Margaret's Ark (11 page)

By the time the decision was made to stop for the day, one of the sides had been constructed in much the same manner as the base. Forty-eight feet long, eight feet high, with seam tape and glue all around. This side was raised while Al and Marty climbed over the sagging floor, and fastened the side of the hull using nails through the half-inch support beams. More glue along these seams. Ben took his turn with the hand saw and cut the side corners away, as close to the curved hull as he dared.

The town common smelled of sawdust and glue. Margaret felt like both crying and laughing. She decided on neither, knowing that some of these men, though obviously having fun working on the project, already assumed she was insane.

At this rate, the ship would be done in a couple of weeks. It would look clunky and un-seaworthy, but it would be finished, and it would float. Such was God's promise.

Everyone gathered a few paces back from the construction to admire their handiwork. The men commented on their progress as if they'd been working on nothing more significant than a house deck.

It looked like a cross-section of an incomplete ship, with only one side up, but it
did
look like a boat.

Adrian Edgecomb pulled alongside the curb and slowly got out of his car. With an “Uh, oh,” Marty broke from the ranks and moved to intercept the selectman. The other firemen exchanged nervous glances as Marty and Edgecomb fell into loud debate. Why were town employees making “doll houses” on duty, and “what was that monstrosity doing” on his town square. Marty spoke in a lower voice, now and then looking towards Margaret and the girls who hovered close to their mother.

Ben and the two of the other firemen quietly debated the logic of hanging around and made noises about heading back. In contrast, Al busied himself laying out the planks for the starboard side, as if nothing untoward was happening. He'd said very little to Margaret the entire day, but she felt less intimidated by him. She stayed her ground, trying to catch snippets of the conversation at the roadside.

“I know what it is,” Edgecomb was saying. “They're starting to crop up everywhere. Are you.... she's one of those nuts, too? “

Low murmurs from Marty, and more derisive curses from the man who was, in every sense of the word, his employer.

Finally, the selectman got back into his car with a slam of the driver's door and pulled from the curb with a flair he usually reserved for the monthly selectmen's meeting. Visibly humbled, Marty walked slowly back to the waiting group.

“We're in Dutch, boss,” Ben said, “right?”

Marty looked at him blankly for a second, then, “Oh, are we in trouble, you mean? Kind of. He's off our backs for now, but he's not too keen on....” he stopped and gave Margaret a sheepish grin.

She finished for him, “On catering to the delusions of a madwoman?”

“Not exactly his words,” Marty said, “but that's the gist of it, yes.”

Ben slapped his palms together. “Well, I guess that's it then. Come on, guys, shift's over in a few hours anyway, and we still have to wash twenty-one.”

Marty raised his hand. “Hold on. We're not leaving Margaret with this thing half-done.”

Ben sneered. The young man's expression had darkened considerably since first arriving that morning. “Half done? What are you talking about? You heard the man; we're not supposed to be helping her. Besides, we're not anywhere
close
to half done.”

“We can at least get the other side up. “

“No way,” Ben said. “Listen, you may be the boss, Marty, but that guy's
your
  boss, and he signs the checks.”

Margaret tried to interrupt. “There's no need to - “

“There's no need is right,” said Ben. “I'm sorry, Margaret. I liked Vince a lot; we all did. But Sue's due in July and I can't afford to lose my job over... well, this.” He waved dismissively at the ark. “Personally, and I don't mean to sound snide, I swear,  but I think you need help, Margaret, but not what we can give you -”

“That's enough, Ben,” Marty said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is. Sorry.” He turned and walked back towards the firehouse. He moved stiffly, as if expecting to be tackled from behind.

Margaret's stomach tightened. She turned to the others. “You don't need to stay.” One muttered something about “making sure Ben's OK” and followed his path in retreat. Another followed, but the third looked at Margaret, then the chief, and moved to help Al tape and glue the starboard side together.

By six o'clock, the sun was setting and the western sky behind the fire station was afire in red and yellow. A myth from her childhood told her that a blazing sunset meant good weather the next day.

Reluctantly, she agreed it was time to stop.

Marty finished trimming the hull to conform to the curve. As he did so, the others leaned temporary supports against both sides to keep them from falling overnight, securing them with a few nails each from inside. The bow and stern remained open.

Katie and Robin had already forgotten the earlier tension, and were busying themselves stowing away the tools. Marty hefted anything portable into the back of Margaret's station wagon.

Waving at the other fireman as he wandered wearily back towards the station, Al brushed at his moustache and stood facing Margaret. He was looking beyond her.

“I think we've got company.”

Margaret turned. Throughout the day, cars had been pulling to the curb to see the spectacle taking place on their common. Some ventured out after parking on the far side, but came no closer than the gazebo in its center. Eventually, Margaret stopped noticing them. Now she turned and followed Al's gaze.

A woman with a 35mm camera slung over one shoulder and a yellow notepad walked briskly towards them. As she neared, Margaret could see a small portable tape recorder pressed against the notepad.

“Are you in charge here?” the woman asked Al, who merely pointed to Margaret before turning to help Marty with the last minute pickup.

“I'm Margaret Carboneau. Can I help you?”

The woman offered her free hand. “Kristy Cowles. I'm a reporter for the
San Francisco Chronicle
. I was wondering if I could interview you. I assume you're one of the people claiming to have a vision and --”

Margaret raised a hand between them. She was about to tell the woman she wasn't interested, then hesitated. How else could she reach the people she needed, especially now that her workforce was about to abandon her? “How soon,” she asked, “would the story run, if I agreed?”

Kristy looked taken aback at being interrupted.  She stared at the ark and said, matter-of-factly, “Well, if we can talk now, after letting me get some pictures of the boat before it gets too dark, we should make it in for Monday morning's edition. Tomorrow would have been better, since everyone reads the Sunday paper, but you know how it goes. Some things just won’t keep the presses from running.” She laughed.

Margaret's arms ached. All she could think about was an extended, hot bath. “Listen, I'd very much like to talk, but as you can imagine I'm pretty beat. I'll be here as early as possible tomorrow morning. Can we talk then? Will that make you too late for Monday?”

The reporter shuffled uneasily. “Well, that would be OK, I guess. I'd certainly like to be the first to get an interview with you.”

“If you can wait until tomorrow morning, I won't talk to anyone else. I promise. Come around nine o'clock.” Before the reporter could object, Margaret smiled weakly and walked toward Al and Marty, who looked ready for a bath themselves. She asked, “Is she leaving?”

Al nodded. “Yep.”

Margaret looked at the two men. “Thank you. For everything. I –” her voice broke. She looked down.

Marty put a hand on her arm and said, “It's okay. We'll try and sneak out tomorrow to help some more.”

Margaret shook her head. “You can't. Edgecomb will be back. You know that. I appreciate what you're doing, but I don't want anyone losing their job over this.” Not until she said it did she realize the irony of her words.

The normally silent Al said what she was thinking. “But, if what you're saying is true, Margaret, then having a job doesn't mean anything.”

Marty looked at him, then back at the supplies. “Listen,” he said, almost whispering. “There's no way you can stash all this stuff at home. I assume you'll be coming back tomorrow?”

Margaret nodded.

“Then we'll keep an eye on it for you. Shift's changing at eight o'clock, but we'll tell Rachel and company to do the same.”

Al said nothing, but seemed to agree.

Margaret smiled. “Thanks. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Al nodded. Marty hesitated, but just for an instant. “Sure, I'll come by. Promise.”

As they walked back to the station, Margaret felt a sinking in her chest. It was that last “promise” of Marty's that told her she was going to lose his help. The two men crossed the street and went inside. Al never looked back, as Margaret hoped he would. Some sign to confirm his promise.

“Mommy, we're hungry.” Robin again. She had been playing the role of moderator within the family today. Though her older sister appeared most of the time to be enjoying herself, Katie carried a brooding expression whenever the play stopped. In fact, Katie hadn't spoken directly to her mother all day, except through Robin.

“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.”