Margaret's Ark

14

The work at Margaret's home took nearly two weeks, and over that time the house became more of a spectacle in Lavish than the ark on the common. As she'd feared, applying the glue to the porous and crumbling wall board had not resulted in any useful material, at least not if they wanted something strong enough to withstand the constant shifting of the food and water stored under the lower deck. Eventually, they stopped taking cuttings from inside. The kitchen table was made of oak. They took that. The countertops were Formica, and would be useful in their durability as shelving and dividers inside the hold. Eventually, not yet wanting to resort to the daunting task of taking up floor boards, they moved outside.

Shingles were removed from the back of the house, exposing the sturdier plywood beneath which they desperately needed. Pulling these from the house was another issue entirely. Instead strategic holes were cut inside to reach the outer wall and bang the nails loose enough to be pulled free. It was a long, slow process. They were occasionally forced to cut through beams, never certain which ones were critical for the integrity of the overall structure.

Once the first sheets of outer plywood were removed Margaret could see into the house from various points. One afternoon, standing in the front yard as the men tore up the shingles to get at the “meat” beneath, she understood they could no longer sleep here. She pictured a heavy spring storm blowing in one night and pushing the damaged beams to their limit, crashing the roof on them as they slept.

The decision made, the house held less meaning to her. She announced that the ark would be their home for the final two weeks. Taking care to preserve the outer look of the ranch no longer made any sense. They cut and dissected where the wall length met their needs.

The town's attention was riveted on the dismantled home. After wrapping up an interview and sending her cameraman to circle the house for the “best shots of the damage,” one reporter remarked off-handedly that Margaret wasn't the only person doing this. Good lumber was scarce. Some of the more future-sighted contractors realized early what was happening and bought twice or even ten times their usual amounts of lumber. “Hoarding before the storm,” the reporter had said, then quickly wrote the phrase down. She'd just given herself a workable tag line.

That particular interview had a theme. “Two Weeks Until Doomsday” was written at the top of the reporter's question-filled clipboard.

Margaret didn’t think the woman actually believed it. She silently prayed for her as the reporter drove away with her crew to find one of the fabled contractor-hoarders.

Margaret looked up at the blue sky. The sun caressed her tanned face. The day was cool for California, this late in May, barely passing eighty degrees. Two weeks left, she thought, and God chose to give his people the most beautiful weather imaginable. As she had been doing more and more, Margaret wondered how it would all be destroyed. More and more, she felt certain this was not some delusion. It would happen, as they’d been warned. She could taste it in the air, heard it whispered in her ear, carried along on the breeze.

Even so, how could such devastation come with the skies so clear and perfect? Even those on the periphery, the angry and frightened ones, stared at the sky and laughed. The world was not going to end. It was easy to convince themselves of this as the clock wound down. Angry shouts and curses changed to laughter and derision.

Then Margaret understood. The weather was perfect for that very reason. If someone did not believe, then the Lord would allow the illusion. Better to let the wolf think it is full, than allow it free reign to slaughter the sheep out of anger or malice.

She got into the car where Jennifer and Fae were waiting. They needed more food and water. As they pulled out, Tony Donato and three others followed in a second car. The small caravan moved across town in their seemingly never-ending quest among supermarkets and wholesale outlets. They'd learned their lesson from the lumber stores and made it a point not to buy too much at one time, or in any given location. So far, it had worked. If Margaret's theory was right, however, as they neared the start of June, even the most basic supplies would become scarce. Then, it would be too late to do anything about it. But they would be ready.

11

Holly lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There – another water spot, the fourth she'd seen. Why hadn't she noticed them before?

The past week had proven uneventful. If anything, Holly learned that Clay wasn't the beast she'd built him up to be prior to her running away - her stupid eight days acting like a frightened child in that motel room. Whenever she thought of that time, the deep sorrow for their loss, for those moments alone with Connor, was squashed with the realization that she was a twenty-two year old, foolish little girl. Clay had been patient, more than she possibly could have hoped.

Yes, he did hit her. Her plan to get Connor into the crib as soon as they'd arrived home last week had been a wise choice. Clay had taken the time to walk across the house, toss the mini-van's keys onto the table. Holly had an urge then to ask if he'd bought the van while she was gone, but thought better of it. Connor stirred only slightly from his nap when she laid him in his crib. For a moment, she worried that he'd wake and start crying. But he hadn't. That was good.

She lay on the bed now and shifted a little, thought of how wonderful a boy he was. Though Clay wasn’t the most attentive father, he never laid a hand on her baby. Neither in love nor rage. Something to be thankful for.

Her fingers tingled, getting numb again. She wriggled them in the pattern she'd learned over the past few days. Eventually the numbness faded, leaving only the tingling she knew would not dissipate until five-thirty when Clay untied her wrists and ankles so she could feed Connor.

She might have been mistaken, but water spot number two seemed bigger than a couple of days ago. She'd have to keep a close eye on it.

“Stop doing that finger-thing!”

“I can't,” she said, “I need to keep up the circulation.”

“Do it when baby's milking you. Not now. It's distracting.”

She slowed the wriggling, but did not stop. She could speed the action up later, do it gradually so Clay wouldn't notice.

Talking was easier today. She'd been convinced Clay broke her jaw that first night. When she emerged from Connor’s room, he’d lifted the picture of his mother off the living room wall, turned it sideways as if looking for flaws, then swung so quickly Holly had to struggle later to remember what had happened. She remembered a crunch, a grinding in her jaw or maybe her head. Clay hadn’t given her much time to think. A punch into her back knocked the wind from her, followed by a few kicks and blows to her arms and legs. Not too many; at least she didn't think so. The memory was nothing more than a vague recollection of pain, of keeping her arms close to her side to protect her breasts. Sometimes it seemed what she was really doing was holding all her parts together while Clay tried to systematically rip her apart.

But he had stopped. And that meant something. He wasn't a murderer. She'd awoken, later, tied to the posts of the spare bed in Connor’s room, spread-eagled on her back and wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing when he'd found her at the motel. Clay was sitting on the which had been dragged into the bedroom, along with the television balanced precariously on the dresser. He ate his meals there from a side table every day since, another time he reluctantly untied her in order for her to eat whatever she could through the pain in her jaw.

With few exceptions, he never left the room. Always there, staring at her, or watching television. She relished those latter moments, when his attention was riveted to one mindless show or another. She could look away from the ceiling, scan the room, stare at the wallpaper, find alternate images in its floral patterns. Make faces at Connor whenever he sat up in his crib and watched her through the slats.

“I'm not leaving your side, Honey,” Clay crooned when she awoke that first time. “Me and you and baby makes three, right? All in one cozy room, just like that motel.” He'd spoken calmly, barely an inflection in his voice. His expression alternating from a blank stare to thoughtful and contemplative. “So, you're afraid God's going to kill us; at least that's what you want me to believe. I saw some of those guys up there, shirts off, banging in those nails.” He pantomimed hammering, but never took his blank face from hers. “Up and