Not that the Church was doing nothing. The Pope had called an emergency Synod of Cardinals and senior Bishops from across the world, meeting this morning within the protective Vatican walls. Like everyone else, the Holy Father was concerned by what was happening and, like every other religious leader, he had to make a decision without the benefit of his own visions. It was an interesting reversal of roles, McMillan thought. The shepherds struggling in faith with the teachings of their sheep.
He pinned his lunch bag against his leg with one elbow and took the last bite of a tuna fish sandwich. The taste was bland (he stopped adding cheese a few years ago to get his cholesterol back in line), but pleasantly filling. He freed the bag from under his elbow and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.
He watched the preacher, who, in turn, now watched him. The realization that he was the one being observed was unsettling. McMillan stood and brushed the crumbs from his black coat. The preacher continued to stare at him, like others tented to do when they noticed the stark black attire of a Roman Catholic priest. He wondered if being a policeman was similar. People acted either guilty or pious around him because of what he represented. He'd known others who could not handle this passive ostracism, an inherent byproduct of their calling. These men recoiled from society, found fringe brotherhoods or left the priesthood altogether.
The scarecrow preacher looked away as McMillan approached, resuming his sermon with renewed vigor. It was only babbling. Here was a man who most likely had received a vision, but did not possess the mental facilities to do much about it. He talked of God's justice, of waiting for the end, misquoting Bible passages like a politician.
He spoke his nonsense lines with such vigor and passion, however, a crowd always milled about. His passion was enough to bring McMillan to Faneuil Hall to seek him out before visiting Aunt Corrine. A number of patients he’d visited today mentioned the “wild man at the wharf.” The news media, especially those trying to downplay the emerging story, devoured the man’s antics with glee. As if to say, “See, folks? Nothing to worry about. Just a bunch of crazies like this guy over here.” Every local story invariably had at least one snippet of footage of the preacher on the wharf. It was just a matter of time, McMillan assumed, before the national networks picked him up.
And thus spread God's word, in its own remarkable way.
When McMillan stood in front of him, the other man looked like he wanted to run away, but never once wavered in his verbal tirade.
“My name is Timothy McMillan. What's yours?” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the shouts. The preacher stopped speaking and looked at him with a sideways glare.
“Do you believe in God, Friend?”
McMillan did not laugh at the irony of the question. “I do, indeed.”
The preacher faced him completely now. “And do you believe he is a merciful God?”
“He is merciful and loving,” McMillan said, disliking the defensiveness he felt. He tried to turn the conversation around. “You haven't told me your name.”
The preacher smiled. “My name is meaningless to the glory of God! To His Mighty Plan!”
McMillan pursed his lips. “Oh, I don't know. God gave us each a name, and would something he gave us be meaningless?”
Why was he harping on names, McMillan wondered. He didn't truly understand what he hoped to gain by talking to this man in the first place. To speak to some who's spoken to God, of course. To be closer to the Almighty, if only vicariously. The same reason the priest had been visiting some of the actual building sites. The couple in Arlington were friendly, unassuming, but fervent in their claims. The retired gentleman in Burlington wearing a blue Little League coach’s jacket who was skeptical of McMillan’s inquiries, asking more than once if he'd been sent by the Church to disprove him.
The preacher paused, obviously struggling with the question. The glint that had flowered in his eyes at the start of the conversation faded behind squinting lids. “My... name is Jack. You -” his eyes widened. “You're a priest, aren't you?”
McMillan nodded, suddenly wanting to leave. What could he learn from this one that he hadn't already gleaned by simple observation? “I am. Not much different than you, in many ways.”
The preacher nodded vigorously. “That's right. I am more so, because God came to me alone, to praise His name and prepare the way for judgment! I am the new John the Baptist, but I baptize the people in God's Word! Anoint them with the truth.”
McMillan pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and casually wiped the man's spittle from his face. “Indeed. And the others who have received the vision. They, too are preparing the way, are they not?”
Jack’s suddenly focused on him. He started to speak, stopped, looked away. He said, in almost a whisper, “There are others?” He sagged, as if his body was deflating. McMillan suddenly understood. This man thought himself the sole recipient of God's graces, thought himself special, unique. McMillan needed to pull him from the hole he'd just been knocked into. He said, loudly, “Others like me, those who preach to the people about truth, of Christ's love, God's mercy. Though I must admit, I have received no vision. I suppose in this manner, you are set apart from me.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, knowing anything else he said would just make matters worse.
As he began to walk away, the preacher turned back to him. “Wait! You've received no visions from God?”
“No more than the silent whisperings with which he always speaks to his flock.”
The skinny man smiled, and whatever force had been lost to him a moment before was back in full. “I am the chosen one. A child in God's eyes, but also His voice.” He began shouting again, speaking to no one in particular. Speaking to himself. “And he demands that we repent our sins and prepare to meet him face-to-face! Listen to me all of you!”
McMillan walked across the park towards Atlantic Avenue. He checked his watch. The bus to South Boston would be pulling in to Haymarket in fifteen minutes.
A young black man stood at the edge of the park, watching the preacher with a calm expression. As McMillan passed, the man said quietly, “That was a nice thing you did just then. Thank you.”
The priest nodded and walked past, then turned to ask how he could have heard from this distance. No one was there. McMillan looked in every direction, but could not see anyone except the same few stragglers continuing to watch Jack as they finished their lunch.
He remained a moment longer, checked his watch, felt a rush of excitement at the possibility that he might have just seen... no. He couldn't let himself get so caught up in this situation that he was looking for angels at every street corner. That road led to madness. He had to make his bus or wait an hour for the next. He whispered, “Your welcome,” to the air before navigating across Atlantic Avenue and merging into the crowd at Faneuil Hall.
47
Carl Jorgenson came back every day that week. Margaret greeted him calmly and without fanfare. Even so, he was skittish as a rabbit. He never said much but his youth and strength were a Godsend. Margaret wondered more than once if that was a literal statement - as soon as the firefighters had trickled away out of fear of reprisals, Carl appeared to fill some of the gap.
The exception was the fireman named Al whose last name Margaret had yet to remember. Former fireman, actually, because of Edgecomb's ultimatum two days ago - the day Al should have returned to work from two scheduled days off. The selectman had “allowed this little distraction” on Sunday, and could not tell the man what to do on his own time, but continuing with when he should have been on duty was grounds for dismissal. Marty Santos pleaded the man's case. The union stepped in to arbitrate on his behalf, but there was little ground for anyone to stand on. On Thursday, Al had shown up with a letter of resignation which he'd quietly handed to the chief; then he gave a slight nod to Margaret and got back to work helping Carl lay down the final cross-hatching for the upper deck.