shipment of nylons. She went online and overpaid the bill with as much as she could spare from her checking account to cover the incoming flood of charges. Since then, she'd transferred more money from savings, tapping half of the money remaining from Vince's insurance settlement, but left some. When, or if, the waters receded, she might need cash. At some point, she would have to withdraw it all and store it shipboard. Of all the minute details the angel had imparted to her subconscious, none dealt with what to do
The rest of her crew was a mix ranging from a fast food employee to a vice president of an insurance company and his wife. He’d gotten halfway to work yesterday, heard the news on National Public Radio, and taken the next exit in search of the nearest building site.
Al l in all, it was a quietly cheerful group. They worked well together. The old couple who'd come on board Saturday hadn't returned Wednesday or Thursday, but were back this morning. The man was checking for gaps in the latest plywood sections before allowing them to be raised and fastened to the upper supports. These would form the upper portion of the hull, most of which would remain above water if they managed the proper ballast with their supplies below deck. His wife, dutifully performing in her role of Woman Who Follows Her Husband Making Sure He Does A Good Job, had been casting furtive glances at Margaret all morning.
Marty Santos stopped by a couple of times over the week. The fire chief explained he was doing what he could from “the other side,” and Margaret believed him. It seemed whatever he was doing was working, since all three selectmen, Edgecomb in particular, were staying off her back. Each time, she asked Marty to forget everything and join them. Maybe he would; there was still time. He was doing plenty of good where he was for now, she supposed, even convincing the town to assign a police detail during the day, arguing that observers on the fringe were increasing in number. Crowd control might become important, and not only for traffic. Though some of the faces on the north lawn changed during the day, the dark expressions many carried did not. News about the arks dominated the media, thanks in no small part to the dramatic preaching of the televangelist Mick Starr in San Francisco and other, less flamboyant prophets of doom. Those on the outside were becoming restless. A restlessness that might, soon, turn dangerous.
People didn't like to be told they would be dead in less than four weeks.
“Mrs. Carboneau? Mind if I run home for a minute? I glued my pants shut.” Andy was a junior from Carl's high school. His face was a plethora of red freckles under a mane of jet-black, shaggy hair. It was a combination Margaret couldn't ever remember seeing in another person. She found out later from Carl that Andy colored his normally carrot-orange hair “to try and look cool.” Under different circumstances, Carl would likely be doing his utmost to avoid people like Andy. The junior was clumsy, going through that late adolescent stage where his feet were ten sizes too big.
Margaret looked down at Andy’s pants. The boy must have dumped a full brush-load of glue across the front without realizing it. Now his fly was sealed shut, probably forever. She tried not to smile, failed, then laughed out loud. Andy's freckled face exploded in bright crimson, but he smiled, too.
“Of course,” Margaret finally said. “Hurry back.”
Andy awkwardly mounted his bike and, with jerky motions, partly due to his pants being cocooned and partly from the aforementioned feet, set off across the grass. Carl appeared beside her.
“We already had to take the hammer away from him.”
That sent Margaret into a renewed bout of laughter.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Carboneau?”
Another reporter, she knew at once. Margaret had become expert at spotting them, though in this case, the camera and television crew was a giveaway. The reporter approached with one hand outstretched and another already thumbing the microphone switch to “on.”
Carl turned away as soon as he'd seen the camera and scaled the ladder. His parents still believed he'd been going to school all week, though Margaret wondered how they could be fooled this long. She secretly hoped the camera caught him on tape. If anything, it would force him to confront the situation before the inevitable revelation caused worse distress than it likely already would.
She took the reporter's hand and led him away from the construction. The cameraman, a lanky, bald-shaven twenty-something, kept moving sideways to allow a shot with the ark as background.
The interview went much like the other two she'd given over the past days. Margaret had to endure them. Seven days into construction and only half a crew. She needed the publicity. Twenty minutes later, with the news van packed up and out of site down Cambridge Street, events took a turn for the worse.
The steady bleat of a car horn, then, “Carl! Hey, Carl!” More beeping.
At the edge of the square, a black, rusted SUV had parked across from the fire station. A young man in a high school varsity baseball uniform stood outside it, leaning in through the driver's door and pressing the horn.
Carl poked his head over the top of the hull and muttered to himself.
The new arrival shielded his eyes from the early afternoon sun and shouted, “What the hell are you doing up there, man?” Without looking at Margaret, Carl climbed down the ladder and headed for the SUV. Margaret busied herself with picking up scattered debris and putting what scraps she thought salvageable in one pile, tossing the rest into one of the large, green plastic trash cans. She did her best to listen to the conversation.
The visitor’s voice rose in volume, then dropped in response to Carl's hushed reply. Obviously, Carl’s call to the coach about not being well enough to play yesterday had worked as well as it could have. His teammate seemed genuinely shocked to see him here.
Carl's voice became louder as the conversation progressed. At length, it ended with the owner of the SUV yelling obscenities and Carl reciprocating with his own.
The car roared away, oblivious to the police station next door. The lone policeman on common duty followed its progress down the road, waiting with one hand on his radio while the car turned onto Cambridge Street. It did so slowly, without the expected squeal of tires.
The policeman took his hand from the radio and looked at Margaret, shrugging his shoulders in a defeatist gesture.
Carl stormed back to the ark and climbed up the ladder without speaking. Margaret didn't push for an explanation. She looked at her watch. Three-thirty. He had time to cool off before heading home and not telling his parents about school.
By four forty-five, Andy had returned with a new pair of pants and people were making end-of-day motions. The sun was curving behind the fire house as Carl climbed down the ladder. He brushed away a thick layer of sawdust from his jeans, being meticulous to get all around himself. Still, the smell of it permeated his clothes, and his tee-shirt clung to his muscular chest. Every other day, he had left an hour early to run his clothes through the laundromat down the road. He'd then take the cleaned clothes, crumple them up and toss them into the hamper at home.
A great plan. Margaret could tell he hated doing it.
“That was Max who came by earlier,” he said. “The dude in the car.” He gestured toward the road.
Margaret nodded.
Carl's half-hearted arm gesture was frozen in place. He continued staring across the grass.
“Carl?” Margaret followed his gaze.
A woman sat in a Honda and stared through the open driver's window. If such a thing were possible, Margaret would swear she saw the air ripple between her and the teenager.
“Oh, no,” Carl said, barely whispering.
The woman in the car looked on the verge of tears. She began to say something, stopped, then pulled from the curb without looking. Fortunately, there hadn’t been another car coming. Margaret watched the Honda’s window slide soundlessly up as it pulled away, and turned on to Cambridge without slowing amid the blare of car horns and the squeal of brakes.
Margaret looked quickly at the policeman, who was talking into his walkie-talkie. He caught Margaret's gaze. She shook her head. The man looked up the road, back at her, then sighed and said something else into his radio.
Carl stared off into space.
“That was your mother, wasn't it?” Margaret said.
“Max. Max must have told her.”
