Margaret's Ark

Marty Santos walked in with a dour expression. He was followed by a woman similar in age to Margaret, heavier, wet hair matted against her dark skin.

“Mrs. Carboneau,” the woman said from behind the chief. “My name's Alicia, and… “

“She wants to build an ark, too,” Marty interrupted, no longer trying to hide his irritation. Alicia looked at him for a moment, then simply nodded.

Margaret looked at Carl standing by the window. He shook his head. She needed sleep, his look said. He was right.

“Can I see these for a minute?” She gently took the stack of papers from the hand of  the  man beside her. He held on a moment longer, but a quick tug and she had them back. “Marty, I don't suppose you've got a copying machine somewhere handy?” She held up the papers.

*     *     *

Fae pulled into the fire station a few minutes past midnight. Her hair was tangled, matted down on one side as if she'd been sleeping when Margaret had called. The cell phone connection was worse than earlier. She didn’t remember rain ever wreaking so much havoc with phones in the past. Margaret looked back at Carl. “You sure you don't want to come back to the house tonight?”

He gave her a quick hug and ushered her into the passenger seat. Rain dripped from his face and onto her lap. “Too many women in one house for my taste,” he said. “Me and Al will stay here and keep an eye on things tonight. The guys said it was okay.”

Al waved from inside one of the large empty garage bays. The engines remained on the common, save one called for a downed power line. His face was lost in the shadows. She waved back.

Fae drove her home in silence. Margaret had fallen asleep by the time the car had pulled into her crowded driveway.

39

The rain continued throughout the day Saturday, falling as unrelentingly as when it first began. The news covered the ensuing hysteria across the world, mob scenes like the one in Lavish. Some were less dramatic, others bloody. In some states, governors threatened marshal law. The builders of the arks pleaded over newscasts that this was only a sign, a divine warning that the visions were true. The real flood would be upon them soon enough.

Flooding had already begun, however. Estimated rainfall figures ranged from eight inches to over a foot. Margaret thought these numbers were exaggerated, even with scenes of rivers cresting their banks and pouring into streets. People waved to news cameras from second floor windows. These were low- lying areas, already prone to flooding. The rain showed no sign of abating, however. Forecasters pointed with shaking hands at the unmoving mass of clouds.

The rain served its purpose. Margaret now had a full contingent of crew, and imagined the same was happening everywhere. A wicked and faithless generation seeks after a sign, Jesus said once in Matthew’s gospel.

Al so receiving a boost was the widely-covered construction of the San Francisco televangelist Nick Starr. His massive ark looked more like a small ocean liner. According to his press release, all three hundred seats within the two lower decks were nearly sold out at a price of one thousand dollars a berth (fifteen hundred for a limited private cabin). “At the rate we're going,” he’d chirped merrily during an interview, “I'm gonna have to build us a second ship!”

Margaret had paused before the television to watch the story, then walked away knowing that Reverend Starr and his passengers were probably all going to die.

Over the course of the day, the fire trucks pulled away from the building site to more areas of flash flooding. Normally dry riverbeds had begun claiming people and livestock. The 911 system was a steady necklace of lights. “I haven't heard from my daughter. She was playing in the street and now she's gone.” “The water's up to the baseboards; should I try and shut off the power?” “I can't find my dog.” And so on.

The crowd around the common never thinned, but made no further move towards the ark, which lay on its side like a misshapen whale. Cars, pickups and mini-vans held vigil, waiting for Margaret and her people to return to work.

Her people . Margaret stood at the second story firehouse window and watched the rain pound against the ship's hull. A full crew. Thirty including herself and the girls. More wanted to be included. The man with whom she had shared the ship's architecture last night had nearly a full crew already, most from her own waiting list. He wandered in the rain at the far side of the common with his recruits, waving at various points and obviously explaining what they'd have to do. Alicia, the woman who'd listened with less nodding and more understanding decided to build her ship in her front yard in Greenfield. The town where, an eternity ago, Margaret's husband had burned to death.

And the people waited in their cars, late-comers praying for an opening in one of the projects, or vultures waiting for a chance to take what others had built. Margaret thought she could tell who was who. The late-comers wrung their hands, stepped out of their cars more often, looked around for any sign they were welcome. The vultures sat behind the wheel, staring through the watery windshield with calculated expressions of patience and loathing. They emerged from their cars only to run to the House of Pizza one block down, for food or to use the restroom.

Margaret watched them watching her, waiting for the rain to stop.

The opening in the ark’s upper deck, facing away from the station, was completely covered by the triple-sewn tarp. Carl, Al and a few volunteers had rigged it last night after Margaret went home. As long as the ground water didn't rise, the interior wouldn't take on any more water.

At six fourteen in the evening, the world became dark. The clouds looked black in their thickness. The rain fell, and fell, then dropped suddenly to a drizzle.

The blackness of the clouds faded to a swirling gray.

The rain stopped.

The change was sudden, happening within a couple of minutes. At first Margaret wasn't sure what was different. The window was rain-spattered, but there was no sound on the flat roof. Everything had stopped. The constant rush of water down the drain pipes flowed with less urgency. Draining, but no longer filling.

She disbelieved what she was sensing. The world outside lightened. No shadows. No bright sunbeam tearing through the clouds, but there was a discernable glow filling the world.

Margaret walked across the room, considered waking Carl asleep half-on and half-off the couch, the black book open against his chest like a sleeping child. She left him and walked downstairs to the garage bay. The doors were closed. She pressed a red button and the town square slowly opened before her.

She took two steps outside.

The rain had stopped. Water dripped from the garage doors, from the sapling Juniper tree on the small, grassy front yard of the station. Dripped from the twin spotlights, which had not yet been turned on for the night.

Margaret went no further towards the common. She waited. Slowly, car doors opened. Sides of mini-vans slid aside. A hundred people emerged from their sanctuaries. Many looked her way, but none approached. Ben, one of the firemen who'd originally helped her begin work on the ark, walked up to stand beside her. Since the day he and the others had stopped helping out of fear for their jobs, he hadn't spoken to her. Margaret understood. Can't make it seem you're one of them.

He stood a while, watching the twilight sky lighten above the thinning clouds, then said, “Is it done?”

“Sure seems that way,” she said with a sigh.

Ben turned to face her. Margaret returned the gaze. Unlike most of the firemen in the station who sported either a moustache or beard, he was clean-shaven. His face was pockmarked with the scars of childhood chicken pox. According to Vince, Ben had almost died from it when he was three years old.

“I mean,” he said, “is it done? All of it?”

Somehow the question, the quietly desperate tone with which it was asked, filled Margaret with a sorrow so deep that she wanted to cry. For Ben, for the late-comers and vultures emerging from their cars like butterflies from chrysalises. They would all be asking this question and she would have an answer, just not one they wanted to hear.