily. “Unless, that's what you're shooting for. Free meals and all.”

Jack felt his face flush. Already he felt time slipping away and this man thought he was doing it for charity? He tried to hide his anger, but the policeman saw it nonetheless. Leary raised a hand defensively.

“All right. I apologize. You're on a mission from God, right?”

“That's correct.”

Leary whispered, “Stay away from Fanueil Hall, that's all. There are plenty of other places. Try the Wharf over there.” He gestured past the twin rows of buildings that made up the marketplace. Jack knew he was implying Long Wharf on the other side of Atlantic Avenue. A long brick-lined park running along the inner reaches of Boston Harbor.

He whispered, “But they already kicked me out of there. You'll kick me out of there, too. I have to preach, and you can't lock me up. We only have a short time left.”

“When was the last time you ate, Jack?”

The change in subject made him pause a moment. “Ate? I don't know. This morning, I think.”

“What'd you eat?”

“I don't remember. I think someone gave me part of a muffin.”

“Part of a muffin,” the policeman muttered. “Here, take this.” He shoved something into Jack's hand and folded his hand closed over it. When the preacher tried to see what it was, Leary squeezed his fingers.

“Don't look, just take it and buy yourself something decent to eat. Maybe get a toothbrush. There's also a slip with the address of a shelter just around the corner. They can get you cleaned up. Just don’t buy any booze with it.”

Jack straightened. “I don't drink. I promise you that.” Already he felt an excitement at the prospect of finding the shelter again. God had provided. Had it really been just around the corner all this time?

Leary smiled. “Good. That's good.” He looked down for a minute, and whispered, “God's good that way, huh?”

“What?”

“Nothing. I've seen a lot of people in trouble, and they come out of it when they -” he made the two fingers of each hand into quotation marks - “find God.” He laid a hand on Jack's shoulder and led him along the outskirts of the marketplace, towards the waterfront. “Whatever it takes, right?”

“It's the only way.” Jack’s own voice sounded foreign to him. He was seeing something special in this officer, something long buried, and had the urge to begin preaching. Never mind the threat of jail. He was a messenger of God.

But he didn't preach. A quick peek in his hand revealed a ten-dollar bill. Ten dollars would buy a nice meal, maybe two if he found someplace cheap. His stomach turned in anticipation. This felt wrong. He shouldn't be eating, except what God granted he should have. But here he was, walking the length of the market with a man who could easily arrest him but instead was talking of God and giving him money for food.

For whoever does right by my brethren so he does to me . Something like that. The officer was talking, but Jack couldn't hear. He was too hungry.

They walked along the sidewalk skirting the traffic moving on Atlantic Avenue and underground into the expressway tunnel. Across the way the waterfront park was nearly deserted. Though April promised warmer days ahead, the constant breeze off the inlet made staying for any length of time daunting.

Not for Jack. Once again he found himself led to this place. This time he felt God's hand at work. He would not be relocated again.

“Promise me you'll eat something with that? Maybe over there?”

Jack turned around. Officer Leary had stopped ten paces ago and was pointing to the Blue Gull diner across from the Marriott hotel. Jack squeezed the bill tightly in his hands and smiled.

“Yes, sir, Officer. I promise. God bless you!”

“I hope so,” he said and turned away. Jack felt the world tipping again, and the policeman was lost in a swirling haze. If he didn't eat soon he might pass out. He held his fist to his mouth and whispered, “Thy will be done.”

He opened his hand, and stared with a growing joy at the rumpled ten- dollar bill. The wind caught it, and it fluttered away. For the briefest of moments, Jack watched it sail off, as if seeing it only in his mind like a sad memory. Then he realized what was happening and stumbled forward. In his peripheral vision, the city moved above and around him. The bill fluttered off the sidewalk, across the street. He couldn't lose sight of it, lest it blow into some rich man's overstuffed wallet.

At that moment, God opened one of the seven seals. A trumpet sounded throughout the heavens. A blaring klaxon promising death and redemption. A long, drawn out wail....

Jack never looked up. As he reached for the bill, something slammed into him, a building maybe, falling on top of him. It’s happening again, he thought, then shouted at the sudden pain and memory--turned, tumbled, felt every stone and piece of gravel from the road against him. His arm screamed in agony.

He lay in an unconscious heap in the middle of the road. The taxi backed up, its driver weighing his options of driving off, then the clicking of the gear going into park. The cab door opened. Jack heard these sounds from deep within the hole into which his senses had fallen.

*     *     *

An unnatural quiet permeated the air in Saint Mary’s rectory. It always had. During the funeral, Margaret marveled at how peaceful she felt sitting in the priest's home. As if some invisible barrier had been laid across the house, emanating from the equally-serene church next door. Unlike the more popular, flat-roofed, stucco homes in town, the rectory was a large Victorian, built by the diocese in the mid-twentieth century when the Catholic population had grown too large to be handled with one church for every three or four towns. Saint Mary’s was located on the western edge of town, the church itself an unassuming box with a short steeple. The rectory, housing Father Mayhew and - during the week days - his secretarial assistant, overshadowed the church in architecture and charm.

The young priest returned to his office and laid a cup of tea on the desk in front of her. The tea bag spread a thick brown wash through the water as it steeped. For his part, Nick had an oversized mug of black coffee. Instead of sitting in his usual chair, putting the desk between them, he sat at Margaret's side in the second guest chair, turned so he could face her without the whole scene looking like an ad-hoc confessional.

“How are the girls, Margaret?”

“They’re fine. Katie misses her dad something awful, and Robin plays along. I sometimes wonder how much