Margaret's Ark (20 page)

When he reached the front of the neighboring property, the ship didn’t seem as large as he’d first imagined. The front yard on which it rested was roomier than most, since many of the other houses were set close to the street to create more room in the back.

The ark stood at a diagonal away from the house, the bow cresting over the short, chain-link fence. Suresh continued forward until the front of the ark was overhead. He reached up into the yard, over the waist high fence, and could just touch the wood, rough, covered in a thick layer of dried glue.

The instructions the
deva
had given him played out in his mind, though the angel had mentioned using plywood, and this ship was plank and beam. Solid. The builder must have been fortunate to know something about shipbuilding.

“Makes you wonder how a nice boat like this could have been built by such a raving lunatic, huh?”

Suresh lowered his arm quickly and turned towards the speaker. The man was taller than himself, and massive in the shoulders. He wore a tee-shirt under an open blue Mobile Service work shirt, the faded name “Bill” on the breast. His curly red hair was matted down on one side.

Suresh nodded and looked back into the yard. “It is,” he agreed. “So big for such a small yard. I wonder how they bring in supplies, with so many cars.”

Bill looked up and down the road, hands in his jeans pockets, and shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe they got all their supplies ahead of time.” He laughed. “'Cause they sure ain't getting deliveries now.”

Suresh looked about the yard and tried to distinguish among the crowd, milling within and about the vessel like ants next to an anthill, who might have been chosen, who might have seen what he had seen.

“I wonder who is the one who had the dream,” he said, to himself more than the other man.

“That one,” Bill said, pulling his hand from a pocket and pointing to a tall man in overalls. The tall man was speaking with a woman while pointing to something on a clipboard. “Name is Craig Johnson; used to work as a clerk at City Hall in Waltham. Then one night he goes nuts and starts building this thing. Says God told him, but I guess you already know that.”

Suresh looked back and realized Bill, like himself a moment before, was talking more to himself. The man's face was screwed up in concentration, as if trying to remember something important.

Suresh said, “Have you been here before?”

The mechanic bit his lip for a moment, let it flip free, and said simply, “Yep. Pretty much every day.” He looked at him then. “I just like to see how they're doing.”

“Hmm.” Suresh nodded and looked at Johnson. The tall man looked up from his clipboard, waved to them; then to Suresh's surprise, gave the clipboard to the woman and began walking in their direction.

“Oh, Man,” Bill said, “here were go. He keeps trying to convince me to join his little band of merry nut-heads.”

But you still come
, Suresh thought,
every day
. Craig Johnson was stopped by a teenaged boy who obviously needed an immediate answer to something.

Someone yelled from further down in the crowd, “Hey, Sid, you moron!” The teenager looked up, his face flushing red; then he mouthed a curse and stormed back up the ramp.

Craig Johnson whispered something, apparently to the speaker in the crowd, and looked back towards Bill.

No
, Suresh thought.
He's looking at me. Why is he looking at me
? Not once did Suresh consider that his dark Indian skin might stand out among the predominantly winter-pale Irish and Italian faces. Or perhaps it was something else; the way Johnson held his gaze a moment, a flicker of recognition. But that was absurd. Suresh wouldn’t have spotted
him
if Bill hadn't pointed him out. Would he?

Johnson walked the final steps towards the fence. Bill muttered, “Hey, Craig.”

Craig turned, as if having forgotten the man was there. “Hi.” Recognition smoothed his expression. “Bill, right? Nice to see you. How does it look? Care to see the inside?”

“No,” Bill said, a little too loudly. Still, he stayed where he was. Johnson turned to Suresh. “Nice to meet you. My name's Craig.” He extended a hand.

“Crazy whack jobs.” It was the voice who'd spoken to “Sid” a moment before, calling out from the crowd. “All of you. Friggin’ sick loons!”

Johnson's hand was still extended. Suresh took a step back and muttered, “I need to get back to work.”  He looked at the mechanic. “It was nice talking with you, Bill. Good luck. You should go with them. It's the only way you will live.”

The mechanic looked confused. Suresh began to work his way back through the crowd. He knew that if he didn’t leave then, Bill would have been obliged to offer some retort to save face within the faceless crowd.

When he looked back, through the bobbing heads moving in the direction he'd just come, he caught Johnson's gaze a moment, before the man turned and spoke with the red-haired mechanic.

A bottle sailed into the air, probably from the invisible speaker. Something spilled from the open top, curving in on itself as the bottle spun and bounced off the side of the ark.

Suresh moved away as fast as possible against the flow of people. He heard Johnson bellow with rage, the rattle of the chain link fence. Was he climbing over, going after the person who'd thrown the bottle? Was he coming after Suresh, seeing him as one of the “chosen?” Maybe that man’s angel had known he was going to be coming today. Wanting to stop him from choosing his own path.

Suresh wanted to scream, wanted to run down the road, past his car, down into the throes of Route 3A, propel himself into traffic and let it all end. Shouts from behind him, a fight breaking out.

The world will fall apart before the first water falls from heaven
, he thought.

The crowd thinned as he turned onto Macomb. When no one grabbed his shoulder from behind, Suresh began to calm. He thought of his wife's face.

Neha
. A goddess's face in a world of mortals. He thought of her smiling - smiling at him. He would think of Neha for the next forty-three days, and no one else.
Nothing else
. Nothing but Neha.

41

Jack had not returned to the wharf since the incident with the boy and girl. Each time he considered going back, a deep sadness filled him. Already, he had trouble remembering what the girl looked like. Sometimes her face was a lustrous pale, at other times a smooth chocolate under the nighttime shadows. Details of those moments became fuzzy, indistinct. He tried to hold onto them, not wanting the image of her to slip away like the rest of his life. But it did. It always did.

Other things came back, sharp jagged pieces of the past. These lingered longer. Jack wondered if someday he would remember everything. He hoped not. He would make sure of it, dive into the sea of God’s word and die when the time came. Die and leave the intrusive memories behind forever.

The coat had been a blessing from the Almighty. He wore it, always, and for a while the next day he smelled the girl, felt her love and warmth surround him. Holy Mary, Mother of God, who had come to him in a vision made flesh. Come to clothe the naked and feed the hungry.
Amen, amen
.

It wasn’t Mary who had come to him later that night, though. The angel Michael found him, lost in the upper corner of an overpass. Michael who'd chased the lingering rats away, led him along dark streets to the doorstep of the Back Street Shelter. The man who'd answered the door knew Jack's name, so it must have been the right place. He'd been here before. The bearded man asked nothing else.

Jack would return to the wharf tomorrow. His mandatory chores at the shelter were done. The men’s bathroom was clean, at least cleaner than he'd found it. After Jack had dished out the mashed potatoes for dinner, not touching any until everyone else had been fed, he found a place at one of the tables in the open hall and ate his own meal. Warm, good food.
Clothe the naked and feed the hungry. Amen
.

Jack stood outside, now. The night sky was clear, from what he could see in the open rectangle above the alley. It was warm tonight, but it was always warm now that he had Mary's coat. When he was taking a nap that afternoon, on the cot he'd been assigned, Michael visited him in that long ago dream place and reminded him of his duty, of the sign God promised to the world.

The power of God had been temporarily doused away by whatever had happened to him these past few days, but now the inferno raged. As soon as he'd finished his dinner, Jack had stood upon the bench and told his new congregation God's plan.

“Tomorrow, the rains will begin! Tomorrow is fourteen days until God's judge-”

“Forty days,” the old man beside him corrected, between spoonfuls of corn.

Jack
did
pause then. That correction was important. He continued, “Forty days until God's judgment!” He did not look down as the old man with the corn giggled. “Behold the rains as they fall! Behold the Power of God!”

He'd managed a few more lines before the man who ran the place, Rick,
his name is Rick
, gently escorted him off the bench and explained that he was to refrain from preaching inside
Back Street
.

“Save it for the wharf, Jack.”

Jack had been shocked at the statement. “You... you know of my ministry?”

Rick laughed and led him outside, to the alley where, per house rules, folks had to go to
cool off
. He lingered outside with him and said, “Jack, the whole city knows who you are. You're actually kind of famous.”

“Famous?” The word felt like glue in his mouth, vile and putrid in its connotation. “I've done nothing but preach - “

“Preach God's word; yes, I know. You don't think the news folks were visiting you just for kicks, did you? I saw you once myself, on Channel Five news.”

The fire in Jack's soul ignited. “Praise God.”

Jack didn't know how long he stood in the alley after Rick nodded and went back inside, but now his legs were stiff.

A flame flared across the alley. A face Jack recognized behind a cigarette which licked the fire and burned red at its tip. The face was pale, hidden in the shadows and behind greasy strands of hair, eyes staring across the short distance.

The kid from the hospital. Jack had forgotten him, as he'd forgotten most everything. Except for Michael, taking him down in the elevator. Not flying out the window as he'd hoped.

“I hear it’s gonna rain tomorrow,” the kid said. White smoke burst from the shadows and drifted lazily towards him. Jack inched a little closer to Back Alley's door. The kid said, “I ain't gonna cut you up, if that's what you think.” He began to whisper a tuneless song, “Ain't gonna cut you up, no baby, ain't gonna cut you up.”

Jack said nothing. The long-haired man took another step forward. Smoke drifted lazily from his mouth when he added, “Do you know who I am, Jack?”

Jack whispered, “From the hospital.”

The kid smiled again. “I’m more than that, my friend.” Another step. “I figure that Other Guy has been having all the fun lately, so it's time for me to step in. You see, Jack, I’m the devil.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “No, you’re not.”

The kid paused halfway through his next step, lowered his foot. “Oh, yes, Preacher Man. Haven’t you wondered where I’ve been all this time? While the big guy upstairs is having all of you running around like chickens with –”

“You’re from the hospital,” Jack interrupted. “You’ve come to me so you can hear God’s word.”

The other took a quick drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke into Jack’s face. “No. I am the devil!”

“No, you’re not. Praise Jesus.” Jack was still smiling. The smell of the cigarette played across his face. Jack wondered when the last time was he had one of those. Maybe a butt on the street, but nothing to light it.

“Want one?” the kid asked, seeing where the preacher was looking.

Jack nodded.

The kid was in his face, holding the cigarette out of reach. “I only got one pack, friend. You trying to steal Satan’s stuff?”

Something recent in Jack's mind turned over. Someone hitting him, someone turning his ears. He growled, a low, rumbling sound.

“Hey, Man, be cool, I'm not -”

“Ahhhhhhhhh!” Jack grabbed one of the kid’s ears with his left hand and squeezed. He stepped forward. His right hand couldn't compete with the cast on his wrist, so he settled on pressing it against the long-haired, greasy head. The kid stumbled backwards, one arm still held outward so as not to lose his smoke. Before he hit the far wall, his knees buckled and he went down.

Jack towered over him, twisting his ear. The kid whispered a scream, the pain in his head overwhelming the common sense to make as much noise as possible and bring help. He slammed the lit end of the smoke into the fabric of the jacket, aiming for Jack’s hand but missing and hitting the arm instead.

It had the same effect, however. Jack let him go, stepped back and patted at the burn mark, sparks of red and yellow where the burning tobacco had lodged into the fibers. Even after the smoldering was extinguished, Jack continued to pummel his sleeve, picking at fibers to be sure they weren't going to start back up. To save the coat given to him by Mary.

Al l the while, the kid knelt, prostrate before him.

Jack stopped, at length, and looked down. The kid looked up, then quietly asked, “Is it gonna rain tomorrow?”

Jack took a moment to collect himself, then finally said, “Yes.” He was panting.

The kid smiled again, chuckled softly. “It better not, my friend.” He rose. Jack kept his place, afraid of losing his advantage, however brief. The kid took a couple of steps away down the alley. He looked back, then was gone, lost in the darkness around the corner.

Jack’s heart hammered in his chest. Had the kid just threatened him? Couldn’t be. He was proclaiming God’s word. He patted his left hand fingers against his right sleeve, feeling the cast beneath, fearful that the burning would spark back up. The coat no longer smelled like Mary. It smelled like cigarette, and burning fabric.