Margaret's Ark

down, bang, bang. You know I almost made my entrance at the hotel as soon as I'd parked. I was going to bang good old Dot on the head and crush her skull, then just keep on going until you were dead, too.” He blew out air from pursed lips. “Whew. Can you believe that? I was kind of nuts. Good thing I hung out in the back of the van 'til your girlfriend left. Calmed me down. Gave me time to think.” Still, no expression.

He prattled on about how his love demanded he stay in the room with her until Judgment Day, and if that was going to be June eighth, so be it. If it ended up being twenty years from now, so be that, too.

It was then that Holly noticed the first water stain on the ceiling.

As the days wore on, her body healed. She didn't see how that was possible, considering how little movement she was allowed.  Now and then Clay would simply stand up and leave the room. A moment later she would hear the shower running or the toilet flush. Once a day, he would untie her and lead her into the bathroom. Holly's arms dangled wonderfully by her sides in those moments. She couldn't linger very long, however. Standing in the hall, Clay's patience was thin. Without warning, he would open the door to retrieve her.

Twice he'd called Dot from the other room, rattling on that he was falling apart without Holly and demanding that she tell him where she was hiding or he'd get the police involved. Holly heard only snippets of dialogue from the bed. Clay was a good actor. Dot and Phil had apparently been convinced by his performance because she was still here, tied to the bed.

People from the store stopped by occasionally, including Elizabeth to get her van back. At these times, Holly focused only on Connor. She willed her baby to remain silent in his crib. Listened as Clay held them at the door, sometimes sobbing and saying how he was falling apart with worry. She knew if she made any noise, something very bad would happen. If not to her and Connor, maybe to the unlucky visitor. Her only hope was the tone in Ozzie's voice yesterday. He was one of the few people who might actually suspect something was wrong. But after Clay's story of losing Holly, laying the blame on Ozzie for taking too long to call, he never came back.

At those moments, God bless him, Connor was silent save for an occasional cooing. She watched him playing with his toes, hands and feet poking up above the crib's bumper guard.

Connor, her only remaining friend now that Dot thought she'd left without a word. Her little boy kept her alive, made her gaze at the ceiling for hours to avoid Clay's stare. Three times a day, everything around her faded to an opaque white as she sat up in bed, unbound, and nursed her baby. Even when Clay had beaten her half to death, something inside the man must have known to avoid her chest. Maybe she'd simply protected herself well. At some base level, Clay might have known that if she couldn't nurse, he'd have to start buying formula.

He was just worried about her. About her running away again. He was really a good person.

Nursing her baby meant everything was going to be all right. When Connor suckled on her body, the bruises faded, her ribs healed. She stared at his face, watched him watching her, and fell in love with her son all over again. They would die on the last day together. She had to make sure that when it happened, they were like this. Clay might be there, in his chair, but she wouldn't acknowledge his existence when it happened. Mother and son were one in the eyes of God; wasn't that how it should be?

Water stain number two definitely was bigger. She felt Clay's unfocused gaze on her. She stared at the blemish, waiting for it to grow.

10

“Can you believe this guy?” The question was offered by a twenty-something man, probably on his lunch break judging from the employee badge flapping off his belt. It was much like the one Suresh had worn every day until this morning.

He smiled without replying, then looked back to the subject of the young man’s question. A large wooden box raised the preacher a foot over everyone's head. Viewed from the back of the crowd, he seemed to float on air.

Realizing there was no conversation to be had with the sullen Indian, the businessman moved on to find a more suitable lunch companion.

Suresh was alone again. Since the day after the first vision, he felt adrift on a barren sea. No one near, no land as far as the eye could see, his boat slowly sinking into oblivion. He thought in this poetic but saturnine way more and more. He could see the end. Next weekend he and lovely Neha would board a plane for Colorado, where she could hold her boss's hand for a few days, trying to milk a promotion from him. His wife did not care that there would be no opportunity for such mundane recognition. There would be no hospitals left, save whatever rotted miles underwater. Their ship was sinking, but the passengers kept dancing.

Suresh sighed, tried to pay attention to the preacher's words, but they made no sense. He merely spouted metaphors and cliches, mixed with spittle. Still, Suresh wanted to see the man whom the news stations dubbed The Wharf Preacher. He would stay awhile.

He had nowhere else to go.

Neha had given her ultimatum this morning. Tell his boss he would be taking the vacation days needed for the trip, or stay at home and she would go without him. She said this, of course, for the final time this morning as they got out of bed. With a carefully placed pout, she offered to go alone while slowly running her hand along his bare chest. Carrot and Stick played with the finesse of an artist. He knew what his wife was doing, lulling him towards the rocks with song. And he would follow.

He'd gone to work, not thinking about taking the time off. Suresh simply walked into his manager’s office with a mind cleared of all thought. He sat mute, and not until George shifted uncomfortably behind his desk and asked what the problem was, did Suresh take in a deep breath and say he was quitting. He removed his ID badge, placed it on the man's desk and got up.

As soon as he'd left the office, the pressing weight of fear and uncertainty fell away. He walked with purpose to his cubicle, took his bag and keys and everything else that would be useful in what remained of his life. There might be something in the briefcase he could use, especially on the flight, so he took it with the intention of sorting through it in the car.

George must have been too stunned to react immediately, for he didn't catch up to Suresh until he was halfway down the hall towards the exit. He argued. Where was he going? If he had no other job then it was probably “this flood mania sweeping everyone.” Why didn't he simply take the days as vacation? Think about it!

Suresh was tempted to agree, just in case, but it would have done the message of the deva a grave injustice. Everything would be gone in ten days, and he did not need a contingency plan.

George finally stopped in the middle of the parking lot, shouting that Suresh might still have a job if he came back after this hysteria was over. Suresh did stop then, turned and almost told him that no one would have a job after it was over. But he'd sworn to Neha he would not do this, and he could not betray her as he had done momentarily in Arlington weeks before. He simply smiled, and waved goodbye.

The Boston Police department issued a statement last night on the news that they would allow the preacher to continue until the end of the day on June eighth, at which time they hoped he would agree that his “services would be no longer needed.” Suresh heard a few laughs from the unseen audience of reporters.

The truth was that if they sent him away, the preacher would return the next day. Rather than arrest him, for the officer on the radio admitted he was breaking no real laws besides a possible Creating a Disturbance; they decided to wait him out. Then the officer said something surprising, to Suresh and possibly the reporters at the press conference as well, for no one pressed him on the subject. The man had said, “Besides, he feels that he's doing the right thing, as do a number of other people around the world. If they’re right, we'll know soon enough. If they're wrong, then they'll stop and join the ranks of the Y2K prophets from the turn of the century.”

Suresh now sat on a small grassy slope amid a field of bricks and cobblestones, facing the preacher and the inlet beyond. The waters of Boston Harbor swayed up and down with the tide, casting plumes of seaweed and grime against the wall and the pillars of the adjacent boat moors. In the growing noontime heat, the ocean smell was strong. He would have to leave before low tide, when the stench would likely worsen.

What if Neha tried to call his work phone instead of his cell? He mentally shrugged. When was the last time she had done that? He would get some lunch soon, maybe drive up to Woburn to catch a movie. He didn't want his neighbors to see him come home at an odd time. As far as Neha was concerned, he'd simply gotten approval for the days off. He did not need to explain to his wife that their income had dropped considerably. He didn't like to see her