Chapter 4

Effen’s real home is a low fieldstone farmhouse, thought to have been built around 1750, that stands next to Fair Mantle Village on a half-acre of land owned by the state. In addition to the house, the property includes a one-story fieldstone stable and a small paddock and pasture. There is no garage. Effen parks the Cabriolet on the grass alongside the stable.

Seized by the urgency of the situation, Gustie fairly rips open her seatbelt. She means to lunge out the door, but Effen throws himself across her, firmly setting his hand upon the hand she’s set upon the door latch. “Hume’s first rule of animal relations!” he cries.

Gustie whines. “Don’t do this to me, Francis! We’ve got to—“

“Hume’s first rule of animal relations. Tell me!”

“I don’t remember!”

“Think!”

“I can’t!”

“Then stay here.”

Effen starts to open his door. Gustie shouts, “No, wait! It’s ‘don’t panic.’ Right?”
“Close. It’s ‘Don’t spook the horselets.’ That means no running no shouting, and most of all, no panic.”

“Okay! I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

Nodding, Gustie takes a deep breath.

Assured she’ll conduct herself properly, Effen says, “Great. Let’s go.”

They’re greeted by a chorus of high-pitched whinnies before Effen has completely opened the thick wooden door and turned on the lights.

Gustie blinks in the brightness, tripping over a deep depression in the centuries-old, hard-packed dirt floor. Her eyes skirt the walls of the wooden box stalls. To see a hose, she has to look down into the boxes. Way down.

Effen grows miniature horses, which he calls horselets. Most are offshoots of the Shetland line and stand as tall as a collie. They have long, shaggy manes and tails; delicate, thin legs; large eyes, and pretty, intelligent faces.

The rest are chunky affairs with big, knobby heads, bulky bodies, dish faces, bulging eyes, and thick, stumpy legs. These Effen jokingly but fondly refers to as the mistakes.
Effen has made sure that all of his horselets, Shetland and mistake, are friendly and highly socialized. But while the Shetland derivatives are lively and outgoing, their less attractive stable mates can be mellow to the point of stupidity.

Experience has taught Effen that the best evidence of sonic disturbances can be found in the amount of “horsey residue” in the boxes. The number of shovel-loads equals the intensity of the boom. To Effen’s relief, a swift but intense inspection of the premises produces no sign of trouble.

Nor is there any hint of disturbance at the house. Prince Myshkin, the bug-eyed, chestnut-colored “mistake” Effen has housebroken, stiffly unfolds from his oversized dog bed near the pantry, stretches, and trots over to the door, chuckling what in horsey language must be paragraphs. His hoofs make an ear-pounding racket on the hardwood floor. He snuffles and sniffs Effen with the excitement of a dog. Gustie swears his tail is wagging. Effen announces the house is spotless. A call to The House in town reveals all is well there, too. There’s nothing more Effen and Gustie can do except wait for Tom.

They settle in the kitchen, a dark, open room that runs the length of the house. Together they push the heavy, plain wooden table against the wall so it will be near an electrical outlet. Effen then retrieves a microwave oven and compact disc player from the pantry, plugs both into the outlet, and entertains his guest with music and tea.

The exercise underscores a basic fact of Effen’s existence: His home is a politely rough compromise between modernity and history. Not counting the bath, there are only two rooms: the kitchen, which has plumbing in the form of a chipped, white porcelain sink, and another, large room divided by historically accurate wooden screens into a parlor and bedroom. The ceiling throughout is low and beamed with ancient knotty timbers. The hardwood floors are scratched and warped. Electrical outlets are set low in the walls.

The method of heating is optional. While the kitchen has a large, fieldstone hearth, and the other room has a corner fireplace made of brick, small radiators betray the existence of steam heat. Furnace and hot water heater lurk in the tiny cellar beneath the kitchen.

The house is state property, decorated according to what state historians say is appropriate for its period. The rough plaster walls are a soft, cream color, while thick, wooden moldings are covered in Wedgwood blue. Most of the furnishings are reproductions of simple, Early American styles. Lighting fixtures are restricted to wall sconces and authentic-looking table lamps shaded with painted green or black tin. The rectangular box in the parlor has nothing to do with the history of Effen’s profession. It’s a double-manual harpsichord that he built while studying at Fordham University.

Though Effen wants for nothing, there’s one thing he lacks: television. The area isn’t wired for cable. The state frowns on the idea of an antenna, and Effen refuses to suffer through the dismal inadequacy of rabbit ears. For local news and weather, he relies upon a local radio station or Von Aldo’s office. For news of national and international interest, there are always the newspapers.

Effen turns on the radio now, hoping to hear a report about the latest Concorde-induced jolt. There is nothing. Gustie wonders if they shouldn’t call the police on Effen’s cordless telephone. She just as quickly talks herself out of the notion by considering the dispatcher will either tell her nothing or put her on hold because she isn’t reporting an emergency.

Bruton’s wife, Elizabeth, appears with Gustie’s daughters, who have changed into real-world clothing. Tom has given them all a message for Gustie: He won’t be home for a while. He and Bruton and the rangers are waiting for state inspectors. They could be there all night.

Gustie agrees to let Elizabeth drive her and the girls home. Alone at last, Effen changes into jeans and an old black fisherman’s sweater, then goes to the barn for another look at the horselets before turning in for the night.

His presence makes the little creatures wicker and shuffle through their foot-high beds of fresh, fragrant straw. As always, Effen talks to them and pets them and looks them over to make sure everyone is all right. But he isn’t saying much. His thoughts are on Farrell Schmidt.

Farrell Schmidt is the tragedy of his life. She doesn’t live life; she suffers it with an intensity that turns the ordinary into a secular auto-da-fe. He once tried to make her laugh every chance he could, but it was no use. She was beyond influence. Bit by bit, the less happy events of her life infiltrated her spirit and consumed it until all that remained was a woman who believed her life was over, though she was only three years younger than Effen.

He wonders if he should call her. But why? What would he say to her? They weren’t friends, just acquaintances, brought into each other’s company by Fair Mantle Village business. Why call her and make her think he could be interested?

Then again, why hold back from calling and let her believe no one is interested?
“But that’s the truth,” he says to the nearest horselet. “No one really is interested. We have no reason to associate with her. Not to laugh, not to gossip, not to exchange meaningful information. Not even just to see how she’s doing. Hell, nobody wants to do that.”

The last thought shames him as quickly as it makes him laugh. He doesn’t know why he makes fun of her. He’s acting like a child that says how awful it is that somebody died, yet can’t help laughing.

Yes, Farrell Schmidt is indeed the tragedy of his life, if only because she makes him see a part of himself that he doesn’t understand and doesn’t like.

When Bruton and Von Aldo find him, he’s kneeling in a box stall, petting a horselet. The visitors are still in their historic garb. Bruton has forsaken his powdered wig for his own monk-like thatch of wiry, short gray hair. Tom has untied his ponytail. He keeps shoving his hair behind his ears to keep it off his face.

Effen invites them in for tea. Bruton says, “I want something cold to drink.”
Tom crossly reminds him that the state doesn’t let Effen have a refrigerator in the house. “It’s too strong for the circuits.”

“What the hell does he do for ice cubes?”

“He takes the historically accurate route: he does without.”

Bruton glowers until Effen reminds him that the refrigerator is in the little room to the left of the barn door; then he lumbers in search of his own refreshment.

Effen leads Tom to the house. The ranger throws himself into the chair at the head of the kitchen table and pours himself a cup of tea which is, by now, strong and cold. Disgust warps his tired, young face.

“He didn’t want to go home,” Tom says of Bruton. “Do you believe it? He expected all those poor volunteers to stay until the engineers arrive. What an asshole. What a great, big, bleeding asshole.”

Effen chuckles. “That’s quite a metaphor.”

Von Aldo deflates with a tired laugh and admits the figure of speech is a new high in low taste.

Effen tosses the old tea down the sink and heats more water in the microwave. “Any idea when the engineers will arrive?”

“My guess is daylight, but Brut things they’ll sit on us for a few days, chewing their mental cud over how they’ll handle this. I admit, it doesn’t look good for the state. The state is responsible for the damage, France. It agreed to the federal government’s proposal to let the Concordes change their flight patterns, so it’s going to have to fix whatever’s broken. It’s going to be expensive. Damned expensive.”

“You don’t know that,” Effen says.

Tom leans forward, folds his hands on the table. “I’ve seen it. Brut’s seen it. Hell, all the rangers and most of the volunteers have seen it. It’s bad. Real bad. Probably a million dollars bad. And it’s not just from tonight. It’s from the last few weeks. You don’t believe me? I’ll show you. Tomorrow, soon as the engineers leave, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“Tom, I wish I could share your sense of impending doom, but I regret to say I don’t understand. Gustie and I didn’t see or hear a thing on the way to the village.”
Tom shakes his head. For an instant, Effen suspects he’s going to cry.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Tom says. “Will you at least let me lose consciousness for a while, somewhere? Guys are lying and belching around the park office, and Bruton locked up the visitors center. I promise to go for doughnuts in the morning.”

“Dressed like that.”

“Sure. The kids at the bakery know me.”

“I’d like to see that,” Effen says, then directs Tom to the settee.

Bruton appears with his ice. He too claims the need to crash out.

Effen asks him about the park office.

“Oh, God help us, Francis! A dozen men crammed into a stuffy little room, making every kind of bodily noise you can think of? It’s an undiscovered circle of Hell. The real horror is they know what they’re doing and they don’t care. You know what I mean?”
“I do indeed,” says Effen, who sees his parlor fast becoming a stuffy little room with men making physical music.

When Tom asked about sleeping in the parlor, Effen thought it would be selfish to sleep in a proper bed, and he was determined to sleep in a chair. But the addition of Bruton, and Bruton’s vivid rendering of the situation at the park office inspire him to forego any sense of magnanimity. He retreats to his alleged room on the other side of the screens and plops into the narrow, mahogany sleigh bed dressed as he is.

He doesn’t wake up; he bolts up. His heart pounds. He shivers in a cold sweat. He hears distant whinnies and the unmistakable beat of hoofs upon wood. Nearby, Prince Myshkin gallops around the kitchen.

The curtains glow with the strangely muddy, milk-white light of incipient dawn. Tom and Bruton are gone.

Trembling, Effen runs outside. Color is just beginning to bleed through the dusk. Someone is running through the trees, calling his name. Tom breaks through the skeletal foliage, falling into him. Effen staggers beneath the impact.

“You’ve got to see this.” The words burst out of Tom on gasps for breath that originate deep below his waistband. “You’ve got to see this … You won’t believe it … unless you see it.”

They go to the garret in the visitors center. The historic clothing hangs on portable aluminum retail racks, hiding the garret’s tiny fan window on the northeast side. Rather than move the racks, Tom spreads aside the clothing the way you open a set of drapes and steps through. He waves to Effen through the clothes. “Here.”

Effen takes Tom’s place at the window. The sawn sky is a collage of dark, gray-pink and blue smudges set against a bright yellow and crimson field. One of the blue smudges rises out of the trees and into the heavens like a crooked twig that has no beginning and no end.

“The engineers saw it from the steeple,” Tom explains.

Effen doesn’t understand. “Saw what?”

“That. The column.” He nods toward the twig-like form.

Effen looks again. “Smoke?” Tom says nothing. The silence leads Effen to believe what he at that moment thinks is one of the worst things in the world. His stomach flips. “Oh God, don’t tell me a Concorde is down.”

“Too high; it extends too high.”

“What is it, then, a forest fire?”

Tom gives Effen a sunny look. “Didn’t you feel it?”

“Something woke me up. I thought it was the horselets. They’re carrying on the way they usually carry on before a Concorde flies over.”

Tom vigorously shakes his head. “It was this. It looks like something blew.”

“What’s out there to blow up? It’s just hills and forest. Does the army have an arsenal out there, something we don’t know about?”

“Oh, it’s something we don’t know about, all right. Spotters should be flying over any minute now.”

“Any chance of it coming this way?”

Tom hesitates. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here.”

“It’s the horses I’m worried about.”

“We’ll take care of them. I promise.”

Effen follows Tom into Fair Mantle Village.

Still in Revolutionary garb, needing a shave, Bruton and the rangers stand in front of the chapel with several civilians in light windbreakers and hard hats. All are looking up at the sky. Daylight is brighter now. The column seems to fade.

“Brother, I can’t wait to hear what the spotter says,’ Tom breathes.

Effen too turns to the sky. He wonders if he isn’t out of his mind, for no matter how hard he tries, he cannot perceive the twig-like column to be anything other than a beautiful but ordinary cloud.