Chapter 9

There’s no problem at Fair Mantle Village. The number on Tom’s pager means it’s time to go to the office and ferret out a piece of confidential electronic mail from Trenton.

As expected, the state is sending a task force to investigate the volcano. The group should arrive by dawn. Tom is directed to close off trails beyond the village before the park opens at eight in the morning. State troopers and National Guard are on alert incase the rangers have trouble with the public. There is no mention of restricting air space.

Tom is reminded he can’t call in reinforcements. “No overtime. We have to save money for evacuations down the road.”

Tom snorts at the phrase “down the road.” By all indications, that’s precisely where the volcano is.

There’s no time to lose. The pickups are loaded with chains and poles and all the other tools for making official barricades. Maps emerge. The drivers have different destinations deep within the park. Tom wonders if any of the light-plane pilots flying overhead will notice the headlights. Probably not. The forest is always patrolled at night. That’s what the rangers are there for.

Tom returns by daybreak. The parking lot is crowded with four-by-fours, camping gear and enough pieces of unpronounceable technology for conquering the Himalayas. The troupe of nearly two dozen scientists and technicians is girded with plump, fur-trimmed parkas, face protectors and thick, face-wide sunglasses. Nobody notices that the thermometer on the office door registers an unseasonably warm forty degrees Fahrenheit.

Johnson and Birdsall, the first rangers out and the first to return, have taken refuge at the coffee machine in Tom’s office.

Birdsall, a freckle-faced youngster, shoves his thumb in the direction of the window. “Look at them. They’ve even got portable potties. What do they think this is, fucking Nepal?”

Tom sucks air. Come on, guys, be serious for five minutes. Or at least until the National Geographic people move out.”

Birdsall straightens his features. “Yeah. What I’d like to know is why’d they take all their gear out of the trucks? I mean, do they think they have to go mountain climbing? Didn’t anybody tell them they can drive to the site?”

“They don’t want to drive.”

“Where are they going to leave the trucks?”

“They’ll be driven back to Trenton.”

“Who by?”

“State troopers.”

“They’ve got troopers with them?”

“Yeah, disguised as civilians. That’s one reason why I want you to watch your mouths. Auntie Governor will hear.”

In walks the supervisor from the state forestry department. He’s a tall, thin young man with stringy red hair, wide-set eyes and a piercing, nasal voice. He too is packed in a parka. Johnson and Birdsall verbally bow out.

Bob, the supervisor, helps himself to coffee and the doughnut Birdsall left behind. “Tomaso, we’re restricting air space,” he announces while biting the doughnut.

Tom would like to say, “That’s asinine,” but since Tom doesn’t want to end up on the unemployment line, he plays along. “How?”

“Choppers. State police.”

“There’s a county airfield three miles north of here. People are going to wonder what the hell’s going on.”

“No problem. We’re issuing a statement saying we’re surveying.”

“Surveying the land with state police helicopters?”

“No, with Department of Environmental Protection helicopters. Troopers are piloting, but nobody has to know that.”

The answers are too clean. “You’re sure this will work,” Tom says, trying to assure himself.

“Trust me. We’re airtight. You have nothing to worry about. We’ll keep the public and the press off your tail, and you’ll keep your guys fed and warm and happy.”

“Who’s going to keep the National Geographic people happy?”

“The National Geo…” Terror flicks across Bob’s face before he realizes Tom means the scientists. “Shit, Von Aldo, you had me. I thought you meant people for the magazine! No, don’t worry about the longhairs. They’re ours. Just keep extra bathroom tissue on hand. We don’t want these people roaming through town foraging for necessaries.”

“How long will they be here?”

“For as long as it takes. Other than that, Tom, you know how many there are, where they are and what they’re doing. That’s all you need to know and all you need to do.”

“Beauty is truth; truth, beauty. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,” Tom thinks as he sees his boss to the door.

The expedition moves out, squeezing along the path toward the Fair Mantle Village parking lot. A fork in the path will bring them to trails behind the village.
As he does every morning, Von Aldo talks around the village. The engineers have erected scaffolding around two of the most vulnerable pieces of architecture, the blast furnace chimney and the chapel. Both sites are roped off by orange renovations tape. Tom lets himself into the chapel. The door to the bell tower is open. Tom sees something that wasn’t apparent yesterday: Half the staircase is gone.

As park superintendent, Tom is supposed to know everything that’s happening with the buildings. But nobody has told him anything about the chapel stairs. He wants to find his supervisor and ask what the hell is going on, but after a few stomping runs, he remembers the other person who is supposed to know about physical renovations, too: Bruton. If Tom wasn’t told about the steps, chances are that Bruton wasn’t told, either. Safety in numbers, Tom thinks. He and Bruton can assail the supervisor together.

Tom would rather not call Bruton from the office. It’s none of Johnson and Birdsall’s business. He dashes through the beechwoods until he reaches the little low farmhouse and its barn. Lights are on inboth buildings.

Effen Hume is feeding his horselets. He doesn’t toss the hay over the doors of the boxstalls. He goes into each box, places generous clumps of fresh hay in the manger, and greets and pets each recipient. Clearly, this is an activity relished by man and creature alike. Effen is relaxed and happy; the horselets nuzzle him, chuckling. The scene saps Von Aldo of anger. He walks into the barn grinning.

Effen brightly holds out a bunch of hay. “Want some breakfast?”

“No, I want to be wormed.” Von Aldo laughs but is quick to settle into business. “Actually, I’ve got to get a hold of Bruton before he goes to his office. Mind if I use your phone?”

“Lost the key to your office again?”

“Worse. I left it in the office, and Johnson won’t drive in for another half hour.”

Effen nods to the phone on the wall. Tom pages Bruton by punching in Effen’s number at the sound of the beep. So long as he has to wait for the return call, he does Effen the courtesy of telling him about the chapel stairs.

Effen continues to serve the horselets’ breakfast. “I thought the state took care of the grounds and buildings, while the non-profit museum group was in charge of the historic collections and the educational programs.”

“This is true. However, the staircase is caught between the two. It’s the artwork,” Tom clarifies in response to Effen’s questioning glance. “The balustrade is a rather elaborate carving done by a village artisan, and the wall is hung with period needlework depicting verses from Psalms.”

“And you're telling me you don’t know where the stairs are.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s weird.”

“Which is why I’m calling Brut. Somebody probably just messed up and put everything under his care. It’s happened before.”

“You may have to wait a while. He has rounds at six-thirty.”

Tom swears. He’s never been able to grasp that Bruton, an internist with a busy family practice, keeps tabs on his patients in the local hospital every morning. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m a forester and not a brain surgeon.”

“Don’t feel bad. Look what I do for a living. I get Brut’s mistakes.”

“You’re warped.” Tom tosses a handful of hay at his friend and goes into the yard. The air is brighter, and still. The beechwoods reach for the sky. Their branches glint silver in the light, looking more like high-reliefs on a Cellini chalice than parts of mere trees.

How lovely, Tom thinks. How lucky Effen is to live here. How tragic to think he’s going to lose it.

Tom sniffs the air. No, there’s no hint of sulfur.

He listens. He ears nothing but the horselets making their customary noises in the barn.

Effen emerges from the barn whistling “Petite Camusette,” a perky tune from fifteenth-century France. Tom asks him how long he’s lived at the farm.

“Since people chiseled on stone tablets.”

“Seriously, Francis.”

“Oof, this is serious. You’re using my Christian name!” Effen tugs off his gloves, thinking so seriously that he squints. “I don’t know, Ten, twelve years? Why? Does the state want me out?”

“You know how it is. You never know what Trenton’s going to decide.”

“Tell me straight, Tom. Does Trenton want me out of here?”

“It might come to that.”

“Why?”

“You see what’s happening to the buildings. It’s condemnation or renovation. Either way, I don’t think they’ll let you stay.”

Effen looks pained. All the same, he jauntily sits atop the paddock fence and surveys his little farm. “A funny thing. I never meant to stay here. I’d already taken over the business from Uncle Ed, and I was just starting out with the horselets. I thought it was an ideal situation. I could try my hand at animal husbandry without going into debt. I didn’t know it was going to turn into home.

“It feels like the home I knew when I was a kid; the place where I grew up. Do you remember the place where you grew up, Tom? Was there a room that you liked best? Were there lots of grass and trees? Did you have a favorite place to watch the sky at dusk or early in the morning? And what did it smell like? Old and woodsy? Were you smothered by the scent of leaves ripening in spring or decaying in the fall? Did you know what it was to hear a radiator clank and seethe during a snowfall?

“No. I know you, Tom. Your home was a new house, set on a street full of other new houses. They all looked the same, they all sat on lots that had seeded dirt for lawns and spindly sticks for trees. Inside smelled like well wallboard. There were no radiators. Your heat was forced air. You heard not the comforting whistles and clanks of radiated steam heat, but the rumbles and roars of machinery regurgitating artificial wind through aluminum tunnels. I bet the noise woke you up at night. I bet you hated it because it was so loud.

“And you know what? I bet you hated your house, too. It wasn’t your home. It looked like all the other houses. It was cold and shallow. Common. It had no character. It didn’t have any of the specialness that gives people happy memories. It had no heart. It was just a box. A coffin for the living, wired for use.”

Tom did indeed grow up in a new house in a new development. How could Effen tell? But Tom Von Aldo is not the issue. He asks Effen, “Where did you live before coming here?”

“At The House.”

“In town?”

“Yes. At The House.”

“But where?”

Effen looks him square in the eye and speaks slowly and strongly, implying words beginning with capital letters. “The House?”

It takes a moment to sink in. Tom’s eyes bug. He gasps. “The funeral parlor?”

“There’s a flat on the top floor. Didn’t you know?”

“Hell, no. You ghoul you! Don’t tell me you decorated for Christmas.”

“Only a tree. I kept it away from the window so the neighbors wouldn’t see the lights at night.”

“Whoa.” Tom blows, puffing his cheeks like a bullfrog, then sharply shakes his head, purging his mind of bad jokes. “Can you go back?”

Effen’s hesitation is the punctuation that signals the end of the humor. “This farm is a business. As a farmer and as a businessman, I would expect mitigation.”

“You think the state should move you to another farm?”

“I understand landlord’s rights, but I have reason to believe the state would be in breach of contract with me if it decided I shouldn’t be here anymore. It would have to do something to help me. Of course, I could be wrong. I’m not a lawyer.”

“You understand I’m not exactly speaking for the state.”

“Even though you’re its representative at the park? Your position sounds state-like to me.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to scare you.”

“You don’t scare me. For this reason: Who pays you?”

“Trenton.”

“And who pays Trenton?”

“The taxpayers.”

“What am I?”

Von Aldo sees the trap. He surrenders with a grin. “Don’t push the issue. Your ability to practice your profession depends on a state license. Give the powers-that-be a hard time, and they’ll find reason to take your license away from you.”

Effen pats the top of Von Aldo’s head. “As I said, little boy, you don’t scare me. I’m still the taxpayer. I will pay you. And in doing so, I will feed you, and I will clothe you, and, by God, precisely because of that license granted me by the state, I will most certainly bury you.”

Fearing to look weak, Tom resists the urge to ask Effen if his words are a joke or a prophecy.