Margaret's Ark

“Do I think these nocturnal visitations by angels are legitimate? That the people receiving the visions – what they've experienced – are messages from God? Is that what you want to ask me, Father?”

Nick felt himself sink deeper into his chair. He wondered if McMillan wasn't as sarcastic as he tried to sound. He thought about the question, felt a warm and familiar sense of certainty fill him. He said, “Yes, Father. That is what I'm beginning to think.”

“Under other circumstances, I'd stop the conversation right here, hang up and call Bishop Leonard to have you removed. However, as I assume you're also doing,” a hint of a warning in his tone, “I've been quietly inquiring of other parishes, and doing my own research.”

“And...?”

“We’re still having this conversation, aren’t we?”

The man's answer didn't sit well with him. Nick needed to hear something concrete. “But do you think it’s possible, Father? That these are from God, Himself, I mean?”

McMillan at first did not reply, but when his voice returned, even with his short answer, Nick felt his sense of reality tip. He was sliding into a dark new world. One that looked the same as yesterday, but felt completely alien.

“Anything is possible with God,” the priest answered.

*     *     *

The sanctuary was quiet at night. Ten thirty, and the usually darkened church was softly aglow in red candlelight. Normally, Nick would make his way through the church and extinguish any lighted votive candles, the prayers they represented having long reached God's ear. Since his conversation with McMillan, he wasn't yet ready to snuff the flames. The altar wavered in the light cast by the glass. He sat in the first pew, staring at the red-cast image of Jesus hanging on the cross behind the altar. It was comforting, sitting in the midst of Lord's refuge. He knew, even now, that it always would.

Nick didn't know which disconcerted him more. That a miracle of biblical proportions was unfolding before him, or that McMillan actually believed it. Most likely the latter. His mentor was always the voice of reason, taking the logical stance on every event. Keeping fellow priests and parishioners from drifting too far into speculative obscurity.

The man believed – or at least did not deny -- that God was, indeed, behind these people’s visitations. This belief somehow brought the ever-intangible spiritual nature of Nick’s own vocation home to him.

Red light danced on the image of Christ, darkening the painted blood on the hands and feet, setting the face of the world's Savior afire.

Father McMillan had relayed his own observations over the phone, of similar scenes to what Nick witnessed in the center of Lavish. One was being built in an Arlington front yard - no small feat considering the claustrophobic closeness of neighborhoods in that historic, over-built city. McMillan also planned a drive soon into Burlington a few miles to the north, where construction of yet another ark had begun on that town’s common.

A troubling point to Nick's visit with Margaret this morning was the crowd. The police had set up haphazard barricades around the perimeter of the building site, perhaps to show the townspeople they weren't ignoring what was happening. They didn't seem to know what else to do about it. Vincent Carboneau had been well-liked, and the police and fire departments were hard-pressed to hide their protectiveness towards his widow.

Their support was thin, however. Nick could feel the derision of some onlookers. More than simple mockery. He sensed fear. The what if she's right questions that might turn onlookers into a mob- like she's a threat.  When he mentioned this to one officer standing duty, speaking in a forced casualness, the man simply nodded and said, “That's what we're afraid of, Father.”

Now, Nick looked at his watch. Almost midnight. He rose from the bench and blew out  the votive candles one by one.

51

When Carl Jorgenson came downstairs for his usual, quick bowl of Cheerios and glass of orange juice, he knew something was wrong. His parents weren't very talkative this early in the morning, but halfway down the stairs, he could hear a heated, whispered discussion.

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, the talk stopped. Dan and Sarah Jorgenson looked at him with somber expressions. Carl stood in the doorway and wondered who had died. He thought of his grandfather, and suddenly the sparse appetite he garnered every morning drifted away.

“What's up?”

His mother finished her coffee in one last, over-exaggerated swallow and stood from the table. “Nothing. You'd better get moving.”

Carl accepted the response long enough to pour himself a bowl of cereal and add the milk. The orange juice was already on the table, a routine his mother went through every day, preparing a glass for Carl and his father at the same time she poured her own. In fact, Carl was so used to this routine that if one day she did not pour the glass, he’d likely go without it and never notice.

At eighteen, an age when boys were supposed to think of their parents as being out-of-touch with the outside world, Carl appreciated how good he had it. They loved him but didn’t dote, were strict, but not overbearing. He felt fortunate to have realized this early on, especially when he contrasted them with some of his friends' families -- Max more than anyone.

He sat across the table from his father. The man was tall, with short cut hair and a moustache that never grew in thick enough to warrant the title.

“What's up?” Carl asked again. He held the spoon but dared not eat until he heard the news.  Dan Jorgenson smiled weakly, looked at his wife as if to say, May as well tell him. Carl braced himself for the first words he knew were coming: It's your grandfather....

When Sarah said nothing, Carl’s father flipped the sheets of newspaper and turned a particular page to face him. “It's your science teacher.”

*     *     *

Carl did eat breakfast, but not until after finishing the entire article. Its neutral tone was neither accusing nor flattering. It didn’t have to be. When you write about a woman who leaves her job to build a boat on the town square because God says there's going to be a flood, you don’t need to call her crazy.

And then there was the photograph. Random piles of lumber beside a makeshift construction of beams and plywood that looked no more seaworthy than a pile of bricks.

Al ong with Mrs. Carboneau, the article interviewed a few firemen who were quick to point out they were merely helping a colleague's widow (that was how one man phrased it). No mention of God from these people, nor a flood. In contrast, Mrs. Carboneau had no qualms about explaining why she was doing what she was doing. Her words were a rehearsed version of her brief speech to Carl’s class on Thursday.

When the article trailed off to discuss the fire last year that killed her husband, perhaps to offer some explanation for her behavior, Carl skipped ahead. There was no further mention of the boat, save a quick reference to the ark in the Bible and Mrs. Carboneau’s statement that there would be no animals brought on board. “Not this time,” was the quote that ended the piece.

Carl ate his cereal slowly. His parents busied themselves with preparations to leave. He wondered why no one had mentioned anything during baseball practice, or the two games played this weekend. Granted, Saturday's was in Medfield, but Sunday was a home game. Someone might have mentioned her, but that particular line of discussion had burned rampant among everyone since Thursday. After a few initial forays into the talks - usually centered around their teacher’s obvious nervous breakdown - Carl did his best to avoid them. He liked Mrs. Carboneau. She'd always struck him as the least nutty person he knew. The exception had been that day in the school parking lot, but....

Mrs. Carboneau was not the only one. Carl remembered this detail even before following the instructions to “See related story, page C4.” Another mention, though brief, of an ark going up twenty miles away, and another on private land near the Presidio in San Francisco. The latter was being sponsored by a televangelist named Mick Starr - a California nom de plume if Carl had ever seen one. Built within the compound of the Holy Rock Church, the project was “under a cloak of secrecy”.

“I have to go,” Sarah Jorgenson said, and she kissed Carl on the top of his head. “You Okay?” Her eyes told