Margaret's Ark

her with a lingering sadness. Not so much for Carl, but because she understood what his parents might be going through, the desperation to take things so far.

Like the earlier episode with Robin, terrified that her friend Crystal would die in the flood, how much more did Carl now fear for his parents? After what had happened, he probably didn't feel much sympathy. But the angel David's words came back to her, how those on the outside would think of her as the days progressed. Those who did join her and the others, did so knowing they were leaving everyone they loved to die.

Margaret and Carl sat in silence, watching the fire and sipping their coffee. The house was quiet. Margaret routinely disconnected the house phone after nine o'clock. If any of the crew needed her, they used the cell. Most nighttime calls were cranks, offering detailed instructions on the best route to hell. She'd gotten good at bowing out of these discussions gracefully, usually earning only two or three repeat calls. Though one legitimate call might mean a new volunteer, as it had for the college student Fae and the pot-bellied David Whitman, they could simply call before nine.

Katie and Robin had fallen asleep two hours ago. The days spent running among the construction had one advantage - the girls never objected to going to bed when they got home.

“So they're not coming back?” Carl asked, speaking of the old couple who had bowed out that morning.

“No. In a way, I guess I understand. It's like we're all on the Titanic, and it's only just sinking in, no pun intended, that the ship's going down. I guess they feel keeping their family happy is more important than staying around a few more years. At least that's how they phrased it.”

The woman had explained to Margaret that her children and grandchildren had begged and pleaded with them to “stop this nonsense” and stay home. They pointed out that Margaret’s “gang” was taking advantage of them, vying for their meager social security checks. The woman assured Margaret they did not believe their family’s fears, even if her daughter had seen it once on Sixty Minutes. Happened all the time.

Happened all the time , Margaret mused. Sure. Every year, thousands of people get a message from God and start building arks on their lawns. The couple had to choose between living out their final years alone, knowing their children were dead, or living a lie for a few more weeks in the graces of home. They chose the latter.

“God knows what's in our hearts, Mrs. Carboneau,” the woman said. “Certainly you don't think He would forsake his children simply because they weren't on the boat at the appointed hour? Besides,” she took Margaret's hand in hers, “what we'd be doing is giving up two spaces for someone with more to look forward to when the waters recede. I like to think God will take that into consideration when the time comes for us to be judged.”

At his wife's words, the man looked up and nodded. This apparent sacrifice should have filled Margaret with wonder, but she'd felt a strong trepidation. Why, she couldn't say. But their sacrifice made her uneasy. She relayed this all to Carl, hoping the unspoken message would sink in. If his parents chose not to join them, maybe it didn't mean they were lost forever. Everyone had a chance for redemption, up until the final moment.

Margaret's coffee was gone. The fire was still going strong, though it was only a Sterno log and would burn itself out in another hour. “We should probably get some sleep.” She rose and gestured to the couch with her empty coffee mug. “There's a bed that unfolds in there. I'll bring out some blankets and a pillow, and there should already be some sheets around the mattress - if you don't mind them being wrinkled.”

He smiled, but made no motion to get up. “Thanks, Mrs. Carboneau.”

She almost asked him to call her Margaret, but caught herself. Best to keep things formal between them. Bad enough his parents would be on her case soon enough for stealing away their son. Calling her by her first name would be enough to start all sorts of rumors flying.

As she wandered over to the closet for the pillow and extra blanket, she thought about Marty Santos. He had feelings for her, or at least she suspected he did. These past few days, he'd been distant. Likely for his own sake - Selectman Edgecomb was never too far away. She wondered why any of it mattered. After Vince had died, she decided she'd never remarry. It might have been an impulsive decision then, but why was she pondering any of it now? Especially now?

As she returned to the living room, she watched Carl, who in turn was staring blankly at the fire. The teenager looked older in the dying light, pushed further towards maturity than he would have liked.

After she said good night, Margaret brushed her teeth, closed her bedroom door and changed into a nightgown. She crawled under the sheets. Not since the months following her husband's passing had the bed felt so empty. The thought was a dangerous one, so she ran the schematics of the work yet to be done over in her mind, and eventually fell asleep.

Carl continued sitting on the couch after Mrs. Carboneau closed her bedroom door. His arms, legs, head felt as if they’d been emptied, wrung out like rags then filled with Play dough. It was exhaustion. The eye still hurt, but not as constantly as last night. His right hand, bruised and bloodied on three knuckles, shot pain every time he flexed it.

He was tired. The remnants of the anger he’d felt when leaving his house –  perhaps for the last time – kept him too much on edge to want to sleep. He was getting a headache from staring at the fire, so he looked around the living room. From the side table, Carl picked up the two magazines lying there, having to move aside a black book that lay atop them. The first magazine was Woman’s Day. Not one he’d ever considered before, but nevertheless, he leafed through pages that sported cheesy baked potatoes and chocolate cakes, headlines like The Diet You’ve Been Dying To Avoid. He tossed it back onto the table and considered the second, Christian Parenting. He wasn’t a parent, so back onto the first it went.

He should try to sleep. He found himself staring at a bulge under the magazines. He lifted Christian Parenting and pulled out the black book he’d moved aside earlier. He read the spine for the title.

Oh.

Carl tried to remember if he’d ever held one of these in his hands before. On the few occasions his family had gone to church – usually Easter and Christmas – the church used some kind of mini-version called a Missal. But this... this was an original. He flipped the pages. The print was small. Still, somewhere in here, maybe, was the secret of Mrs. Carboneau’s faith. Some kind of explanation for how she could so willingly do what she was doing. Maybe this book could even answer why he, himself, could so willingly do what he was doing.

Carl was tired. He was edgy. Until these two opposing forces could work some compromise, he opened the Bible to a random page and began to read.

43

Suresh Ramprakash had not been visited by the deva since last week. Whether the spirit, who never offered his name, was truly one of the countless denizens of heaven called angels, or Krishna himself, did not matter. The visit had felt final then, that within the dream that was not a dream, he had to make a decision. Choose forever: action or inaction.

He had to decide while in the deva's company. This was no fancy. These events were shaping the future, forming history for perhaps the next twenty-five thousand years, as when Krishna first stood with Arjuna on the battlefield. Suresh was chosen, standing in a place much like the grove of his childhood though cleaner, more open than true memory. Suresh felt this mystic world calling him, and knew he could not turn from it. The angel forced him to turn and face the curved and naked shape of Neha sleeping on the starlit path before him, one arm cast beside her and partially hidden by a tree. Her body was perfect. Suresh swelled with admiration and love.

“Is it truly love, or lust?” said the deva. “The rajo-guna of your faith has two faces, rage and lust. Is true love having this woman's adoration and respect, or merely the occasional touch, the feel of her skin on your lips, the joining of your bodies?”

The spirit spoke frankly, not with judgment but simple curiosity. Suresh had thought about the question, walking forward in the grove and kneeling beside Neha's body. He touched her arm, warm, dark, glistening in the dewy starlight. He did want her, physically, yes, but that was not all.

“I do love her,” he whispered, finding his gaze drifting over her body but returning always to her face, the curve of her jaw, the soft blanket of lids over eyes that were full of fire when awakened. The visitor from heaven