Margaret's Ark

that one meeting to last him a lifetime.

The rosary was in his left hand. Simple white plastic beads strung together with thin loops of metal. Still, the feel of it against his palm reminded Nick of prayer, and thoughts of prayer brought calm. The parish’s oversized Bible was open on the desk, to Daniel. Before that, of course, Exodus and the story of Noah.

There were many references in the Word that discussed how the world did end. But these were not by water, but fire. That difference should be important. Something told him to check the Gospel of Luke. He would, later. Of course, Margaret hadn’t actually said the world itself would be destroyed. Devastated, perhaps. And what of the animals? She’d made no mention of them, but Nick had a hard time thinking the Lord would begin this ark business all over again and leave that part out.

He slammed the book closed and rubbed his eyes. What was he doing? Getting caught up in a parishioner's delusions. He got up and poured a fresh mug of coffee, checked his schedule. Rounds at the hospice on Avery Road in an hour, then at seven a promise to stop in the church basement to bless the weekly AA meeting. Something he did only when invited; otherwise he respected their need for privacy.

An hour to himself, then. Nick turned on the stereo and fumbled through his small CD collection. Something to sooth his mind and lead him to no other decision than to simply listen. Gregorian chants, perhaps.

When it clicked on, the stereo was tuned to National Public Radio. A story about a Senator from Arkansas caught in a paternity suit. Nothing he wanted to hear. Margaret had mentioned the radio, however. He hit the tuning knob, letting the receiver scan for the next clear signal. Rap. Scan. Something harsher, which he hadn't thought was possible. Scan. More music.

He pressed AM. Static. Scan. Sports. Scan. Sports. Scan. Another talk show, but not about sports. The moderator was rattling on about the school system and the latest rounds of test scores. Nick looked back at the CD. Monks chanting, calm, pure, holy, perfect. That's what he wanted.

Nevertheless, he laid the jewel case unopened on the floor, and sat back against a chair. He turned up the volume but ignored the words, walked across into his office and opened the browser on the computer. He Googled “Great Flood.” Added “dreams.” After ten minutes of dead ends, he found a blog. The owner kept apologizing while repeating the same story, almost word for word an echo of Margaret’s dream. Different setting, different angel, same –

“....yes, I know. We're all going to die.”

Nick turned around in his chair, listened to the too-loud voices in the other room.

“You talk like this is some joke... but I can hear the fear in your voice, sir. Fear of death, unatoned sins, of how they could still be washed clean -”

“You can wash for the next year and never clean all the crap you're slinging our way. Bye-Bye!”

Nick's heart raced. He walked back into the living room, feeling like a child afraid of being caught at something he shouldn't be doing.

What was he afraid of? For all he knew, they were talking about something entirely different than Margaret's visions.

The moderator on the radio continued, “All right. Looks like our lines are getting a little heavy with these Noah’s Ark wackos, so what say we just purge all the lines and start fresh? Sorry for anyone calling about something worth discussing. We promise...”

Nick sat on the floor and stared at the receiver, but the moderator made it a point to discuss everything but people’s dreams. He looked towards the wall clock to be sure not to be late to the hospice. He still had twenty-five minutes. The computer screen beckoned from the office. The priest took a breath, let it out slowly. He walked to the desk and finished reading the blog, moved on, scanned every major news page for anything related. Nothing yet CNN-worthy, but local news sites had plenty to discuss. For the next fifteen minutes, he stared intently at these early news reports, to snippets of chat room conversations and miscellaneous references unfolding before him on the screen.

As he prepared to leave for the hospice, already late, one thing was obvious. Though Nick could not yet bring himself to believe what the callers and reports were saying, the fact was that Margaret had been speaking the truth.

*     *     *

It was dark outside. Jack turned away from the window. His throat was dry. He considered ringing for the nurse again, but she took so long the last time, and was short with him when she arrived. Still, he’d gotten a free glass of ginger ale, then. Everything was free here. There wasn't much food. Beggars can't be choosers, he thought. And he was a beggar, wasn't he?

His arm hurt. He should leave. This quiet place was both frightening and familiar. The latter sensation was the most troubling, however; nothing he wanted to dwell on for long. There were two others in the room and one bed unoccupied. The old man across from the foot of Jack's bed whimpered softly in his sleep, fighting some unseen monster in his dreams. Jack risked a glance beside his own and gooseflesh crawled up his arms. The man next to him had the bed raised into a half-sitting position, the nurse having long forsaken asking him to lower it. He was a white kid, young, with long, stringy blonde hair. Jack thought he recognized him, but memory wasn’t his strong suit. The kid was awake, staring wide-eyed at Jack across the small chasm between them. It wasn't an expression of surprise, nor fear. Jack wasn't sure what the wild staring meant, except that the kid might be crazy. Maybe just broken, like himself.

He returned the gaze for a moment, then looked back towards the window, feeling the other's stare linger on him but trying to pretend it wasn't there.

The old man across the room coughed, seemed to wake for a moment, then fell into silence. The only sound was a single, exaggerated exhale, as if he were expelling the demons which had plagued him most of the night. In the murk cast by the lights of the parking lot outside, hazy ribbons of light draped across the man's chest. Jack waited for a sign he was still alive.

“You're the preacher man,” the kid said, his voice clear but hushed in the darkness. Jack reluctantly looked his way, felt another wave of fear. This guy was off. “You're the preacher man, I said.” The smile faltered. Jack realized it was a question, not a statement.

“Yes,” he said, his voice dry, cracked. God, he was thirsty. The pager was in his left hand. He pushed it. “God has sent me to -”

“Maybe you should give Crack Head over there last rights. I think he just kicked out.” A giggle.

Jack didn't look away. He stared at the kid's pale face. “God will care for all. That man was lucky.”

The kid laughed again. “Yeah, lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky. Clucky and lucky and dead and rotting, clucky and lucky and -” He stopped then, any trace of a smile gone. “What are you looking at?”

Jack lingered a moment longer, wondering what to do. He wanted to talk to someone, even this kid, talk about God and his mission. Of course, the last time he tried to preach in this place, they stuck him with a needle.

His neighbor said nothing else, though he slowly raised his hand to his chest. Jack had seen the white gauze earlier, with small red stains across the front. He wondered if he'd been shot, and why the hospital didn't get him a new bandage.

Jack turned back towards the window, closed his eyes. The kid beside him must have turned away, for Jack no longer felt his gaze on him. Maybe it was wishful thinking. He didn't want to check.

He was still thirsty. The bed was comfortable. He prayed the angel would return. Let him know he wasn't crazy like the kid next to him.

He eventually dozed. Lying in a comfortable bed was such a rare commodity, drawing him down even with a potential enemy beside him. Before falling asleep, he looked to the window, saw the neat pile of clothes on a chair. The folks from the Salvation Army had dropped them off earlier, but Jack pretended to be asleep. Why would he want to talk to them about Jesus? They were amateurs. He was the Chosen One. Officer Leary had come by, too. Jack chose to wake up for him, but the man only wanted to see how he was doing, didn’t stay long. As he’d turned to leave, Jack saw the cop stuff something into the pocket of the shirt on the chair. Jack hoped the kid in the other bed hadn't seen it.

His lids dropped closed. Maybe the Salvation folks left him some decent socks to go with the shoes.

*     *     *

Neha checked on the vagrant one final time before she left for the night. Not in person – she'd had her fill of