Margaret's Ark

conversation around. “You haven't told me your name.”

The preacher smiled. “My name is meaningless to the glory of God! To His Mighty Plan!”

McMillan pursed his lips. “Oh, I don't know. God gave us each a name, and would something he gave us be meaningless?”

Why was he harping on names, McMillan wondered. He didn't truly understand what he hoped to gain by talking to this man in the first place. To speak to some who's spoken to God, of course. To be closer to the Almighty, if only vicariously. The same reason the priest had been visiting some of the actual building sites. The couple in Arlington were friendly, unassuming, but fervent in their claims. The retired gentleman in Burlington wearing a blue Little League coach’s jacket who was skeptical of McMillan’s inquiries, asking more than once if he'd been sent by the Church to disprove him.

The preacher paused, obviously struggling with the question. The glint that had flowered in his eyes at the start of the conversation faded behind squinting lids. “My... name is Jack. You -” his eyes widened. “You're a priest, aren't you?”

McMillan nodded, suddenly wanting to leave. What could he learn from this one that he hadn't already gleaned by simple observation? “I am. Not much different than you, in many ways.”

The preacher nodded vigorously. “That's right. I am more so, because God came to me alone, to praise His name and prepare the way for judgment! I am the new John the Baptist, but I baptize the people in God's Word! Anoint them with the truth.”

McMillan pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and casually wiped the man's spittle from his face. “Indeed. And the others who have received the vision. They, too are preparing the way, are they not?”

Jack’s suddenly focused on him. He started to speak, stopped, looked away. He said, in almost a whisper, “There are others?” He sagged, as if his body was deflating. McMillan suddenly understood. This man thought himself the sole recipient of God's graces, thought himself special, unique. McMillan needed to pull him from the hole he'd just been knocked into. He said, loudly, “Others like me, those who preach to the people about truth, of Christ's love, God's mercy. Though I must admit, I have received no vision. I suppose in this manner, you are set apart from me.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, knowing anything else he said would just make matters worse.

As he began to walk away, the preacher turned back to him. “Wait! You've received no visions from God?”

“No more than the silent whisperings with which he always speaks to his flock.”

The skinny man smiled, and whatever force had been lost to him a moment before was back in full. “I am the chosen one. A child in God's eyes, but also His voice.” He began shouting again, speaking to no one in particular. Speaking to himself. “And he demands that we repent our sins and prepare to meet him face-to-face! Listen to me all of you!”

McMillan walked across the park towards Atlantic Avenue. He checked his watch. The bus to South Boston would be pulling in to Haymarket in fifteen minutes.

A young black man stood at the edge of the park, watching the preacher with a calm expression. As McMillan passed, the man said quietly, “That was a nice thing you did just then. Thank you.”

The priest nodded and walked past, then turned to ask how he could have heard from this distance. No one was there. McMillan looked in every direction, but could not see anyone except the same few stragglers continuing to watch Jack as they finished their lunch.

He remained a moment longer, checked his watch, felt a rush of excitement at the possibility that he might have just seen... no. He couldn't let himself get so caught up in this situation that he was looking for angels at every street corner. That road led to madness. He had to make his bus or wait an hour for the next. He whispered, “Your welcome,” to the air before navigating across Atlantic Avenue and merging into the crowd at Faneuil Hall.

47

Carl Jorgenson came back every day that week. Margaret greeted him calmly and without fanfare. Even so, he was skittish as a rabbit. He never said much but his youth and strength were a Godsend. Margaret wondered more than once if that was a literal statement - as soon as the firefighters had trickled away out of fear of reprisals, Carl appeared to fill some of the gap.

The exception was the fireman named Al whose last name Margaret had yet to remember. Former fireman, actually, because of Edgecomb's ultimatum two days ago - the day Al should have returned to work from two scheduled days off. The selectman had “allowed this little distraction” on Sunday, and could not tell the man what to do on his own time, but continuing with when he should have been on duty was grounds for dismissal. Marty Santos pleaded the man's case. The union stepped in to arbitrate on his behalf, but there was little ground for anyone to stand on. On Thursday, Al had shown up with a letter of resignation which he'd quietly handed to the chief; then he gave a slight nod to Margaret and got back to work helping Carl lay down the final cross-hatching for the upper deck.

Margaret tried to read accusation on the fireman’s face, but saw only the same determination. Marty Santos, on the other hand, gave her an angry glare of his own before stalking off.

The rest of that day was distracting. Uncertainty gnawed at her like a slow-working ulcer. Al had quit his job based on what she'd told him. Carl Jorgenson was risking ridicule from his peers and deliberately disobeying his parents. All because of her.

No. Not just her. There were others. Of any miracle or sign that God could have offered, none would be as strong as normal people like herself doing the same thing across the country, across the world. Carl arrived each morning with news reports printed from various websites. Stories from across the United States, Spain, England, South Africa. Everywhere. This morning, she’d glanced at detailed blueprints for an ark someone had loaded onto the web, drafted using crude computer software by a teenaged girl living in Ohio. Seeing this sent a chill through her that was both exhilarating and dreadful. Printed on these pages were the details which still played out in her mind every morning as she prepared the day.

Al l she needed to do was remember that these people existed, and any doubt faded. She wondered why David the Angel hadn't reappeared, but as the first week of building drew to a close, she thought she understood. Another vision would not have had the same impact. All it would serve to do was strengthen any self-doubt regarding her sanity.

There was power in numbers. God knew this to be true. Stand and sing praises in church on Sunday morning and do not question the sensibility of it all. Billions of people across the world would be singing similar songs, hands folded, praising God.

It was Friday, April twenty-second, and her workers (she preferred the term “workers” over “followers” which the media used) had increased in number to sixteen. A large-bellied powerhouse of a man named Dave Whitman, a drop-dead-gorgeous college student name Fae (“Just Fae,” she'd said, and got immediately to work), Tony Donato and his fiancee Jennifer. One of the more interesting new recruits was Jennifer's aunt Estelle. The flame-haired sixty-three year old woman was confined to a wheelchair. She lived with Jen and undoubtedly planned to continue the arrangement with the Donatos after the wedding.

When Estelle originally asked to join, a selfish part of Margaret, one that seemed to be rearing its ugly head more and more, wondered what this wheelchair-bound woman could possibly contribute to the project. Anticipating this, Estelle asked how Margaret was tracking the inventory of supplies, how she ordered and timed deliveries. Margaret showed her the shoebox of receipts and scattered notes, and within an hour, Estelle became the Clerk of the Ark, a title she’d laughingly given herself. The kicker came yesterday afternoon when she circled the ship, taking feverish notes when she wasn't navigating her chair around the obstacle course of wood and tools. She came to a stop beside Margaret, produced a cell phone and said, “You'll be running out of carpenter's glue before lunch tomorrow and we're down to six two-by-fours. Who's our supplier?”

Margaret smiled and ran through the increasingly-detailed image of the finished product in her head. She'd given Estelle the inventory they'd need for the next few days, then pulled her Discover Card from her purse, along with a register receipt from the home supply store, the phone number circled in pen..

“Just keep this and use it as we need to. They've already called twice asking if it's been stolen so they must be used to spikes in purchases by now.” Margaret had found the most recent credit card bill stuffed in a drawer last night. Scanning the details revealed nothing more interesting than a blouse ordered from a catalog and her monthly