26
Everyone slept in the house, scattered throughout the rooms in sleeping bags or covered with a single blanket. Except Carl, Al and Tony. Once everything had been marked, they left to stay with the ship. With the second police guard she'd added to her payroll at the common, Margaret insisted the threesome wouldn't need to stand watch. Nevertheless, they left in Al’s car. Margaret mused that the fire had burned more than the ark. Since the incident, most everyone carried something dark within them, as if they'd been personally violated. Each seemed to privately wish for someone, anyone, to try it again while they were there. These three especially, as they'd become nearly inseparable over the past days. Margaret could see the look of sadness come across Jennifer’s face when Tony stormed out with the other two. She’d be without him again tonight. Not that anyone considered doing anything more than sleep together in a house full of people, but to be able to hold someone close, and be held, was something Margaret felt envious of. That night, she, Katie and Robin all slept fitfully on Katie’s narrow twin bed. Robin had given up at some point before dawn and crawled under her own sheets.
The men returned to the house by seven the next morning. Margaret and the others were eating breakfast, mostly bagels Jennifer had gone out to buy earlier.
As soon as everyone was ready, Carl shut the power down again. That was when they'd all made an irritating discovery. None of the power tools worked. Thus began the slow process of shutting off one breaker, then the next, marking which outlets worked and which didn't on a sheet of paper Carl eventually taped to the circuit box door. Using extension chords, they were able to isolate the power to a select few outlets while shutting down the rest.
The cutting began. Margaret watched the large wall in the front room, the wall which once had held photos of Vince and the girls, of their wedding and her parents' wedding, explode in sprays of dust as David Whitman cut along the measured lines with a circular saw. As he progressed along, the large man kicked at the cord with his leg, keeping the bulk of it behind him. Margaret observed this interplay between cord and leg. Watching the actual cutting hurt too much. If she looked up, and saw the powdery gash following the progress of the blade, she felt dizzy. Eventually she left the house completely and grabbed a folding chair.
Estelle had gone out before the deconstruction began. Margaret put the chair beside hers, and laid her head on Estelle’s shoulder. She wanted to cry, wail in despair like Katie had last night. Instead, she only sighed. Estelle reached up and patted the side of her face. Neither woman said anything. They listened to the sounds of cutting and the shouts of the workers as they slowly, methodically, dismantled the Carboneaus’ home.
23
“Would you like some more water, Aunt Corinne?”
The old woman raised her right hand weakly, muttered something, which Father McMillan understood after so many visits to mean “no.” He took her hand gently and said, “Well, you just squeeze my hand if you want some, all right?”
He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. Though his aunt did not normally turn her head to him during these visits, she did so now. She moved her lips, as if in conversation, but no sounds came forth save the paper-wisps of her breath. Her furrowed brows told the priest more than any words could. She was confused by his visit. Even as she slipped further away from him, more every week, he was invariably caught off-guard by her sudden displays of lucidity.
He could pretend not to notice, but the woman's piercing gaze suggested otherwise.
“I suppose,” he said, almost sheepishly, “you're wondering why I'm here on a Monday rather than the usual Wednesday?” He shrugged, as if any answer he might offer was not worth her trouble to ask.
She squeezed his hand. McMillan smiled. “You truly amaze me, sometimes, Auntie.”
Her gaze narrowed, an unmistakable “get on with it” look.
He gently shook her hand. “It's nothing to worry about, really. I've just been taking some days off and thought I'd surprise you with an unscheduled visit. I always assumed on the days I don't come you're probably jumping on the bed causing all kinds of mischief.” He immediately regretted his words. Someone lying at death’s door didn't need reminding of the fact that they'll never jump on any bed again.
Corinne looked at her nephew for a moment, then away and up. McMillan turned to see what was grabbing her attention. Nothing there, save for a darkened television set.
His heart sank. Did the staff turn on the TV for her?
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back towards the woman in the bed. She was staring at him again, her gaze soft. The look was such that, if she hadn't been so dehydrated, McMillan was sure he'd see tears running down her cheeks.
“I -” he began. “You watched the news?” He tried to make the question sound casual, but felt his composure crumple as the thin, fragile hand within his own gave a soft squeeze. He felt the bones, and the love, in that grip.
He sobbed once, fought to control the emotion as he’d done the night he'd cried himself to sleep after the police left. “I tried to stop it,” he whispered. “I tried to calm them! Why make everyone panic, frightened, when there's nothing they can do?” Another sob. He was losing control. Father Doiron, the associate pastor whom McMillan had abandoned to handle all the duties of the parish these past two weeks, tried to talk to him about the shooting that night, about the arks, but McMillan had only shouted in anger, asking if anyone cared about the elderly trapped in their houses, in nursing homes with nowhere to go. Did no one care how frightened these people probably were, knowing they would never be able to board any boat to save themselves?
They deserve to be told the truth, and the truth is only what their shepherd believes it to be. You believe, yet you let your people wander in the dark.
The words were not his, yet he heard them in his own thoughts, in his own inner voice. He heard them every day, try as he might to ignore them. His aunt continued to stare at him, occasionally squeezing his hand with whatever strength she had. Could she be talking to him now, passing to him in her stare what she could not speak?
You have abandoned your flock to the wolves, rather than set their hearts on the path of preparation.
“No,” he whispered, and now his Aunt's expression changed, not understanding his remark. He wiped the tears from his face. Of course, she wasn't talking to him. It was his conscience, taking advantage of this sudden lack of control.
“I'll be all right, Aunt Corinne. It's just hard, knowing what's going to come.”
She mouthed words to him that he would never hear. Staring at her lips, he thought she might be saying, “No one knows what's to come,” but she could just as easily have asked for a drink of water.
He was alone, it seemed, in sorting this out. He should confide more in Doiron, who was a staunch denouncer of the prophecies uttered by the ark builders. And he would remain so, until the Vatican gave their official stance. A stance, McMillan feared, that might never come. The visions were for the sheep, not the shepherds. He wouldn't be surprised if God had already intervened to prevent the Holy Father from making any statements on the matter.
The thought sent shivers of fear down his back.
The priest rose, and the old woman's hand followed, refusing to release him.
“I have to go, Aunt Corinne. I'm sorry. I'll come back Wednesday.”
He kissed her on the forehead. So thin was her skin, so hard the bone. She held him one final moment, then released his hand. Never once did she take her eyes from him.