Margaret's Ark

away the dirt and grime built under the sun’s glare.

He hadn't been in this particular neighborhood for quite a while. Just a few miles from the church, this end of Warren Street was an area of the city relatively unchanged in the half century he’d known it. The majority of houses were two- and three-family homes, most standing since the Second World War, some since the turn of the last century when the Irish and Italian immigrants flooded into the region.

McMillan stopped in front of a particular two-family house. It took a moment to recognize it, so long had its alternating dark and light brown color graced the street corner. Like many of its neighbors, it sported new, younger tenants who had firmed up its sagging face and added vinyl siding.

He hesitated a moment, then sat on the porch steps. Somehow, being here brought comfort. Closure. He knew the former tenant well. For eighty-plus years, Nellie lived in the upper apartment, raised six children mostly by herself and by the graces of God, friends and relatives. She was stubborn, passing away at the glorious age of one hundred and one, still mourned by the vast family she'd brought into the world. Like so many others of her generation who had attended his parish, she would recite the rosary every day. Praying for those who had no time for such rituals, keeping the world turning one more day from the solitude of her chair, in front of the window or the television.

He did not feel like an intruder sitting on this porch, not tonight. Here in this special town, a priest walking along a street was not uncommon. People never hesitated to wave, say “Good evening, Father.” Not in vanity did he think this. Regardless of the century, they respected the collar he wore and what it symbolized, more than the man wearing it. Maybe not as much these days as in the past, of course. But it was there.

McMillan sighed. If anyone survived tomorrow, how would they view God and his church? Would they see what will come as His divine grace, or blame Him for everything? If dear old Nellie was not already bathed in His glorious light, McMillan felt certain what she and her kind would do. Smile, always smile, pray the rosary, beseech Mother Mary to intercede and ask Jesus to comfort those too afraid to ask for themselves. These disciples were the rock upon which God built this world. It made sense that they would be the ones the Lord would approach, now that the time had come to tear it all down and start anew.

Above him in the cloudless sky, a few stars gleamed strong enough to show themselves through the artificial light infusing the city. The air was cool. Early summer.

By now, Father Doiron had likely written off his pastor as one never to return. McMillan considered it often, if only for this final night. Maybe he would go back. Later. There was much remaining to consider, so many streets and neighborhoods to see for the last time. What did he have waiting for him back at Holy Trinity? Fears of parishioners more desperate every day, asking how to repent, how to say the perfect Act of Contrition, whether these words would do anything to save their souls? How many more souls could he save in such a short time?

Eventually, the old priest stood, dusted off his black pants, and resumed his journey along Warren Street, away from the church.

*     *     *

Everyone smelled like grease. Even for those not taking part in this final step of preparation, the smell of it soaked into their clothes. Margaret wondered how bad the stench was below deck. The smell was thick, but perhaps after the water came much of it would wash away. It wouldn't be needed once that happened.

“All set, Mrs. Carboneau,” Carl said. Even in the dark, Margaret could see by the light of the lanterns that the brush he held was stained up to the handle in grease. “The others are heading over to some of the houses to get cleaned up as best they can.”

Margaret walked up the ramp and onto the deck. Katie and Robin looked tentatively over the railing, their faces wrinkled in disgust and disappointment. The completion of the outer hull's coating meant bedtime for them. “Thanks, Carl. What about you?”

He turned and considered the fire station. “I might go down to Tony's house. I don't think it'll be in very good taste to wash up in there,” he nodded towards the station, “not considering what we've just done.”

“You understand, then, why we had to do this?” From the fact that no one had asked Margaret why, and the somber way everyone worked, she assumed they knew, or didn’t want to know.

“Yeah. Sounds weird, but this last thing probably scared me more than anything else.”

Margaret nodded. She wanted to ask about his parents again, if he’d made any peace with them, but did not. She learned not to ask too many personal questions of anyone at this point. If it was painful to wonder what Carl was going through, she could not imagine the actual pain he felt. His parents probably expected in a few days their son would appear on the doorstep begging forgiveness. But in less time than that, they would be gone. Carl knew this.

“Get cleaned up, then. I'll be here.”

Carl looked around at the mass of cars and people camped out on the lawn, just outside the police barricade. “You'll be okay for a little while?”

“We'll be fine. I've got to get the girls to bed.”

She turned away and ushered the complaining girls down the ladder. The smell of the grease was surprisingly diminished below deck. She supposed it made sense. The entire hull had been waterproofed. If water couldn't find its way in, neither would many fumes.

She got the girls into their sleeping bags and lay down between them. A short way along the floor, someone snored. Others talked softly to each other.

“Mom, I'm not tired.” Robin's exhausted voice beside her. Margaret allowed them to stay up this late in order to tire them out, deaden the anticipation of the unknown they'd have to face tomorrow morning.

“I know,” she whispered. “Just lay down and rest your eyes. I'll be right here.”

She lay on her back and the girls each slumped over her outstretched arms, which Margaret assumed would fall asleep before her daughters.

Katie was silent, but Margaret guessed her eyes were scanning the dark interior of the ark. Robin yawned, then whispered, “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I tried to call Crystal again today.”

Margaret’s heart tore. Robin had been going into the firehouse with either Estelle or Jen for the past week, each day calling her best friend. Just to talk. She had agreed not to try to get her to visit. Margaret explained that Crystal’s parents wouldn’t like that. Each time, her mother or father answered the phone. Each time, they'd refused to let the girls speak. The last couple of times, they'd simply hung up when they heard Robin's little voice.

“I'm sorry.”

“They just hung up again.” Robin was silent for a while, then, “Mom?”

“Yes, Honey.”

“Will I ever see Crystal again?” The girl's voice was eternally sad.

“Yes, Honey. Some day you'll see her again.”

“In Heaven? When we see Daddy?”

“Shut up!” Katie rose onto her elbow, reached over and poked her sister in the side.

“Ow! Katie hit me!”

“Katie, lay down.” Margaret continued to whisper. Katie lay back down.

Margaret waited a beat, then said, “Yes, Robin. When we see Daddy again. Now you need to be quiet so people can sleep.”

“But I -”

“Shh. Quiet. We can talk some more tomorrow.”

Katie was now sobbing into her mother’s arm, trying to be quiet about it. Margaret pulled her arm closer until her daughter was nestled against her. All this time, Katie had refused to call any of her own friends. Her reasons were her own, but Robin’s problems reaching Crystal must have had some play in them. When Robin realized her older sister was crying, she pulled close and tried to cry, too. But she hadn't the capacity, Margaret thought, to truly see the looming threat. Children that young took so much in stride.

Katie snuggled closer. Between stifled sobs, she whispered, “Mom? Are we going to be okay tomorrow?”

Margaret tapped her fingers against her daughter's arm. “We'll be fine. Now get some sleep.”

“I don't want to die.”