paper-wisps of her breath. Her furrowed brows told the priest more than any words could. She was confused by his visit. Even as she slipped further away from him, more every week, he was invariably caught off-guard by her sudden displays of lucidity.
He could pretend not to notice, but the woman's piercing gaze suggested otherwise.
“I suppose,” he said, almost sheepishly, “you're wondering why I'm here on a Monday rather than the usual Wednesday?” He shrugged, as if any answer he might offer was not worth her trouble to ask.
She squeezed his hand. McMillan smiled. “You truly amaze me, sometimes, Auntie.”
Her gaze narrowed, an unmistakable “get on with it” look.
He gently shook her hand. “It's nothing to worry about, really. I've just been taking some days off and thought I'd surprise you with an unscheduled visit. I always assumed on the days I don't come you're probably jumping on the bed causing all kinds of mischief.” He immediately regretted his words. Someone lying at death’s door didn't need reminding of the fact that they'll never jump on
Corinne looked at her nephew for a moment, then away and up. McMillan turned to see what was grabbing her attention. Nothing there, save for a darkened television set.
His heart sank. Did the staff turn on the TV for her?
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back towards the woman in the bed. She was staring at him again, her gaze soft. The look was such that, if she hadn't been so dehydrated, McMillan was sure he'd see tears running down her cheeks.
“I -” he began. “You watched the news?” He tried to make the question sound casual, but felt his composure crumple as the thin, fragile hand within his own gave a soft squeeze. He felt the bones, and the love, in that grip.
He sobbed once, fought to control the emotion as he’d done the night he'd cried himself to sleep after the police left. “I tried to stop it,” he whispered. “I tried to calm them! Why make everyone panic, frightened, when there's nothing they can do?” Another sob. He was losing control. Father Doiron, the associate pastor whom McMillan had abandoned to handle all the duties of the parish these past two weeks, tried to talk to him about the shooting that night, about the arks, but McMillan had only shouted in anger, asking if anyone cared about the elderly trapped in their houses, in nursing homes with nowhere to go. Did no one care how frightened these people probably were, knowing they would never be able to board any boat to save themselves?
The words were not his, yet he heard them in his own thoughts, in his own inner voice. He heard them every day, try as he might to ignore them. His aunt continued to stare at him, occasionally squeezing his hand with whatever strength she had. Could she be talking to him now, passing to him in her stare what she could not speak?
“No,” he whispered, and now his Aunt's expression changed, not understanding his remark. He wiped the tears from his face. Of course, she wasn't talking to him. It was his conscience, taking advantage of this sudden lack of control.
“I'll be all right, Aunt Corinne. It's just hard, knowing what's going to come.”
She mouthed words to him that he would never hear. Staring at her lips, he thought she might be saying, “No one knows what's to come,” but she could just as easily have asked for a drink of water.
He was alone, it seemed, in sorting this out. He should confide more in Doiron, who was a staunch denouncer of the prophecies uttered by the ark builders. And he would remain so, until the Vatican gave their official stance. A stance, McMillan feared, that might never come. The visions were for the sheep, not the shepherds. He wouldn't be surprised if God had already intervened to prevent the Holy Father from making any statements on the matter.
The thought sent shivers of fear down his back.
The priest rose, and the old woman's hand followed, refusing to release him.
“I have to go, Aunt Corinne. I'm sorry. I'll come back Wednesday.”
He kissed her on the forehead. So thin was her skin, so hard the bone. She held him one final moment, then released his hand. Never once did she take her eyes from him.
He did not return the next day, though he wanted to. Going back would have confirmed his aunt's suspicions that he was not returning to the parish. He spent the majority of the morning near Long Wharf, watching the derelict preacher. The man had lost a lot of weight since McMillan had seen him last. He wondered if he’d make it to the final day.
Aunt Corinne died at eight-thirty that night. He learned of her passing from a sullen Father Doiron when McMillan returned to the rectory near midnight, a practice the associate pastor learned to ignore as soon as he realized McMillan wasn’t going to confide in him. That night, though, the small man was waiting for him when he arrived so he could relay the message.
Seeing the shock on his pastor’s face, the deep sadness, Doiron laid a hand on McMillan's arm and said, “I'm sorry, Tim. I didn't know how to reach you. They contacted Monsignor Carelli instead for the last rites since he's the primary on-call for Catholics at the home. I wrote down what details I could. I assumed you'd want to contact them, or Carelli himself. Perhaps to preside over the - “
“Thanks,” McMillan interrupted, not wanting to hear any more. He sat down slowly, repeated, “Thanks, Father. I will.” He laid a hand on the pad of paper with the phone number and other details on his aunt’s passing. McMillan stared at the patterns of ink without reading. “I will, tomorrow. I just need to sit here a while if you don't mind.”
Doiron looked as if he wanted to say more, then sighed and said, “Good night,” before hurrying out. The phone was ringing in the other room. It rang all night these days. After midnight they generally left the machine on, especially since Doiron needed the extra sleep now that McMillan was “taking a few days off to recover.”
He sat in silence, hearing the priest in the other room consoling yet another parishioner. The calls would be coming in earnest, as the end of May approached.
Father McMillan lifted the pad of paper but still could not focus on the words. In the other room, Doiron hung up the phone. McMillan listened to his tired footfalls ascending the stairs.
The phone rang again.
McMillan got up quickly, put on his coat, and left the rectory through the back door.
18
Austin “Ozzie” Shaw felt like he'd died and gone to heaven. Normally, he worked in the back of the lumber warehouse, hauling stock in and out as the Jesus Freaks rushed in to build their asylums. It was good work, but under normal circumstances, Ozzie could scarcely pull together a forty hour week from that jerk Clay. Lately, though, he was lucky to crawl into his apartment by nine o'clock and have one beer before passing out on the couch. Forget about trying to drag himself out to meet everyone at McCatty's.
Then four days ago, Clay – no longer a jerk in Ozzie's opinion – had pulled him aside. Ozzie assumed he was a dead man. Every since Holly dumped him and took off Clay prowled around the store, kicking the arkies into the street and making life miserable for everyone else. He'd gone so far as to smack Bennie Litz in the back of the head with a pack of work gloves. Bennie wasn't exactly a tiny guy, but he took it. Everyone did. Clay was seriously nuts.
Secretly, every man there was thrilled his girlfriend had bolted. Quiet little Holly was the best looking girl in the place and everyone knew Clay beat the crap out of her. Now she was available. Even
That day Ozzie had waited for whatever abuse Clay had in store. To his astonishment, the prick was semi- decent. “Listen, Shaw,” he'd said, constantly looking around the warehouse for any lurker he could fire if they looked like they were listening. “I'm going to make you an offer, and you're going to accept it, and you're not going to tell anyone? Got it?”
