Carl reviewed the prior day's events in his mind. When he lay down to sleep each night, his mind whirled with questions and plans, thoughts of his mother and father, his grandfather, wondering if they were crying or plotting against him. If he would die on June eighth or live. How he could rearrange the storage compartments to make a little more room. When he awoke, his mind was blank, and only those items he allowed in, for the first moments of the day, came forth. He enjoyed just lying here, pondering the patterns of the stars, seeing how long he could go before finally sneaking down the ramp to head for the bathroom in the firehouse.
The priest . Father Nick had lain down on the deck a couple of feet away. Slowly, in no rush, Carl turned his head.
Nick Mayhew lay on the deck, hands folded behind his head, eyes open and staring at the morning starlight. In response to Carl's movement, he turned his own head to face him.
Carl whispered, “Good morning, Father. Did you sleep?”
Nick nodded as much as possible in his current position. “A little. I certainly slept more soundly than I had in a long time.” He smiled. “No worries about the phone ringing.”
Carl turned back to the sky. The priest did the same. A question occurred to him, one that Carl had wanted to ask him last night but didn’t. The man had been so exhausted he didn't dare put him to work.
“Father?”
“Yes?”
Carl kept expecting him to respond with “Please call me Nick,” but he never did. The priest might be young, but was awfully serious about his job.
“I was listening to some TV evangelist - not that Starr guy in the city but some other one. Anyway, he was talking about how, at the end, some people that God chooses will be taken up to heaven. They called it something I can't remember, but that if you're born again, you'll be taken up, body and everything. Everyone else will have to hang out when all the bad shit happens. Oh, sorry.”
“Bad shit is as good a description as any I've heard,” Nick whispered, then fell quiet. Carl began to wonder if he’d fallen back to sleep when the priest added, “It's called the Rapture. One of the many controversial debates among us Christians. Even more hotly debated than whether the toilet paper goes over the spool or under.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Bad joke. To answer your question, the official stand of the Catholic Church is that no, the theory that the various references to what these people call the Rapture is not what they describe. We don’t preach the concept that some will be taken up to heaven before the end time, and others not. We don’t denounce it, either. Interpretation of Scripture can be a slippery thing. In the end, I guess all will face Judgment on their own merits, and faults, when the Lord returns. Whenever that might be. But like I said, a good many disagree even on that basic tenant.”
Carl thought this over. The answer sounded too official to his liking so he asked, “What about you? Personally. Should all the really good people be taken up to heaven before quarter past eight on Wednesday?”
Nick sighed, and turned his head to face him. “Considering what might happen, I sure hope so. Do I think they will?” He closed his eyes, as if in sorrow. “No. No, I don't.”
The priest got up slowly, quietly, into a sitting position and stretched. He checked his watch, reached over and slapped Carl once on the foot. “Gotta go. Will you attend Mass when I come back?”
“If you'll take a Lutheran, I guess so.”
Nick smiled. “I love Lutherans. See you later.”
Carl never got up. From his vantage point, he watched the priest climb over the railing and land soundlessly on the ramp. He watched the fading stars and heard the man's soft footfalls, then nothing until the distant rev of a car. Finally he got up himself and stepped over the railing. Like Nick, he was afraid opening the small gate would make noise. He headed down the ramp, and towards the firehouse to pee.
5
“We have too many books.”
“What're you talking about? Two per person, and a bunch for the kids. Hardly takes up any space.”
Al didn't look convinced. He sat back on his haunches, hunkered beside the open compartment under the stern-side deck. The area was three feet square, packed tight with paperbacks, two Bibles (a small piece of two-by-four holding open a space for Carl’s if the kid ever got around to packing the thing away) a couple of hard covers, three photo albums and a row of children's books. He wriggled one out from the latter grouping and held it between himself and Tony.
“Goodnight Moon,” he read aloud. “Maybe I'm just acting like a perpetual bachelor, but what good is Goodnight Moon when we're stuck floating on the ocean somewhere?”
Tony smiled. He and Jen didn't have children. They weren't even married yet, but he had three nephews whose favorite time with Uncle Tony consisted of two things: wrestling on the living room rug, when they should be putting on their pajamas, and reading stories. He stuck a finger into the hole to keep the narrow slot open for the book.
“Spend however-many days we'll be spending in this box with two little kids and a baby and tell me these books won't have any use. I'll agree we could shove in a few more gallons of water, or more of that beef jerky you keep eating. But I guarantee you, Buddy, come a week and we'll be so desperate to amuse the kids we'll be reading them the ingredients off cereal boxes.”
Al waved the picture book before him a moment longer, then shoved it roughly into the space, banging Tony's fingers.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” He reached for the panel to secure the compartment. It fit perfectly, though the minor gaps on one side worried him. If any water got onto the floor, it would leak all over the pages. He lifted the panel again. “We really should seal these compartment doors with some kind of gasket,” he said. “Do we have any weather stripping?”
“Weather what?”
“You know, that stuff they line the doors with to keep the drafts out. Sticky on one side?” When Tony's blank stare remained, Al slammed the compartment back down. “No,” he said, “of course not. You native Californians don't even know what a draft is, unless it's in a beer glass.” He rose, stretched and headed towards the bow and the ladder leading above deck. “Try living in Seattle for a winter,” he called back. “I'm off to the hardware store... again.”
Tony adjusted the panel tighter over the compartment and locked the brackets in place. The boat could tip upside down and it wouldn't budge. Yet another of Margaret's frightening little design specs. He watched Al's foot disappear into the sunlight above deck, and smirked in spite of himself.
* * *
“What's that?”
Al held up the three plastic packages. “Weather stripping. I guess it's not as alien to this climate as I thought. Gotta seal up the compartments in the hold, in case it gets wet in there.”
Marty Santos shrugged. “Always something last minute, huh?”
Al nodded. “What's up? Thanks for the fire extinguishers by the way.”
“What? Oh, no problem. Still stink in there?”
“Not too bad. A little.”
Marty looked around the square. Every day brought more cars. Now they were parked two-deep around the area, regardless of how often the police sent them away. Closing in, he thought. “Al, what do you think all these people will do on Wednesday, when everything hits the fan I mean?”