Margaret's Ark

concern, was that this was the only place he felt he should be.

And, if she was right, there wasn't anywhere else to go. For the briefest moment he thought of the night Max drove his parents’ Jeep into the ditch alongside Desert Passway Road, Carl in the passenger seat. Max only had his learner's permit and Carl was still in Driver's Ed. That eternally-stretching feeling as they rolled into the ditch, nothing he could do but watch it happen. Detachment.

And here he was, feeling like he was falling again.

Mrs. Carboneau said nothing, waiting. Carl looked at her and quietly said, “Looks like you need some help. Maybe... maybe I can stay for a while if it's okay.”

She replied softly, “As your teacher, I probably should tell you to be in school, but, Carl... I'm sincere in telling you that there won’t be a school after June eighth.”

He started to ask her what June eighth had to do with anything, then remembered the article. Fifty-two days left. Fifty one, he supposed, as of this morning. He noticed his right hand was shaking. What if she's right?

“I can stay,” he said. “As long as I can get home before my parents. You know how they can be.” He tried unsuccessfully to smile. She nodded.

“Maybe they'd like to help, too.”

Carl thought about that. He doubted it, but dared not even consider asking. If he did, then they'd know.

Know what? That their son was following the town loony? Is that what he was doing? “I can stay today. Maybe tomorrow. We'll see.”

Mrs. Carboneau's demeanor changed. Perhaps she'd realized the conversation was going on too long. She smiled and Carl noticed she had tears threatening to spill over when she patted his arm again and turned towards the construction. “Thank you, Carl. I really do appreciate it.” She began walking and he followed, a fearful urgency taking hold of him. Before he could say anything, she picked up a hammer from a sawhorse and handed it to him. “Here,” she said, wiping her face with the back of a hand. “Let me show you the inside of this contraption. We're trying to lay out the flooring.”

Something was missing, unsaid. As Carl followed her towards a ladder leading up the side, he whispered, “Um, not that I'm... I mean, if I help, and maybe stay on, not that I know for sure, after all....”

The woman smiled at him from her perch halfway up the ladder. She was, indeed, crying now. Quietly, no sobs, but a steady stream of tears rolling down her cheeks. She whispered, “There will be a place for you, Carl, on the ark.” Climbing up the ladder she said louder, “As long as you climb up here and get to work.”

Carl stood at the ladder's base for a moment, part of him wanting to run, knowing it was too late. Mrs. Carboneau had taken a leap of faith. Now it was his turn.

Though he cursed under his breath, he began to climb the rungs.

49

Father Tim McMillan watched the preacher move like a scarecrow across Christopher Columbus Park. The man looked as if he would blow away in the wind blowing incessantly off the harbor inlet. The park stretched between Boston's Long Wharf and Commercial Wharf, across from the tourist-laden Faneuil Hall marketplace. Wednesday meant rounds at Brigham and Women's Hospital, and McMillan embraced this part of his parish’s patient outreach. He enjoyed getting into the city every week, including a jaunt to South Boston to visit his one surviving aunt, ninety-three years old this coming July.

Being assigned so close to home all these years was a blessing he often thanked the Lord for. There had been a ten-year stint when he'd been the pastor of Saint Malachy's outside of Richmond, Virginia. A beautiful town, a contented parish, and the weather put Boston to shame. Even so, returning to these crowds and cars, curses and diesel fumes was a glorious homecoming.

He wondered how many more trips he could make to Aunt Corinne's nursing home if recent events proved more than mass hysteria. God lived in Father McMillan's heart, always had, and the sixty-seven year-old priest had seen and scoffed at many things. This time, it wasn't some cable-channel evangelist preaching salvation for a donation, embracing doomsday before the paying masses, although these people would emerge soon in great numbers. But they hadn’t been the ones to start this.

Normal people, living their lives one day to the next, holding down forgettable jobs, getting the kids onto the bus, paying bills when they came due. The media, try as they might to elevate them to its own sensational level, could not gloss over the simplicity of life led by most people portrayed thus far.

As far as he could tell, no politician, priest or rabbi, nor anyone in public authority had stepped forward to claim any visitations by angels.

It made sense, in a way. If he were to stand before his parish and claim that the Lord had spoken to him about the flood, most would follow him without question by virtue of his place in their spiritual world.

To follow an average person who had no prior influence save what day-to-day connection they might have, that took true faith.

It was a good theory. One he'd begun toying with to keep his growing apprehension at bay.

There had been no further word from the Diocese since an initial notice emailed to every parish, cautioning church leaders to refrain from condoning the actions of the “ark builders.” The Church needed to be consistent, and careful in its approach to these matters until such time as the Holy See in Rome evaluated the situation. No definite stand should be taken. Since reading the memorandum, McMillan's three calls to the bishop had gone unanswered.

Not that the Church was doing nothing. The Pope had called an emergency Synod of Cardinals and senior Bishops from across the world, meeting this morning within the protective Vatican walls. Like everyone else, the Holy Father was concerned by what was happening and, like every other religious leader, he had to make a decision without the benefit of his own visions. It was an interesting reversal of roles, McMillan thought. The shepherds struggling in faith with the teachings of their sheep.

He pinned his lunch bag against his leg with one elbow and took the last bite of a tuna fish sandwich. The taste was bland (he stopped adding cheese a few years ago to get his cholesterol back in line), but pleasantly filling. He freed the bag from under his elbow and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.

He watched the preacher, who, in turn, now watched him. The realization that he was the one being observed was unsettling. McMillan stood and brushed the crumbs from his black coat. The preacher continued to stare at him, like others tented to do when they noticed the stark black attire of a Roman Catholic priest. He wondered if being a policeman was similar. People acted either guilty or pious around him because of what he represented. He'd known others who could not handle this passive ostracism, an inherent byproduct of their calling. These men recoiled from society, found fringe brotherhoods or left the priesthood altogether.

The scarecrow preacher looked away as McMillan approached, resuming his sermon with renewed vigor. It was only babbling. Here was a man who most likely had received a vision, but did not possess the mental facilities to do much about it. He talked of God's justice, of waiting for the end, misquoting Bible passages like a politician.

He spoke his nonsense lines with such vigor and passion, however, a crowd always milled about. His passion was enough to bring McMillan to Faneuil Hall to seek him out before visiting Aunt Corrine. A number of patients he’d visited today mentioned the “wild man at the wharf.” The news media, especially those trying to downplay the emerging story, devoured the man’s antics with glee. As if to say, “See, folks? Nothing to worry about. Just a bunch of crazies like this guy over here.” Every local story invariably had at least one snippet of footage of the preacher on the wharf. It was just a matter of time, McMillan assumed, before the national networks picked him up.

And thus spread God's word, in its own remarkable way.

When McMillan stood in front of him, the other man looked like he wanted to run away, but never once wavered in his verbal tirade.

“My name is Timothy McMillan. What's yours?” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the shouts. The preacher stopped speaking and looked at him with a sideways glare.

“Do you believe in God, Friend?”

McMillan did not laugh at the irony of the question. “I do, indeed.”

The preacher faced him completely now. “And do you believe he is a merciful God?”

“He is merciful and loving,” McMillan said, disliking the defensiveness he felt. He tried to turn the