Margaret's Ark

The girl behind the desk looked familiar. She'd been working when Margaret had ordered her first load of wood.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Carboneau,” she said. “We had a small shipment in on Friday, but it wasn't much. Demand's been so high.”

“That's all right,” Margaret said, keeping a neutral expression to hide her disappointment. “We don't need much.” She handed the list Estelle had written up that morning.

The girl, “Holly” according to the nametag pinned at a crooked angle to her shirt, looked over the list. The fact that her face didn't register any sort of relief wasn't a good sign.

“Well,” she whispered, not looking up from the paper. “Maybe I can get some of these things.”

“I'm afraid not.” A man in a green shirt similar to Holly's approached from behind and did a quick scan of the order. He looked at Margaret and Carl. “I'm afraid we can't help you anymore.”

Carl leaned against the counter. “Why not? We're paying for all this - “

“I understand,” the man interrupted. “Not that this ark nonsense hasn't been good for business, but you aren’t my only customers.”

The man was obviously a manager though he wore no nametag. Margaret laid a calming hand on Carl's arm and said, quietly, “What does it matter who buys your wood? We'll pay double what you're asking.”

The man's expression softened, but Margaret felt this turn of mood had nothing to do with a change of heart. “Listen,” he said, “I've got over two hundred contractors, some big, others only one-man shows. They depend on my inventory to keep their businesses alive.” He waved an arm indicating the store. “Look around you, lady. Our suppliers can't keep up with the hysteria you caused over that rain. You're sucking us dry. Business may be booming now, but next month when you shrug your shoulders and say 'Oh well', where's that going to leave me? My regulars will have found a new supplier - not that other stores are overflowing with wood lately, either.” He added the last caveat more to himself, looking around his store as if suddenly forgetting he'd been talking to someone.

Margaret kept staring at him. He did not look back. She felt the muscles of Carl’s arm tightening and loosening as he opened and closed his fists. She said, “Next month all of your regulars will be dead. Next month, this store will be gone. Next month, we intend to be on our ship per God's instructions, one way or another.”

Carl's muscles stopped their flexing. Her bluntness had caught not only him by surprise. The manager looked back at her, the fire behind his eyes no longer suppressed.

He hissed, “Get the hell out of my store.” Holly stood between him and the desk and looked terrified, as if this man would at any moment beat her up, if only to show he meant business. “And don’t think I didn’t hear the threat  - ‘One way or the other’. You try stealing one piece of sawdust and I'll blow your Jesus-loving brains across the floor.”

Carl hopped over the counter, shoved Holly aside and had the man's shirt bunched up in his fists. He spat a steady stream of threats and obscenities, face a hair's length away from the manager's. Margaret's first instinct was to run around the counter and pull him away, but she waited. Carl didn’t hit him, did not shake him back and forth but merely stood there, shouting words and curses so vile Margaret would have laughed at their absurdity if the situation had been different.

Then a crowd of men in similar shirts were running up the aisles, converging on the center sales desk.

“Carl.” She spoke his name, calmly, and Carl stopped, his face lingering for another moment before he shoved the manager backwards. The other’s face was red, but he said nothing, merely watched as Carl jumped back over the counter, surrounded by employees who weren't sure what to do.

Margaret and Carl walked from the store in silence. No one stopped them.

Holly watched them go. Only when they had disappeared from sight did Clay move. He stared at her, but she knew better than to look back at him. He took a step forward. Her shoulders bunched up in expectation. People were crowded around the counter, shouting questions at both of them. Too many people, she thought. Finally, Clay told them to shut up and stalked off towards the stockroom. As he did, Holly heard him mutter, “I can't wait until they all float away and leave the rest of us alone.”

His words were intended for no one in particular, but they struck her with more power than his fists ever had. I can't wait until they all float away. What did he mean by that?

Having watched the Carboneau women and her teenage son walking down the aisle, Holly felt a new panic rise. It was going to happen. She believed that. She’d always believed it. Did Clay?

She thought of Connor, her baby. The store disappeared around her. Now was the time, if ever. Holly wondered if Clay was going to go home. Probably not. Not yet. People lingered about the sales desk, asking questions, but she ignored them and picked up the phone, dialed '9' then her home number. All the while, a sense of nervous urgency filled her. If she was going to go through with her plans, she sensed somehow it had to begin now.

“Dot? Hi; it's Holly. Is Connor sleeping? No? How’s he doing?”

She hoped her friend Dorothy Lang did not hear any panic in her voice. The woman merely proceeded to describe Connor's morning. Hearing the adoration in Dot’s voice reminded her of how good a choice she'd made in picking her friend as a full-time baby-sitter. Dot had been laid off from the Gonzales school system a month before Connor had been born, and was more than happy to be doing something, especially since she and Phil hadn’t been able, not yet at least, to have any kids of their own.

Holly only half listened to Dot’s words. She and Clay had driven to work together this morning. Holly had the keys. Clay couldn't leave without her. She had a chance. She let Dot ramble on about Connor's adventures with creamed carrots. He'd only started solid food last week, and it had been a glorious adventure getting him to try. With Holly ignoring their questions –  her attention riveted on the lighted button of the phone – those gathered around her migrated away from the desk and back to their own depleted department shelves or into the back to get answers from Clay.

When she was alone, Holly interrupted, “Dot, listen, do me a favor?” She looked around. No one was close enough to hear. “I'm leaving work a little early. My chest is killing me and I think I'd better nurse Connor myself instead of pump.” A pause, listening. “I know, but phasing that out has to be gradual. And Dot? Can you dress him up for going outside? Get his diaper bag ready and a change of clothes... in case he makes a mess. Yes. I'm taking the rest of the day off, thinking of bringing Connor to the park for the afternoon. That’s right. Thanks, Dot. Bye.”

Talking about feeding the baby set off the inevitable physical reaction in her breasts. The nursing response still amazed her. The sound of a baby crying in the store was enough to get her body producing milk. Still, it was a secondary consideration at the moment. She'd have to nurse Connor when she got home, but only enough to take the pressure off. It wouldn’t be long before Clay realized she was gone, and he'd grab the first person with a car to see what she was up to.

Holly looked around. As casually as possible she grabbed her pocketbook from under the counter and left the store. As she got in the car and pulled out of her space, she kept looking in the rear view mirror, expecting to see Clay running out the door after her. She saw nothing but the ever-dwindling crowd of customers walking in and out.

She didn’t have much time.

*     *     *

“What are we going to do now? I say try Dexter's lumber down in Soledad. They're bound to have better stuff anyway.”

Margaret kept her eyes on the road. “Have you ever been there?”

“Well, no. But what choice do we have? We have to try someplace.”

Margaret found herself taking random turns, navigating through town but not having any real destination. Carl was right. What choice did they have? Not that she expected to find anything different wherever they went. Already, an alternative plan was forming in her mind. One that seemed so radically permanent in its scope that it frightened her to consider it.

Instead, she said simply, “What's the fastest way there?”

*     *     *

The temperature that day had reached eighty-nine degrees at its zenith. With the evening came a refreshing coolness pushed in from the ocean seventy-nine miles to the west. Daylight lingered longer every day, and as