Margaret's Ark (33 page)

Once the first sheets of outer plywood were removed Margaret could see into the house from various points. One afternoon, standing in the front yard as the men tore up the shingles to get at the “meat” beneath, she understood they could no longer sleep here. She pictured a heavy spring storm blowing in one night and pushing the damaged beams to their limit, crashing the roof on them as they slept.

The decision made, the house held less meaning to her. She announced that the ark would be their home for the final two weeks. Taking care to preserve the outer look of the ranch no longer made any sense. They cut and dissected where the wall length met their needs.

The town's attention was riveted on the dismantled home. After wrapping up an interview and sending her cameraman to circle the house for the “best shots of the damage,” one reporter remarked off-handedly that Margaret wasn't the only person doing this. Good lumber was scarce. Some of the more future-sighted contractors realized early what was happening and bought twice or even ten times their usual amounts of lumber. “Hoarding before the storm,” the reporter had said, then quickly wrote the phrase down. She'd just given herself a workable tag line.

That particular interview had a theme. “Two Weeks Until Doomsday” was written at the top of the reporter's question-filled clipboard.

Margaret didn’t think the woman actually believed it. She silently prayed for her as the reporter drove away with her crew to find one of the fabled contractor-hoarders.

Margaret looked up at the blue sky. The sun caressed her tanned face. The day was cool for California, this late in May, barely passing eighty degrees. Two weeks left, she thought, and God chose to give his people the most beautiful weather imaginable. As she had been doing more and more, Margaret wondered how it would all be destroyed. More and more, she felt certain this was not some delusion. It would happen, as they’d been warned. She could taste it in the air, heard it whispered in her ear, carried along on the breeze.

Even so, how could such devastation come with the skies so clear and perfect? Even those on the periphery, the angry and frightened ones, stared at the sky and laughed. The world was not going to end. It was easy to convince themselves of this as the clock wound down. Angry shouts and curses changed to laughter and derision.

Then Margaret understood. The weather was perfect for that very reason. If someone did not believe, then the Lord would allow the illusion. Better to let the wolf think it is full, than allow it free reign to slaughter the sheep out of anger or malice.

She got into the car where Jennifer and Fae were waiting. They needed more food and water. As they pulled out, Tony Donato and three others followed in a second car. The small caravan moved across town in their seemingly never-ending quest among supermarkets and wholesale outlets. They'd learned their lesson from the lumber stores and made it a point not to buy too much at one time, or in any given location. So far, it had worked. If Margaret's theory was right, however, as they neared the start of June, even the most basic supplies would become scarce. Then, it would be too late to do anything about it. But they would be ready.

11

Holly lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There – another water spot, the fourth she'd seen. Why hadn't she noticed them before?

The past week had proven uneventful. If anything, Holly learned that Clay wasn't the beast she'd built him up to be prior to her running away - her stupid eight days acting like a frightened child in that motel room. Whenever she thought of that time, the deep sorrow for their loss, for those moments alone with Connor, was squashed with the realization that she was a twenty-two year old, foolish little girl. Clay had been patient, more than she possibly could have hoped.

Yes, he did hit her. Her plan to get Connor into the crib as soon as they'd arrived home last week had been a wise choice. Clay had taken the time to walk across the house, toss the mini-van's keys onto the table. Holly had an urge then to ask if he'd bought the van while she was gone, but thought better of it. Connor stirred only slightly from his nap when she laid him in his crib. For a moment, she worried that he'd wake and start crying. But he hadn't. That was good.

She lay on the bed now and shifted a little, thought of how wonderful a boy he was. Though Clay wasn’t the most attentive father, he never laid a hand on her baby. Neither in love nor rage. Something to be thankful for.

Her fingers tingled, getting numb again. She wriggled them in the pattern she'd learned over the past few days. Eventually the numbness faded, leaving only the tingling she knew would not dissipate until five-thirty when Clay untied her wrists and ankles so she could feed Connor.

She might have been mistaken, but water spot number two seemed bigger than a couple of days ago. She'd have to keep a close eye on it.

“Stop doing that finger-thing!”

“I can't,” she said, “I need to keep up the circulation.”

“Do it when baby's milking you. Not now. It's distracting.”

She slowed the wriggling, but did not stop. She could speed the action up later, do it gradually so Clay wouldn't notice.

Talking was easier today. She'd been convinced Clay broke her jaw that first night. When she emerged from Connor’s room, he’d lifted the picture of his mother off the living room wall, turned it sideways as if looking for flaws, then swung so quickly Holly had to struggle later to remember what had happened. She remembered a crunch, a grinding in her jaw or maybe her head. Clay hadn’t given her much time to think. A punch into her back knocked the wind from her, followed by a few kicks and blows to her arms and legs. Not too many; at least she didn't think so. The memory was nothing more than a vague recollection of pain, of keeping her arms close to her side to protect her breasts. Sometimes it seemed what she was really doing was holding all her parts together while Clay tried to systematically rip her apart.

But he
had
stopped. And that meant something. He wasn't a murderer. She'd awoken, later, tied to the posts of the spare bed in Connor’s room, spread-eagled on her back and wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing when he'd found her at the motel. Clay was sitting on the which had been dragged into the bedroom, along with the television balanced precariously on the dresser. He ate his meals there from a side table every day since, another time he reluctantly untied her in order for her to eat whatever she could through the pain in her jaw.

With few exceptions, he never left the room. Always there, staring at her, or watching television. She relished those latter moments, when his attention was riveted to one mindless show or another. She could look away from the ceiling, scan the room, stare at the wallpaper, find alternate images in its floral patterns. Make faces at Connor whenever he sat up in his crib and watched her through the slats.

“I'm not leaving your side, Honey,” Clay crooned when she awoke that first time. “Me and you and baby makes three, right? All in one cozy room, just like that motel.” He'd spoken calmly, barely an inflection in his voice. His expression alternating from a blank stare to thoughtful and contemplative. “So, you're afraid God's going to kill us; at least that's what you
want
me to believe. I saw some of those guys up there, shirts off, banging in those nails.” He pantomimed hammering, but never took his blank face from hers. “Up and down, bang, bang. You know I almost made my entrance at the hotel as soon as I'd parked. I was going to
bang
good old Dot on the head and crush her skull, then just keep on going until you were dead, too.” He blew out air from pursed lips. “Whew. Can you believe that? I was kind of nuts. Good thing I hung out in the back of the van 'til your girlfriend left. Calmed me down. Gave me time to think.” Still, no expression.

He prattled on about how his love demanded he stay in the room with her until Judgment Day, and if that was going to be June eighth, so be it. If it ended up being twenty years from now, so be that, too.

It was then that Holly noticed the first water stain on the ceiling.

As the days wore on, her body healed. She didn't see how that was possible, considering how little movement she was allowed.  Now and then Clay would simply stand up and leave the room. A moment later she would hear the shower running or the toilet flush. Once a day, he would untie her and lead her into the bathroom. Holly's arms dangled wonderfully by her sides in those moments. She couldn't linger very long, however. Standing in the hall, Clay's patience was thin. Without warning, he would open the door to retrieve her.

Twice he'd called Dot from the other room, rattling on that he was falling apart without Holly and demanding that she tell him where she was hiding or he'd get the police involved. Holly heard only snippets of dialogue from the bed. Clay was a good actor. Dot and Phil had apparently been convinced by his performance because she was still here, tied to the bed.

People from the store stopped by occasionally, including Elizabeth to get her van back. At these times, Holly focused only on Connor. She willed her baby to remain silent in his crib. Listened as Clay held them at the door, sometimes sobbing and saying how he was falling apart with worry. She knew if she made any noise, something very bad would happen. If not to her and Connor, maybe to the unlucky visitor. Her only hope was the tone in Ozzie's voice yesterday. He was one of the few people who might actually suspect something was wrong. But after Clay's story of losing Holly, laying the blame on Ozzie for taking too long to call, he never came back.

At those moments, God bless him, Connor was silent save for an occasional cooing. She watched him playing with his toes, hands and feet poking up above the crib's bumper guard.

Connor, her only remaining friend now that Dot thought she'd left without a word. Her little boy kept her alive, made her gaze at the ceiling for hours to avoid Clay's stare. Three times a day, everything around her faded to an opaque white as she sat up in bed, unbound, and nursed her baby. Even when Clay had beaten her half to death, something inside the man must have known to avoid her chest. Maybe she'd simply protected herself well. At some base level, Clay might have known that if she couldn't nurse, he'd have to start buying formula.

He was just worried about her. About her running away again. He was really a good person.

Nursing her baby meant everything was going to be all right. When Connor suckled on her body, the bruises faded, her ribs healed. She stared at his face, watched him watching her, and fell in love with her son all over again. They would die on the last day together. She had to make sure that when it happened, they were like this. Clay might be there, in his chair, but she wouldn't acknowledge his existence when it happened. Mother and son were one in the eyes of God; wasn't that how it should be?

Water stain number two definitely was bigger. She felt Clay's unfocused gaze on her. She stared at the blemish, waiting for it to grow.

10

“Can you believe this guy?” The question was offered by a twenty-something man, probably on his lunch break judging from the employee badge flapping off his belt. It was much like the one Suresh had worn every day until this morning.

He smiled without replying, then looked back to the subject of the young man’s question. A large wooden box raised the preacher a foot over everyone's head. Viewed from the back of the crowd, he seemed to float on air.

Realizing there was no conversation to be had with the sullen Indian, the businessman moved on to find a more suitable lunch companion.

Suresh was alone again. Since the day after the first vision, he felt adrift on a barren sea. No one near, no land as far as the eye could see, his boat slowly sinking into oblivion. He thought in this poetic but saturnine way more and more. He could see the end. Next weekend he and lovely Neha would board a plane for Colorado, where she could hold her boss's hand for a few days, trying to milk a promotion from him. His wife did not care that there would be no opportunity for such mundane recognition. There would be no hospitals left, save whatever rotted miles underwater. Their ship was sinking, but the passengers kept dancing.

Suresh sighed, tried to pay attention to the preacher's words, but they made no sense. He merely spouted metaphors and clichés, mixed with spittle. Still, Suresh wanted to see the man whom the news stations dubbed
The Wharf Preacher
. He would stay awhile.

He had nowhere else to go.

Neha had given her ultimatum this morning. Tell his boss he would be taking the vacation days needed for the trip, or stay at home and she would go without him. She said this, of course, for the final time this morning as they got out of bed. With a carefully placed pout, she offered to go alone while slowly running her hand along his bare chest. Carrot and Stick played with the finesse of an artist. He knew what his wife was doing, lulling him towards the rocks with song. And he would follow.

He'd gone to work, not thinking about taking the time off. Suresh simply walked into his manager’s office with a mind cleared of all thought. He sat mute, and not until George shifted uncomfortably behind his desk and asked what the problem was, did Suresh take in a deep breath and say he was quitting. He removed his ID badge, placed it on the man's desk and got up.

As soon as he'd left the office, the pressing weight of fear and uncertainty fell away. He walked with purpose to his cubicle, took his bag and keys and everything else that would be useful in what remained of his life. There might be something in the briefcase he could use, especially on the flight, so he took it with the intention of sorting through it in the car.

George must have been too stunned to react immediately, for he didn't catch up to Suresh until he was halfway down the hall towards the exit. He argued. Where was he going? If he had no other job then it was probably “this flood mania sweeping everyone.” Why didn't he simply take the days as vacation? Think about it!