“It's the only way.” Jack’s own voice sounded foreign to him. He was seeing something special in this officer, something long buried, and had the urge to begin preaching. Never mind the threat of jail. He was a messenger of God.
But he didn't preach. A quick peek in his hand revealed a ten-dollar bill. Ten dollars would buy a nice meal, maybe two if he found someplace cheap. His stomach turned in anticipation. This felt wrong. He shouldn't be eating, except what God granted he should have. But here he was, walking the length of the market with a man who could easily arrest him but instead was talking of God and giving him money for food.
For whoever does right by my brethren so he does to me . Something like that. The officer was talking, but Jack couldn't hear. He was too hungry.
They walked along the sidewalk skirting the traffic moving on Atlantic Avenue and underground into the expressway tunnel. Across the way the waterfront park was nearly deserted. Though April promised warmer days ahead, the constant breeze off the inlet made staying for any length of time daunting.
Not for Jack. Once again he found himself led to this place. This time he felt God's hand at work. He would not be relocated again.
“Promise me you'll eat something with that? Maybe over there?”
Jack turned around. Officer Leary had stopped ten paces ago and was pointing to the Blue Gull diner across from the Marriott hotel. Jack squeezed the bill tightly in his hands and smiled.
“Yes, sir, Officer. I promise. God bless you!”
“I hope so,” he said and turned away. Jack felt the world tipping again, and the policeman was lost in a swirling haze. If he didn't eat soon he might pass out. He held his fist to his mouth and whispered, “Thy will be done.”
He opened his hand, and stared with a growing joy at the rumpled ten- dollar bill. The wind caught it, and it fluttered away. For the briefest of moments, Jack watched it sail off, as if seeing it only in his mind like a sad memory. Then he realized what was happening and stumbled forward. In his peripheral vision, the city moved above and around him. The bill fluttered off the sidewalk, across the street. He couldn't lose sight of it, lest it blow into some rich man's overstuffed wallet.
At that moment, God opened one of the seven seals. A trumpet sounded throughout the heavens. A blaring klaxon promising death and redemption. A long, drawn out wail....
Jack never looked up. As he reached for the bill, something slammed into him, a building maybe, falling on top of him. It’s happening again, he thought, then shouted at the sudden pain and memory--turned, tumbled, felt every stone and piece of gravel from the road against him. His arm screamed in agony.
He lay in an unconscious heap in the middle of the road. The taxi backed up, its driver weighing his options of driving off, then the clicking of the gear going into park. The cab door opened. Jack heard these sounds from deep within the hole into which his senses had fallen.
* * *
An unnatural quiet permeated the air in Saint Mary’s rectory. It always had. During the funeral, Margaret marveled at how peaceful she felt sitting in the priest's home. As if some invisible barrier had been laid across the house, emanating from the equally-serene church next door. Unlike the more popular, flat-roofed, stucco homes in town, the rectory was a large Victorian, built by the diocese in the mid-twentieth century when the Catholic population had grown too large to be handled with one church for every three or four towns. Saint Mary’s was located on the western edge of town, the church itself an unassuming box with a short steeple. The rectory, housing Father Mayhew and - during the week days - his secretarial assistant, overshadowed the church in architecture and charm.
The young priest returned to his office and laid a cup of tea on the desk in front of her. The tea bag spread a thick brown wash through the water as it steeped. For his part, Nick had an oversized mug of black coffee. Instead of sitting in his usual chair, putting the desk between them, he sat at Margaret's side in the second guest chair, turned so he could face her without the whole scene looking like an ad-hoc confessional.
“How are the girls, Margaret?”
“They’re fine. Katie misses her dad something awful, and Robin plays along. I sometimes wonder how much of that is just imitation of her sister. I mean, she was only two when it happened.”
Nick nodded. In his heart, he knew Vince was with God. The man had been devoted to his family and his faith - a rare thing these days. He had a feeling Margaret had something specific to talk about, so he merely waited for her to begin.
Margaret glanced at her tea, decided it needed to steep a little longer. “I hope I'm not putting you out, Father. I guess I needed to talk to someone, well... someone who knows about these kind of things.” She kept her gaze on the tea.
Nick thought of a dozen humorous quips, but kept them to himself. “What would you like to talk about?” His old mentor after seminary, Father McMillan, taught him never to make assumptions by saying “What is wrong?” or “What's bothering you?” Everyone had their own reasons for speaking with their priest. Make an assumption that something is wrong and you could sabotage the conversation before it began.
Margaret looked into his face for a moment, then back to her untouched cup. “Have you been listening to the radio, seen anything unusual on TV?”
Nick smiled. “Not that I can think of. I don't watch a lot of television, and if I turn the radio on in my car it's usually to listen to cassettes. I'm currently listening to a series on evangelical ministries in Zaire. Very fascinating how --” He stopped and took a sip of coffee. “For another time.” He smiled and set the cup down. “No, to answer your question. At least I don't think so. Why?”
Now Margaret looked directly at him. “What would you say if I told you that God, or an angel of God, has come to me in a dream? More than one dream, actually.”
She gave him a general overview of the first two visions, deciding to leave out David's angry outburst the other night. “But it's not just me,” she added, looking at him squarely. No more nervous gazing at her tea. “Lots of other people, thousands maybe, have been visited by these angels. They all say the same thing. The exact same thing. Build an ark...” her voice was beginning to break, “…a boat to carry thirty people and no more. Then, just let everyone else die.”
Tears were running down her cheeks, one stream curving at the corner of her mouth. She said, “I know this sounds crazy, but I swear it's true. Maybe I am going nuts, but everyone else? And --”
“Margaret.”
She stopped. Nick lifted his coffee mug and leaned forward. “Margaret, hold on. This is a whole lot to take in.”
She nodded, picked up her tea and took shallow sips while the tears kept falling.
Nick began, “I --” then stopped. He had no idea what to say. He'd heard nothing about any of this. He tried to remember when Vince had died. Was this an anniversary? He didn't think so.
“Let's back up a little. You said God Himself came to you in these visions? These dreams?”
Margaret shook her head. “No, not really God, but an angel, yes. His name is David.” She laughed then. To Nick it was a small but healthy sign. “Listen to me. I sound like some lonely little girl talking about her imaginary friend. But I'm not imagining things. I swear. These haven't been like any other dreams. And other things, too. From people - seeing me...”
“Okay. Okay.” Nick leaned back, giving her as much space as his chair would allow. He took a sip, stalling while she regained her composure.
Something occurred to him. “Margaret, you’re forgetting an important detail. God’s promise to Noah not to destroy the world ever again with a flood. Granted, there are instances in the Bible when He changes his mind on some things, but this...?”