Authors: Daniel G. Keohane
On the bed, sheets had been folded up or curled into a tight ball against the corner. Sitting on the only clean spot on the mattress was a pair of shorts and t-shirt, white underwear, socks and sneakers. Hers. They were laid out carefully. Beside them, Connor's diaper bag, packed to the brim. The corners of one diaper poked out beside the unmistakable blue box of wipes and a Playtex nursing bottle in the side pocket.
When she saw the car keys beside the bag and her clothes, she stammered, “Clay, what...” She looked at the shrunken figure in the chair. It looked up at her with eyes too far back in the skull to be alive.
“Get dressed,” he hissed.
She scooted past him, laid Connor on a semi-clean area of the bed. When they fell across her body, the clothes caressed her like Clay's hands had done once, long ago when she thought he was perfect. She finished dressing except for her socks and sneakers. Clay looked ahead of him, towards the crib.
“Clay?”
He moved a little. Perhaps to indicate he was still alive.
“You can stay,” he said. “I'd like that. I mean, there isn't any place you can go. Not now.”
The image of the ark in Lavish came to her then. Like watching a movie, the Carboneau woman climbing aboard with her crew, waving to the crowds then disappearing below deck.
Too late
, she thought to herself.
Too late for
her.
Connor laughed at some unseen delight. Holly looked at him. Her heart resumed its rapid beating of earlier.
Clay was still talking. “Stay here. Stay with me. We can still be a family.”
His was a dry-paper voice. Holly stared at her son. Full of life. So small and tiny. A noise came out of her, half-shout, half-whimper. All she knew, all she could see, was her son, and the single thought in her head.
Too late for her, but not for him. Not for him
.
She lifted the diaper bag, slung it over her shoulder and grabbed the keys. She put them in her pocket and carefully lifted Connor. He squealed with delight. His diaper felt wet, but there was no time left. She didn't dare look at her boyfriend, but felt something brush against her legs as she passed, like a thin branch. Then it was gone. It was hard to walk. She was barefoot and her muscles, now that she was exerting them, threatened to knot up and send her toppling over.
Clay left his hand in the air. He couldn't close his fingers around her leg. Even if he had been able to find the strength, she wouldn't have stopped. Not this time.
The car started outside. He turned his head, looked at the clock.
“Holly!” he shouted. The word came out like a moan, unintelligible. A sound outside of tires on gravel, the click-click of the gears shifting
.
Acceleration. He listened as long as he could. The noise of the car's engine blended with the background hiss of the highway.
The numbers of the clock changed. He turned his head back and forth, looking for something to fix his gaze on, but everything had become blurry. He closed them, and pretended that Holly was still tied to the bed. Still with him. He didn't feel so alone then.
That voice, so perfect and calm, said beside him. “You did the right thing, Clay.”
He sighed and whispered, “Go fuck yourself.”
* * *
It was nearly Summer in the remote Arctic town of Resolute Bay, at least as much as summer ever came this far north. Greg Nassun pulled back the fur-lined hood of his parka and was instantly reminded that the season meant something entirely different here. It was still early in the morning, but the temperature would soon climb to plus ten Celsius. If it stayed this way for a couple more weeks, the thinning ice of the bay would break up enough to free the icebergs, allow an occasional cruise ship to pay the island a visit. The two weren’t normally associated with each other, but up here you took advantage of open water whenever it presented itself. Not that it mattered. Greg didn’t plan to be here much longer.
Though the cold seeped down his neck, the few minutes of un-obscured vision was worth leaving the hood down. His growing frustration would keep him warm enough for the moment. He knew why Francois wanted these readings done, especially today. He’d brought out a small card table from the hotel room and set it up on the hill, a short way past the distance marker and its
Montreal 2082 miles
teaser. Down the slope in front of him, the frozen bay groaned and cracked as it slowly, very slowly, thawed. The sound was momentarily overpowered by a flock of skimobiles racing across the ice. Two miles beyond them, a mountain of ice caught in last year’s freeze waited patiently for its chance to escape.
Greg checked the compass duct-taped to the top of the table.
Nothing
. One-point-nine percent declination over the average reading two years ago. These past four mind-numbing weeks Francois insisted on daily readings. The man was seriously nuts. If Greg had had any doubts, they were eliminated by last night’s phone call. Readings every
hour
today. Greg argued that magnetic North hadn’t shifted once in four weeks. Why would it do anything today?
Francois wasn’t listening. Greg’s boss was convinced something was going to happen this morning. He didn’t say this outright. But Francois Gourmond
believed
. Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been secretly building an ark of his own, on those rare occasions he was actually out of the office.
Fine. That was fine. He agreed to this charade only as long as Gourmond let him go home tomorrow. Four weeks without a sunset was long enough, thank you. He wanted to be back in Quebec, under artificial lights and real starlight. Vacation in the States, perhaps, pay a visit to Mickey Mouse or lay on a beach. Go someplace
warm
, where Greg could relax, become the happy, mellow guy he used to be.
The crowd behind him wouldn’t shut up. D
o you think anything’s going to happen? How can anything happen? It hasn’t rained! But they’re all so
sure
. Everyone’s climbing aboard their boats right now!
Shut up, you idiots,
he thought.
Shut up shut up!
Even Dora, who’d come by with a complimentary cup of coffee twenty minutes ago, bubbled with excitement. Everyone was either terrified or relieved that it would all be over in a few minutes, waiting impatiently for the allotted time to pass and praying nothing happened. Nothing at all.
On the table in front of him, the long, plastic compass remained stable, the needle’s position unchanged from yesterday, and the day before. He would do these final measurements today, log them, email them to Francois, pack and go home. The flight was booked –
The compass needle shifted.
Damn
, he thought.
Don’t screw up on me now you piece of...
The needle stopped. Greg leaned over the table. He was fairly certain the letter N still faced geographical north. But the needle pointed almost due West. “That’s just wrong,” he sighed.
Someone in the crowd turned towards him. Greg swore under his breath. The last thing he needed was to become a spectacle for anyone so bored even
this
work seemed interesting.
He ignored the sudden, interested stares and took out another, palm-sized compass from the inside pocket of his parka. He needed to compare measurements, see how off the table reading was. The man who’d overheard him was speaking to Dora. The large waitress walked nervously to where Greg still hunkered over the table.
Both compasses, the one on the table and the one in his palm, pointed due west. “Something wrong with your compass, Hon?”
Yes, there’s something wrong.
What he needed was... the needle on the large compass slowly righted itself. Greg’s heart had been beating so fast the back of his neck was cool with perspiration.
Damn you, Francois. You’re making me as crazy as you
.
The needle stopped. He did a quick calculation in his head, one done so often he rarely needed the calculator tucked in his other pocket. Roughly an eighteen percent declination. That was
impossible
!
“Your needle keeps moving,” Dora whispered. People began to crowd around the table.
“Please,” he said, trying not to sound irritated, “let me alone for a minute. I need to fix this.”
“Look!” Someone pointed. “It’s moving again!”
Mutters in English and French. Someone began praying in Inuit, at least Greg assumed it was a prayer since the old woman had fallen to her knees.
“It’s not moving,” he shouted. “Back away, please!” But it
was
moving. Westward. When it again hit due West, the needle stopped.
Not possible. Not possible.
The needle spun around in a full circle, two complete revolutions before coming to a stop East-North-East. Behind him someone screamed, loud voices adding to the sudden explosion of sound.
Dora grabbed his arm. “Greg, what is it doing?”
He opened his clenched palm. The glass face of the smaller compass was wet with perspiration, but he could see where it pointed. Same as the table. Then it moved again, pointing to perfect, true North. So did the table version.
“Greg?” Dora’s voice was high.
“It’s not happening. Dora, this is nothing. It’s normal. It’s normal. It’s normal....” He kept repeating these two words aloud, fueling, rather than subduing, the panic around him. He stared at each compass, watched the needles drop, slowly, inexorably, to the West again, then beyond.
The ice in Resolute Bay began to crack with sudden, desperate reports. No one heard them over their own shouts and footsteps, running home, running away from whatever was about to happen. Greg only stared at the table, at his palm. The needle continued to move, stop, spin, then move again. He looked up, focused his gaze on the iceberg waiting patiently across the frozen bay.
* * *
The firehouse's living area was deserted save for the lone figure standing in front of the picture window. Most everyone else had gone downstairs to the garage bays, opening the doors for a better view of the events on the square. Technically, the crew was on standby, in case things got out of hand across the street. More so was their insatiable curiosity, or fear about what might happen in fifteen minutes.
As the morning progressed, some would come upstairs to stand beside Marty Santos, stare with him out the window to watch Margaret's crew ascend the ramp one by one then disappear below deck. The chief's silence was contagious, for no visitor tried to start a conversation. They would stand for a while, seeing what he saw, then wander downstairs to join the others in the garage.
Now, Marty was alone. Watching and waiting. He'd slept solidly in his bunk last night, had over the last few nights, in fact, and dreamed of Vince Carboneau. This time, it was a good dream. He and Vince sat on a bench in the Carboneau's backyard, their backs leaning against the picnic table. It was night in the dream. The stars shone so brightly their pinprick illuminations reflected in the cool drops of water coating their beer bottles. They drank casually but never spoke, simply looked up at the darkened house knowing Margaret was inside, asleep in bed. Vince didn't seem in a rush to go inside. He'd always been like that when Marty would stop over for a drink. Content to share such a rare and drawn-out moment with his best friend, outside under the stars, knowing that the woman he loved would welcome him beside her when he finally went in.
It was a nice dream, and Marty was grateful for it. Whether it was only that, a creation of his overly exhausted mind, or if the moment said more to what his fate might be in a few minutes, he'd soon know. He liked to think that the dream was Vince's quiet way of saying thanks for helping Margaret during the final days of the world. If it meant anything beyond that, Marty didn't care.
Outside Margaret and the teenager, Carl, had rounded up the last of the stragglers. Now the boy was up on deck. Margaret remained at the bottom of the ramp, looking around for anything left behind.
She looked up, saw the chief standing in the window. Marty watched her hesitate for a moment, then raise her hand. She waved slowly.
Marty swallowed, and raised his own hand. Before the moment could become awkward, he turned and walked away from the window. He found a comfortable chair across the room and sat down to wait.
* * *
“All set, Mrs. Carboneau. Everyone's nice and snug. The girls, too.” Carl looked at his watch. “Time to come up, I'd say.”
Margaret could hear the fear in the boy's voice. Their world had been spun on its head and here was Carl, tanned in a tee-shirt and shorts, a boy who should be hanging out at the beach with other kids. Instead he stood atop a fabled ark, telling his former teacher it was time to come aboard.
The temperature was pleasant, high-eighties. The grease smeared along the side of the ark shimmered in the sun, giving the ship a mirage-like appearance. Standing in the midst of the haze, Carl said more quietly, “Mrs. C, you have to come up now.”
Margaret nodded, and looked around the Common. People were camped out across the grass. On one marble bench, a man with a salt and pepper beard sat before an easel. He faced the ark and quietly painted.
Her gaze lingered on one family, a woman and three boys. The woman was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the bread laid out on plates across a large blanket. The mother finished making one, reached into a cooler and produced a can of Coke. She managed to snag one of the boys long enough to shove the meal into his hands and point to an unoccupied corner of the blanket. The boy hesitated to make a show for his older brothers, then sat down and began devouring his food.
It was a nice day for a picnic, Margaret supposed.
She stepped onto the ramp. In the corner of her eye she saw Carl straighten. At first she thought it was from relief that she was finally moving. Then someone grabbed her shirt from behind. She almost stumbled, took a step back.
“I'm sorry,” the young girl said. “I didn't mean to make you fall.”