“Okay; we'll stop for a pizza on the way home. I'm too bushed to cook anything. That all right with you, Katie?”
The seven-year old nodded. It was a start.
They headed for the station wagon. The dwindling crowd, sensing the show was over for the day, wandered off. There were still cars at various points along the curb, and another slowly pulling to a stop, but no one spoke as Margaret buckled Robin in beside her sister.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Margaret straightened, made sure to close the car door before turning around. The couple was older, in their early seventies, she guessed. The man who'd spoken stood slightly hunched, his head bald save for a few wisps across his scalp.
“Margaret,” Margaret said, and offered her hand. The old man took it. “My name is Harold Baker. Harry, please. This is Ruth.” The two woman nodded to each other.
“How can I -”
Harry interrupted, “We came by a couple of times today, but you looked busy. We're just wondering, well,” he didn't seem to know what to do with his right hand, letting it turn and twist at the wrist beneath his long-sleeve shirt. “What I mean is, you're one of those people who had a vision?”
Ruth added, “From God?”
Margaret said nothing; simply nodded.
Harry cleared his throat. “We're just wondering, if maybe you haven't filled up the seats yet, maybe we can join you. Be on the ship when the water comes.” He looked as if he was about to cry. His wife took his right hand, to give him support or maybe to stifle its random movements.
A sudden warmth spread through Margaret and she took his left hand and smiled at both of them. “Of course,” she said. “There’s plenty of room.”
They made quick plans for the couple to return the next day, after they'd attended mass – the first time in thirty years, Ruth reluctantly admitted.
Driving home, Margaret tried not to worry about how these people, the man, especially, as he seemed so frail, could help build anything. She decided they'd do whatever they could. God would provide the rest.
52
As he drove to the common, Father Nick Mayhew tried to remember the last time the Carboneaus had missed Sunday Mass, not counting vacations. Today being Palm Sunday, their absence was conspicuous.
At one-thirty in the afternoon, he turned with the traffic, onto Cambridge Street. The roads were crowded for a Sunday, and Nick wondered if some of the congestion was due to people flocking to witness the spectacle at the center of town. This morning, one of his parishioners, Lucille Thompson told him what was happening, a little too self-righteously he thought. In a conspiratorial whisper, she'd said, “Oh, I haven't been there to see for myself. I'm much too busy on the weekends.” Lucille then went on to explain that the “poor confused woman” had fallen in with “that doomsday crowd”, and was building a boat in the center of Lavish.
If it was true, Nick privately applauded Margaret's faith. He also feared it. Faith was like that. True faith. It's what led the saints to their own glorious deeds, and often their tragic demise.
Cresting the hill, he saw what loomed on the southern edge of the square.
“Oh, my God.” The embodiment of Lucille's words rose before him. He felt cold. Nick pulled the car over to the first available spot. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then stepped out of the car.
Standing at the edge of the grass, the priest watched the small crew move about the boat. Margaret and two other men lifted a large wall against the front, or the back of the boat. It was hard to tell. Nick took a few steps forward, squinting away the bright sunlight, watching them raise the wall. A brief flash of someone inside, followed by the sound of hammering.
God bless you, Margaret Carboneau . He couldn't help but smile.
“Father! Oh, thank God you're here!”
From his left, a man and woman, both parishioners, were trotting his way. Nick smiled and nodded his head. “How are you two, this beautiful morning?”
The woman stopped, taken aback by her pastor’s good humor. “Why, I'm fine, thank you. Oh, Father,” she said, getting back into the spirit of her dismay, “you have to stop this. She's making a mockery of God’s Word! Do you know what she's building?”
Nick looked at the construction and nodded somberly. “An ark, if I'm not mistaken.”
“Mrs. Carboneau's gone crazy! Not that I can blame her, what with her husband dying so horribly – ”
Nick shot her an angry look; then, realizing what he'd done, said softly, “I would appreciate it if you wouldn't phrase it like that in front of her.”
The woman blushed. “Of course. I'm sorry. It's just that I can understand what she's going through. I mean, if I lost John, I don't know what I'd do.”
John simply looked at the ground, content to let his wife do the talking. He looked as uneasy as Nick felt. “Still, she might listen to you. I mean, if her own pastor says this is wrong, maybe she'd understand and get some help.”
Nick continued walking towards the ark. “Have you spoken to her yourself?” His question was like a rope, pulling her reluctantly forward. Margaret was now shading her eyes to see who was coming.
“Well, no. I'm almost afraid to. What if she takes it the wrong way? She's holding power tools, for God's sake. Oh, I'm sorry, Father.”
Recognition crossed Margaret's features. She dropped her hammer and ran towards them.
“Oh, no. She's coming.” In light of the approaching madwoman, all courtesies were dropped. “Please,” a quickly receding voice, “tell her to stop. She's frightening the children.”
“Of course,” Nick said and embraced Margaret. She was crying. He held her for a long time, until he felt her retreat slightly and knew it was time for space.
Her face was wet with tears, but she smiled. “Sorry,” Margaret said. “I've been crying a lot lately.” She laughed and pulled a handkerchief from her jeans pocket, wiped her face. When she stuffed it away, the woman waved her arms dramatically towards the ship-in-progress and said, “Welcome to my nightmare.”
* * *
“Holy Trinity, Father McMillan speaking.”
“Good evening, Father. It's Nick Mayhew.”
“Evening is a relative term, Nick. Need I remind you that you're three hours behind the east coast?” Father McMillan's Irish brogue was strong, despite the fact he had emigrated from Ireland fifty-two years earlier. The older priest blamed it on his Arlington, Massachusetts parish. According to McMillan, it was a venial sin to lose your accent in that predominantly Irish neighborhood, worse if you were the pastor of the church. Nick spent his entire residency at Holy Trinity under this man, until his transfer three years ago to California.
Nick looked at his clock. Eight-thirty, which implied eleven-thirty in Arlington. Still, McMillan had answered after one ring. “I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”
After an appropriate pause to imply that his answer would be given out of politeness only, the priest said, “No, not at all. How are things in California?”
Not in the mood for small talk, Nick jumped right in. “If my guess is correct, about as interesting as on your end.”
“Indeed,” the older priest said. Normally Nick found his pseudo-Irish brogue and high-browed speech ingratiating. Not tonight. McMillan continued, “I assume the west coast has just as many doomsayers as the east?”
“You sound skeptical.”
Another pause, then, “And you don't.”
Nick took a sip from his coffee, collected his thoughts. “On the contrary,” he said. “Though it's our job to teach faith, we're obliged to be critical of anything that appears as false prophecy. Anything that might draw the faithful away from Jesus' teachings.”