Margaret brought her attention back to the moment, drawing rough schematics with her Bic pen when the printed image was not enough. This man was planning on building on the opposite end of the common. Margaret reminded him again that he was free to inspect her own ship, see what her artless scribbling actually meant.
The well of knowledge implanted in her was running dry by nine o'clock. The man looked tired. A few minutes ago, Estelle had called from Margaret's home to say the girls were in bed, though not yet asleep. Fae had returned from the house with extra dry clothes for her and Carl. the day after he arrived at her door, Margaret had sent him to Wal-mart for a new wardrobe using her credit card. The rest of the crew, save Carl and Al, reluctantly returned home. It made no sense to try righting the ship tonight. Privately, Margaret wondered if it wasn't better off where it lay. Not much rain could build up below deck in this position.
Not long after Fae arrived with the clothes, Margaret caught a glimpse of Adrian Edgecomb. The selectman had stormed through the town hall and police station, and judging by the occasional shouting during the evening, he'd paid a number of visits to the fire station. He was not happy. The town had been turned into a circus. His words. Three people were in the hospital because that nut decided she was a twenty-first century Noah. Those were snippets of conversation Margaret overheard during his brief visits with Marty. She didn't want to know what he was saying about her. She did wonder about the other two selectmen. Edgecomb seemed to have taken the most vociferous stance so far.
Edgecomb posed more of a threat to her completing the task than any mob that might come in the future. Her free ride on taxpayer property, yet another quote, was about to end.
No sooner had she begun wrapping up her overview with the man beside her, and organizing her notes, than Marty Santos walked in with a dour expression. He was followed by a woman similar in age to Margaret, heavier, wet hair matted against her dark skin.
“Mrs. Carboneau,” the woman said from behind the chief. “My name's Alicia, and… “
“She wants to build an ark, too,” Marty interrupted, no longer trying to hide his irritation. Alicia looked at him for a moment, then simply nodded.
Margaret looked at Carl standing by the window. He shook his head. She needed sleep, his look said. He was right.
“Can I see these for a minute?” She gently took the stack of papers from the hand of the man beside her. He held on a moment longer, but a quick tug and she had them back. “Marty, I don't suppose you've got a copying machine somewhere handy?” She held up the papers.
* * *
Fae pulled into the fire station a few minutes past midnight. Her hair was tangled, matted down on one side as if she'd been sleeping when Margaret had called. The cell phone connection was worse than earlier. She didn’t remember rain ever wreaking so much havoc with phones in the past. Margaret looked back at Carl. “You sure you don't want to come back to the house tonight?”
He gave her a quick hug and ushered her into the passenger seat. Rain dripped from his face and onto her lap. “Too many women in one house for my taste,” he said. “Me and Al will stay here and keep an eye on things tonight. The guys said it was okay.”
Al waved from inside one of the large empty garage bays. The engines remained on the common, save one called for a downed power line. His face was lost in the shadows. She waved back.
Fae drove her home in silence. Margaret had fallen asleep by the time the car had pulled into her crowded driveway.
39
The rain continued throughout the day Saturday, falling as unrelentingly as when it first began. The news covered the ensuing hysteria across the world, mob scenes like the one in Lavish. Some were less dramatic, others bloody. In some states, governors threatened marshal law. The builders of the arks pleaded over newscasts that this was only a sign, a divine warning that the visions were true. The real flood would be upon them soon enough.
Flooding had already begun, however. Estimated rainfall figures ranged from eight inches to over a foot. Margaret thought these numbers were exaggerated, even with scenes of rivers cresting their banks and pouring into streets. People waved to news cameras from second floor windows. These were low-lying areas, already prone to flooding. The rain showed no sign of abating, however. Forecasters pointed with shaking hands at the unmoving mass of clouds.
The rain served its purpose. Margaret now had a full contingent of crew, and imagined the same was happening everywhere. A wicked and faithless generation seeks after a sign, Jesus said once in Matthew’s gospel.
Al so receiving a boost was the widely-covered construction of the San Francisco televangelist Nick Starr. His massive ark looked more like a small ocean liner. According to his press release, all three hundred seats within the two lower decks were nearly sold out at a price of one thousand dollars a berth (fifteen hundred for a limited private cabin). “At the rate we're going,” he’d chirped merrily during an interview, “I'm gonna have to build us a second ship!”
Margaret had paused before the television to watch the story, then walked away knowing that Reverend Starr and his passengers were probably all going to die.
Over the course of the day, the fire trucks pulled away from the building site to more areas of flash flooding. Normally dry riverbeds had begun claiming people and livestock. The 911 system was a steady necklace of lights. “I haven't heard from my daughter. She was playing in the street and now she's gone.” “The water's up to the baseboards; should I try and shut off the power?” “I can't find my dog.” And so on.
The crowd around the common never thinned, but made no further move towards the ark, which lay on its side like a misshapen whale. Cars, pickups and mini-vans held vigil, waiting for Margaret and her people to return to work.
Her people . Margaret stood at the second story firehouse window and watched the rain pound against the ship's hull. A full crew. Thirty including herself and the girls. More wanted to be included. The man with whom she had shared the ship's architecture last night had nearly a full crew already, most from her own waiting list. He wandered in the rain at the far side of the common with his recruits, waving at various points and obviously explaining what they'd have to do. Alicia, the woman who'd listened with less nodding and more understanding decided to build her ship in her front yard in Greenfield. The town where, an eternity ago, Margaret's husband had burned to death.
And the people waited in their cars, late-comers praying for an opening in one of the projects, or vultures waiting for a chance to take what others had built. Margaret thought she could tell who was who. The late-comers wrung their hands, stepped out of their cars more often, looked around for any sign they were welcome. The vultures sat behind the wheel, staring through the watery windshield with calculated expressions of patience and loathing. They emerged from their cars only to run to the House of Pizza one block down, for food or to use the restroom.