Chapter 13

Francis Hume isn’t the only person forced out of the park by natural events. The approaching storm has routed the troupe of scientists. Tom suspects their data is already being analyzed. His boss has left confidential email: The state is preparing a report to be released at a public hearing later in the week. It ends with the words: “Stand by for your cooperation.”

Tom looks at the sky and remembers the view from The House.He tells Johnson and Birdsall to hold the fort; he’s going to inspect the buildings. He goes back to town. Farrell is having cold pizza and Coke in Bruton’s kitchen. She’s alone. Elizabeth is at a meeting of one of her many charitable groups.

Tom hopes Elizabeth gets home before the storm, but he mightily prays she tays out a whole lot longer. He tosses his jacket over an empty chair, pulls out the chair across from Farrell and sits as one with all the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Farrell freezes, her teeth in the pizza. “Effen?”

“No. Thank God! He’s safe in the care of his alleged employees.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Von Aldo spreads his hands. “I don’t know, Farr. Maybe I’m losing it, but, so help me God, I cannot raise mine eyes to the hills and believe there’s a volcano out there. It seemed to me, from everything I learned and read, that it’s a continuous growth. Once that baby starts pushing through the earth, it just that, a baby pushing its way out of the mother. Nothing can stop it. Nature takes over.

“From what I can see, that’s not happening here. If it were, we’d be getting earthquakes by the dozens, probably every day. Steam would be shooting into the heavens; ash would be raining down on us; lava would flow and we’d be choking on sulfuric gases. But it’s simply not happening here.”

Farrell nibbles. “Well … I don’t deny that a volcano forming in the northwest corner of New Jersey is an event of profound distinction. But you have a point. The thing would be supremely unstoppable. Maybe the region’s geophysiology isn’t letting it through? No, what’s the matter with me? Geophysiology can’t stop volcanoes.”

Tom’s dry, bloodshot eyes fix upon Farrell’s glass of soda. Farrell apologizes for not asking him if he’d like something to eat.

He frowns. “Oh, right. I thought I was forgetting something.”

“You didn’t have breakfast?”

Farrell pulls out the coffee filters and runs down a menu ranging from toast to cereal and omelets. Tom accepts the coffee but refuses all else. He’s looking forward to eating with Gustie. He means to drive her home before the storm starts.
“What do you think, Farr? Do you think there really is a volcano out there?”

“Only if I can think of a reason why the state would want people to believe there is.”

Tom takes her hand between his, eyes fired by intense sincerity. “Forget reason. What do you feel deep down inside? You must suspect something. You wouldn’t leave the safety of a home seventy miles away to put yourself in danger. Nobody would.”

Is it the question, or the hands upon hers, that gives Farrell a shade of something which Tom has never noticed before? He has no way of knowing that she sees before her not the know-it-all park superintendent she’s interviewed in the past, but a young guy suffering through what must be the greatest trial of his life. He has no way of knowing that she, too, is sensing something different about herself. She’s never been married, and she’s never had kids, but all at once she’s the matron, the mom who can kiss the boo-boo and make the world seem right again. She has no idea why.

She squeezes his hands with her free hand. “Tell you what. We’ll do what I would do if I were still at the paper. We’ll call the experts and we’ll scour libraries for information about volcanoes. We both went to Rutgers, so we both have borrowing privileges from the Alexander Library, which should give us an authoritative selection. Once we get all the information together and we’re sure of what we’re doing, we’ll hit the press. Sound good?”

“How long will it take?”

“Getting in touch with experts? If I push it and say I’m doing research for a news story, maybe a week. The library? That depends on the weather. We might be able to call the reference desk for select articles. If we’re really lucky, they’ll fax the stuff to us.”

“There might not be time. The state plans to announce at a public hearing late this week.”

“Then I’ll have to push it. There’s just one thing. I couldn’t possibly make the calls from the village office. The state would catch on by the look of the phone bill. I need Brut’s permission to use his phone here. We’re talking long distance.”

“No, it’s all right. He knows. We talked about everything in the hospital yesterday. Brut stopped the elevator. We were in there so long, Security damn near sent mechanics to pry us out.”

Farrell imagines the two of them alone in the elevator: Brut chomping on the unlit pipe, saying his litany; Tom sweating rivers in his ranger’s jacket. People wait on the first floor, joking about the poor stuckees. She studies Tom’s face. “You’re not sure about this.”

“I’m taking on my employer. I could lose my job.”

“The state is the people, Tom. That land belongs to the people. You’re there to protect the land, and, by protecting the land, the people. If you’re in trouble, the best thing to do is get the people on your side.”

He nods. “You’re right. If the state’s lying, it’s not only violating the people, it’s violating the people who work for me, and it’s violating me. I don’t much appreciate that. You know, Effen gave me that but about the people when I tried to warn him what the state would do, except he called them the taxpayers. I thought he was being a smartass. I was wrong. I knew I was wrong the moment I saw that trailer in the yard. And you know what? I hated myself. I felt like something out of Nazi Germany or the old Soviet Union. It scares me to think that, had the incident happened three, four years ago, I’d have let the trooper arrest Effen. I’d have been that covetous of my job.”

“So what happened to you? Why change now?”

Tom fingers the tablecloth. He saw change in her. She sees change in him. Did she see her change in herself? He sees no change in his own self. “What happened? I don’t know. I guess I got tired of looking after only myself. Somewhere along the line, I guess I saw one too many guys lose their job. I guess I realized it doesn’t matter how hard you work if you’re working only for yourself. Money can’t give you love or friendship. Neither can work. Give yourself to work and money, and you tuck yourself away from the world, and the wonders of the world, and all the people you could know and who coud know you.”

“Sounds like you’ve been reading too much Tolstoy.”

“Yeah. I’ve read War and Peace once in my life. It’s taking all my life to read it.”
As he speaks, fat, white flakes float by the window. “God’s dandruff,” Farrell muses. Tom bites his curse between the vowels.

Unable to stay longer, he brings Gustie home from work and the girls home from school, and makes sure they have enough emergency lighting and food to sit out the blizzard for a week. He’d rather be with them during the storm, but he’s got to return to the park.

Frightened to tears for his safety, Gustie relents only after he assures her the park has generators, he’s in constant contact with state and local emergency officials, and the truck has the constitution of a tank.

He thinks the state scientists targeted a narrow glen between the hills three miles north of Fair Mantle Village. Though snow is falling, visibility is still good, and the storm has a long to go before it thwarts the four-by-four.

The park is controlled woodland: virgin forest cut through with paths wide enough for utility vehicles. Slowly, Tom drives along the winding road that will bring him nearest the site. The descent into the glen is rocky and criss-crossed with streams. If the four-by-four were his, he wouldn’t think twice about testing its mettle on the terrain. Since it belongs to the state, he’ll have to leave it in the picnic area off the main trail and go the rest of the way on foot. Little wonder the expedition was compelled to walk. Liability on state vehicles.

It’s slow, cautious going. Tom has filled the gas tank, and he’s dressed in government-issue winter wear, so, logistically, he’s fine. He’s concerned about his rangers. He doesn’t want them to worry about him or find the need to come out for him. He radios in with excuses: helping stranded motorists; riding around looking for people in trouble. He calls in frequently to assure everyone he’s all right ; things are going well.

When he reaches the picnic area, he realizes he would be able to see the glen from the first line of picnic tables beneath the fir trees if this were a clear day. Nursing vague hope, he pulls out his field glasses; but, no, it’s no use. He’s got to go down into the glen.

The picnic area has a rest room. This will be Tom’s center of operations, where he can warm up, rest, eat, and have an occasional nap. He opens the door, hauls in a ceramic heater, fluorescent lantern, and a small cache of dehydrated but otherwise read-to-eat meals familiar to hunters and survivalists. He has a radio cassette player, too. For this trek, he’s chosen the early nineteenth-century German opera Der Freischutz. The Wolf’s Glen scene, in which the devil makes magic bullets for Max, a marksman, will be the perfect accompaniment to his adventure.

With compass, hiking poles, and 35mm camera safely encased in plastic, Tom explores his own, real-life glen, kicking aside snow for signs of steam and fissures. He finds holes which he believes were made by scientific equipment.

Wary of hypothermia and frostbite, he keeps his visits brief, returning each time to the restroom. The activity makes him sweat. He resists the temptation to shed a layer and tells himself to slow down. The temperature drops as the wind kicks up. Visibility worsens. At times he’s caught in whiteouts. Conditions are Arctic.
He returns to the safety of the restroom, encased in a creaking crust of icy snow.
He is not alone. Two very wet, very big black boots loiter in one of the toilet stalls.

“Now who in all creation would be taking a hike in the woods on a day like today?” a man drawls.

Tom doesn’t recognize the voice. Fear twists his stomach. A poacher. A stupid one, too, not to wear winter camouflage. He decides to dull the man’s reaction by focusing on his well-being. “It’s bad out there. Are you lost? Are you hurt?”

“Hell, no, sir, I’m just trying to take a pee.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve got to wait this thing out.”

“You sure look like you’re ready for it, with all that gear set up.”

“This is a large preserve. We have to be ready for emergencies, especially in major storms.”

“You do? Sir? Are you a ranger?”

“I’m the park superintendent.”

Tom hears the visitor zip up his pants. The stall door swings open. Tom sees the automatic rifle, the forest-green parka, the black letters over the front left breast pocket. The face is yuounger than the voice.

“Would you be Mr. Tom Von Aldo?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Von Aldo, sir, I’m Stoner, Corporal, Army National Guard Military Police? As of this moment, sir, you are in my custody.”