Chapter 29

The shaking comes with the sound. All over Fair Mantle, chimneys fall and windows break. Bruton hears the bricks from his own chimney plummet off the dormer and dives for the doorway, where the house is said to be most structurally sound. Elizabeth squeezes beside him, her legs out on the landing. The curtains, yet to be opened for the day, billow as they fill with shattered glass driven inside by the wind.

The Brutons don’t think about Farrell. They’re not even aware that Bruton keeps saying “Holy hell, holy God in hell.”

When the shaking stops, they step into their boots, throw coats over their nightwear and run outside. It seems all the neighbors are outside in their sleepwear, too. Nobody’s taken the time to change. Not everyone has had the presence of mind to throw a coat over their jammies. If it were summer, more than half of them would probably not be wearing a stitch, and that, to Bruton, would have given the occurrence a most entertaining turn.
Sirens wail in the distance. Nearby, the horn atop the firehouse summons members of the volunteer fire department.

Though it’s past dawn, the sky is an even shade of sunless gray. The lack of shadow gives the scene the feeling of a cartoon.

Every homeowner that Bruton sees is either circling heaps of glass and brick on snowy lawns or kicking aside snow in search of cracked foundations. Some bring out video cameras to record what they find. A rumor rolls through: a popular restaurant at the south end of town has collapsed. There’s an odor of gas at the site. Homes and apartments are being evacuated.

Bruton’s phone is ringing. He asks Elizabeth to answer it. He’s afraid the house will collapse with him inside.

Elizabeth runs out with the cordless phone. The caller is a ranger from Fair Mantle Village. The chapel’s steeple has finally toppled. So has the chimney for the old blast iron furnace. Bricks are all over the place. The wooden cupola at the top of the chimney is stuck in the mire at the bank of the lake.

To Bruton, the finances needed to restore the historic structures will equal the budget of a small developing nation.

“Bastards,” he seethes to Elizabeth. “The state will blame the mess on that goddammed volcano and leave us to replace everything ourselves. You watch. You’ll see.”

He asks her to get his car keys and wallet from the dresser. Unshowered, unshaved and clad in his sleepwear, he drives off toward Fair Mantle Village, leaving Elizabeth to take pictures of their damage and to notify the insurance company.


Ten blocks away, Farrell and Effen were dressed and having breakfast when they heard the noise and The House began to tremble. Farrell at first thought it was a big truck rolling by on its way to a construction site. But when The House didn’t settle down, and the doors and windows kept rattling, she and Effen looked at each other, uncertain of what was happening and too stunned to think what to do. Once the commotion stopped, they ran outside to find the street adorned with scattered chimneys and shattered gargoyles from some of the Victorian houses. The hindquarters of a gargoyle from atop one of The House’s own turrets stuck out of the snow near the porch.

A quick inspection inside and out reveals The House is sound; the damage, decorative, not structural. It might be difficult, but the gargoyle can be replaced.

All the while he’s been looking around The House, Effen’s been trying to call Gustie on a cordless phone. When she doesn’t answer, Farrell proposes not wasting any more time, but going to the cottage themselves. They have no way of knowing if Tom is around. The last anyone knew, he was in Trenton, caught up in the politics of fighting the state about Mount Can’t.

The window in the back door reveals Gustie on her knees in the kitchen, using a ratty brush to coax plaster dust and glass into a paper lunch bag. Effen knocks on the door. “Gust? Are you all right?”

Her manner, as she places aside the bag and brush and opens the door, strikes Farrell as falsely serene.

Effen goes through the premises, looking for damage. “Is everything working? Are any windows out?”

“We’re fine,” Gustie insists as she follows him. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Where are the girls?”

“Touring the neighborhood, looking at other people’s damage.”

“Have you heard from Tom?”

“No. Why? Should I?”

“I thought he’d be in touch, considering what’s happened.”

“If he’s in Trenton, he won’t know, and he won’t care. Not unless something major’s happened up at the village or Mount Can’t. Have you come from the village?” The last is aimed at Farrell, who wonders if Gustie wonders why she’s with Effen, who intervenes. “Don’t you know where Tom is?”

“I can’t know if he doesn’t tell me.”

“He doesn’t tell you where he is?”

“He doesn’t have to tell me anything.” The statement has the brusque nonchalance of a schoolgirl hurt because she’s been rejected by the most popular people’s clique. Farrell senses that Gustie is in a mood to argue with anybody for any reason.

Can she blame her? Her husband’s just walked into the house with a woman he has no reason to be with.

“Íf Tom doesn’t come back, call me,” Effen says.

Gustie goes, “Mmm-hmmm,” and gets back on her knees to finish cleaning the kitchen floor.

Pain flickers across Effen’s face. He kneels beside her and tries to take the brush.
She grips the brush to her bosom. “Just go.”

“Call me."

Gustie continues to kneel, gripping the brush, long after Effen softly closes the door behind him.



At Fair Mantle State Park, the rangers think they’ve seen everything while dealing with the public. Then along comes Bruton in striped pajamas and a parka, tramping around the grounds like a misplaced Santa elf.

The damage is worse than Brut imagined. According to Trenton, repairs might not be funded and begun until well into the next century, which is five years away.

“What is wrong with your people?” he growls at Tom, who reminds him that the people Bruton designates as his no longer have authority over him.

“Geez, Brut, you’re really looking to pick a fight with someone, aren’t you.”

“Consider I have a passion for alleviating stupidity. Look at this.” He kicks a path through the bricks. “They’ll have to close the village if they can’t repair it. We can’t carry on through ruins. Our job is to interpret the village as it was during the Revolutionary War. It wasn’t in ruins back then. Besides, all this crap lying around isn’t safe.”

“Well, I’m certain the state won’t be in a rush to keep the place open. They’ll transfer the funds to the park. Maybe they’ll hire more rangers. Maybe they’ll give raises to top executives.”

“No matter what they do with the money, they run the park at the expense of the village.”

“Yes.”

“My sense of justice doesn’t appreciate that.”

“The powers that be are not acquainted with your sense of justice.”

“Then God have mercy on their ignorance.”

Tom laughs, but Bruton, dour, points toward the lake. “Do you see that?”

The only remaining part of the blast furnace chimney, the hulk of a cupola, sits half-sunk in the frozen silt.

“I’m reminded of that Shelley poem about the ruins in the desert, and the pedestal with the inscription that says: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ If I remember correctly, the poem continues with these lines: ‘Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.’”

“Meaning?”

“The mighty always fall, Tom. How fast depends on how far you’re willing to go to bring them down.”

“I don’t know what you’ve got in mind, but I’m satisfied with the effort so far.”

“You haven’t heard my proposal.”

“Brut, you’re a man in pajamas in the snow. Wake up and smell the landfill. Then go home to Elizabeth, sit by the fire and enjoy the small things in life for a change. Fighting for a cause is a bitch.”

“Then you think the same about living, Tom, because we fight for causes from the moment we enter this world. When we’re small, we fight to make Mommy feed us. When we’re in school, we fight to get the best grades and make the best friends and get into the best schools. Then we fight to land and keep the best jobs. Fighting for a cause is a natural bodily function. The real bitch is dying for a cause.”

“I wouldn’t want to find out.”

“You might not have a choice.”

“Jesus, Brut, for the life of me, I can’t figure out which you like more, the sound of your voice or of your mind. What the hell are you trying to tell me? I hope you’re not threatening me, because that bit about choice was as innocuous as a squid sucking the guts out of something.”

“Easy, Tom. You’ve always acted within reason, within the limits of the law, to put things right. Your compromise with the state proves your strategy works. But now there’s too much damage and destruction for compromise. Your strategy is stagnant. The people need action, not niceties. And the authorities need to get the message.”

“What else can I do, short of compromising the compromise?”

Bruton blew on his hands and stamped his feet. “It’s too cold to stand out here and plot the fate of the neighborhood. Meet me at the house around noon.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer to meet at your practice? No offense, but Elizabeth’s a talker.”

“I’m not talking about my home. I’m talking about The House, Francis Hume’s place.”

“Why? Do you need to use his phone?”

“Just meet me at The House around noon.”

Tom leaves Bruton at the lake, alone with the remnants of his colossal wreck.