Margaret's Ark

volumes of how she didn't think he was, remembering how shaken he'd been Thursday night telling them about the outburst in class.

“I -” He lost his voice. A sudden boiling up of emotions struck him in that moment. He swallowed them down, mostly because he didn’t understand what he was feeling. Sadness for his favorite teacher? Maybe pity.

Carl's father slid into his sport coat. Though his company no longer enforced shirt and tie dress, he enjoyed dressing up for work. It starkly contrasted the t-shirt and jeans he wore on weekends. “Carl, listen,” he said, “if there isn't anything pressing at school, well, if you want to stay home today, that's fine with us.”

He spoke as if Carl's teacher was dead. For some reason, Carl thought about his grandfather again. It felt like Mrs. Carboneau had died.

But she hadn't. In fact, she was only five miles away.

His mother did her usual mind-reading trick. “Carl,” she said quietly, “please stay away from the center of town. Please. After this article, it's going to be a madhouse over there.” She looked down. “I'm sorry. You know what I mean. But your father and I would appreciate it if you'd keep your distance. At least until we see how things turn out.”

Mrs. Carboneau had tossed herself willingly into this circus, Carl knew, the fringe of which he was only just seeing. He stared at his empty bowl, tipped it sideways to make the milk splash in mini-waves against the side. Mrs. Carboneau was doing all this because God told her to.

“Carl?”

Maybe if he'd been one of those kids dragged kicking and screaming to church every week, he'd understand her faith more. Or her madness.

He looked up. His parents were waiting for an answer. “I'll probably go to school. See what folks are saying there.”

Not madness. It didn’t fit with what he knew of his teacher.

His mother dropped her shoulders in relief. “Good. Thanks. Just hold off for a while. Maybe at the end of the week you could pay her a visit?”

Carl nodded. His father walked into the garage starting his car. Sarah followed and started her own. Carl watched the two cars pull slowly onto the wide driveway. They stopped when it narrowed.  Normally, his mother would pull ahead, toot the horn once, then his father would follow. But they seemed to be in a deep discussion through their open windows.

Carl tipped the bowl of cereal back and forth. Not madness. Faith. His mother tooted once and pulled up the road. Carl wondered what faith was. Really, really wondered.

Maybe Mrs. Carboneau would tell him.

*     *     *

The center of town was not the madhouse Carl's mother warned him about. Cars were parked alongside the curb, but since he rarely passed this way, he didn't know if the number was abnormal. What was abnormal was the half-built boat at the northern edge of the lawn.

He locked the car, a fifteen-year-old temperamental Honda that once had belonged to his mother, and skirted the common, not daring to get too close until he saw her. Carl had called the school office before leaving the house. The fact that he and his father shared the same voice was, for once, a benefit rather than an irritating reason not to answer the phone. What he was doing didn't feel like sneaking behind their backs. For the first time, it felt like he was acting completely on his own. Stepping into the world for a day to see if he could handle what he found there.

Mrs. Carboneau was on the opposite side of the boat, her back to him as she talked to a heavy man who, in turn, was writing feverishly in a notebook.

He walked, slowly, in their direction, hoping for their conversation to end before he reached them. He tried to be casual, watching the people work around the structure. Not many, he thought. A couple of little girls ran around the front, delivering to a big man with a thick moustache a roll of perforated tape, which he then used to seal the seams between two boards.

Closer to Carl, near the back of the boat, an old couple slowly painted the sides with a clear liquid which must have smelled bad since the old man had his mouth covered with a handkerchief. His wife stood behind him, pointing at spots he'd apparently missed. Carl came nearer, and caught a thick whiff of glue.

They’re gluing and taping the ark together , he thought and felt a renewed knot in his belly, reminded himself that he wasn't here to join their little gang. He just wanted to talk to Mrs. Carboneau.

When he reached her, the man speaking to his teacher turned towards him. “Hello. Kenneth Wright from the Examiner. And your name is?”

As if in answer, though she was merely speaking out of surprise, Margaret said, “Carl!”

Kenneth-Wright-From-The-Examiner wrote in his notebook and smiled. “Carl, nice to meet you. I'm afraid I didn't catch your last name.”

Carl imagined breakfast at the Jorgenson's the next morning. He couldn’t speak, merely looked at Margaret and quickly shook his head.

Margaret turned back to the reporter. “Please,” she said. “He's a student of mine.” She quickly added, “And a minor.” It was a lie but Carl understood perfectly why she'd said it. He’d be safe. The reporter looked at him skeptically, then nodded and said to Margaret, “I just have a few more questions, if you have the time.”

Carl saw something flicker across Mrs. Carboneau's face. Irritation? She deftly ended the interview with smiles and promises of follow-ups whenever Kenneth Wright would like, then sent the reporter on his way.

Carl kept his eye on the heavy man until he drove off, in case a camera suddenly emerged from the driver's window and gobbled up his image for the front page. Margaret watched also, then turned to face him.

“Carl,” she said. “What a nice surprise! I guess you read the paper this morning?”

Carl nodded. “Yeah, my parents saw it first. But I read it. I just -” He didn’t know what to say. Small talk didn’t fit. Margaret was smiling, but said nothing. Carl took a breath and let it out loudly. “Mrs. C, is this true? Everything you said at school, and in the paper?”

“Yes,” Margaret said quietly. She never hesitated. It was as if she expected the question, as if she'd already been asked the same one a dozen times this morning.

Carl looked into her eyes. What he saw was not the burning glow of having “seen God.” Just as importantly, he saw nothing that could be called madness. He stared at the clear blue eyes of a middle-aged woman doing something she believed in. These weren't the words going through Carl's head at that moment. Instead it was a feeling, something inside him that opened up, a flower turning towards the sudden light he saw in this woman’s face.

“And,” he said, falteringly, “do you believe, I mean really believe, that God wants you to build this boat?” What was he doing? He felt like he was about to cry. He didn’t understand, not completely, what he expected to do or say when he came, but this certainly wasn’t it.

Mrs. Carboneau laid a hand on his arm. “Yes, I do. I didn’t believe any of it at first. I thought it was a dream. But it is real. It is going to happen, God help us.” She realized the irony in her words and gave a quiet, little laugh.

Carl looked at the ship, at the rag-tag group of people helping. No sign of all the firemen from the article. Maybe there was an actual fire somewhere.

He looked deeper into her eyes, and said, “I don’t know if I believe this, not yet. But I don’t think you're crazy, Mrs. C. The paper tried to imply that you were, or maybe were trying to cope with losing your husband.”

The light in her eyes dimmed a little. “I'm sorry,” he added. “I didn’t mean to -”

She interrupted gently, “You don't know if you believe, but...” She let her voice trail off.

“But... what?”

“You tell me.”

Carl looked around, saw a group of older men watching from beside their cars, drinking Happy Donuts coffee and talking among themselves. “But,” he said at last. “You're not the only one.”

“No. And I imagine before the week is out we'll learn exactly how many others there might be. But there are others. Many, many others.”

She sounded so confident. Carl supposed she would have to be.

Again, he wondered why he'd come here. The only reason he could come up with, besides curiosity or maybe