Chapter 21

Tom is on his own. None of the experts Farrell contacted are there. Either they couldn’t fit the meeting into their schedule, or they were dissuaded by reports of the poorly plowed roads.

“As I was saying, you bet your backsides there are people here who don’t buy your story about a volcano growing in the woods. I’ll tell you something: That’s just what it is, a story. A tall tale. A lie. You know how I know? I was up there. I didn’t see a goddamm thing, except some little holes in the ground and a lot of National Guardsmen put there to keep people out of the area.”

One of the state officials leans across the table, slides the microphone out of the mayor’s hands before the mayor can speak. “Mr. Von Aldo—“ He’s too close to the mic. Consonants explode with breathy booms. An ear-piercing whine fills the hall. “Too close!” somebody yells from the bleachers.

The official lowers the mic. “Mr. Von Aldo, that unit is there to prevent curiosity seekers from falling into harm. That’s what this hearing is all about. We need to instruct the public for their own safety.”

“All you’re doing is scaring them. Needlessly. It’s no different than mentally and emotionally abusing them.”

“And why would we want to do that?”

Tom turns to the audience. “How many here are homeowners? Raise your hand.”

Nearly every arm in the room shoots up.

“How many of you have had damage from the Concordes flying over?”

Now more than arms are raised. People are on their feet, shouting about structural damage and insurance estimates.

Tom lets them settle down. “I’ll tell you something. Most of you know me. I’ve been the superintendent of Fair Mantle State Park for the past five years. Out at Fair Mantle Village, we’ve had damage estimated close to three million dollars. And you know what? These folks sitting on the stage tonight – the same people who want you to believe they care about you – haven’t done a thing to repair those buildings. Nor have they offered to pay or help pay for repairs. You know why? Anybody want to guess?”

Answers fly. Most prominent: “There’s no money in the budget.”

“Nope! The money’s there. I’ve seen it. The chairman of the board has seen it. The parks director has seen it. The money is there because the state can’t park with it. There’s no reason to part with it. The Concordes aren’t causing the trouble. The volcano is.

“Now, in the midst of all that scientific junk they were feeding you earlier, did you take a moment to stop and really understand what they’re talking about: a volcano growing in New Jersey? New Jersey, the industrial wasteland of the East Coast?”

Tom pauses. Heads turn as neighbor consults neighbor. The drone of low voices is punctuated by an occasional louder voice.

“Yeah, sounds bizarre, doesn’t it?” Tom continued. “Does it scare you? Does it make you want to pack up everything and run off right this minute?”

“Hell, yes!” a woman yells.

“And I’ll tell you something.” Tom looks first to the people nearest him on the left, sweeps past the center to the people on the right, then finally looks to the center. “I’ll tell you something. That is exactly what the men sitting up on that stage want you to believe. They want you to be scared. They want you to forget all about the business with the Concordes.

“You know why? They’re not going to admit the state gave the Concordes permission to fly over. They’re not going to admit the state is liable for damages. Say it’s liable, and the state will be hauled into court in God knows how big a class action suit.

“But say there’s a volcano growing in your yard, it’s the volcano doing the damage? The state doesn’t have to worry about damages. Because, you see, in the long run, the volcano will be a natural disaster. And where does most of the money for natural disasters come from? The federal government. Am I right?”

Tom doesn’t need to ask. The audience explodes, stomping on the floor, stomping on the bleachers, beating their fists in the air and shouting accusations at the officials, who flee the stage behind a line of police and state troopers. Some of the more inflamed members of the audience grapple with police in an attempt to go after the officials. Women scream. Young people charge out of the hall and run in all directions.

Farrell swears she hears glass breaking. What’s being thrown, rocks? Bottles? Cans of soda easily purchased from vending machines in the firehouse?

On the street, police summoned from neighboring towns file out of vans, geared with helmets, clubs and riot control shields. A phalanx six abreast and three deep advances toward Borough Hall, visors lowered, shields raised, chanting in unison: “Get off the street, there’s nothing to see.”

“Freedom of assembly is a constitutional right!” somebody hollers. An officer twirls him by the arm to the officer directly behind. The citizen is thrown against the side of the van, searched, braceleted with plastic handcuffs and put in the van

“Go home, there’s nothing to see,” a single, local officer tells witnesses.

People are being dragged out of Borough Hall by any part of the body the police can grip. Nearly all are passed to other officers who search them, ‘cuff them and put them in the van. More vans have pulled up. Distant sirens grow louder. Word is that that police won’t let anyone in or out of town.

Farrell and Effen skirt the emergency vehicles on Maon Street and watch the fray from the recessed doorway of a closed drugstore.

“’Why fum’th in fight,” Farrell mutters.

Effen begs her pardon.

“The anthem Thomas Tallis wrote for Archbishop Parker’s Psalter. The tune Ralph Vaughn Williams picked up for that wonderful Fantasia: ‘Why fum’th in fight the Gentiles spite, in fury raging stout? Why tak’th in hand the people fond, vain things to bring about?’ What vain things are being brought here, F.N.?”

A local officer emerges with a sapling of a girl in tow. Clearly, the girl is sobbing and terrified. Clearly, she is being brought toward a van.

Clearly, she is … Anne.

Effen races off the curb. A watchful patrolman nabs him by the collar. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Effen points, “They can’t arrest a child!”

“Says who?”

“I do.”

“Who are you?”

Farrell can see Effen’s mind spin. “Her father.”

“Really. What’s her name.”

“Anne MacKenzie. Hume.”

Gasp. His luck if the cop asks for proof.

“How old is she?”

“Only thirteen.”

“You have I.D.?”

Effen hands over his wallet. “Please, officer. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She didn’t have permission to be out.”

“Yeah, well, these days, you’d be surprised at what juveniles do. They think they can get away with anything ‘cause they can’t be tried and sentenced like adults.”

The patrolman relates the matter to a curious lieutenant, who in turn has a sergeant cull Anne from the detainees and release her to her parent. She throws her arms around Effen, sobbing with body-shaking, throat-wracking gulps that make Farrell fear she's going to hurt herself.

The lieutenant instructs them to go home and stay inside.

Along the way, Anne admits she sneaked out of the house while her mom was in the shower. She didn’t see anything wrong about going to the hearing. “Tom knew I wanted to go. He thought I’d be all right. All I had to do was stay close to him. I didn’t know people wer going to go crazy or anything.”

“Do you know where Tom went?” Effen asks.

Anne shakes her head.

Farrell says they’ll probably find out on the late news. Details will be thrashed out in tomorrow’s newspapers.

When they reach Anne’s home, Mary is bawling on the couch. Though tears stain Gustie’s face, distress doesn’t stop her from angrily promising Anne she’ll be grounded until the middle of the next century. “What were you trying to do to me? I’m on the phone with the police right now, trying to get them to help me find you.”

“But I told you I wanted to go with Tom,” Anne whines through her tears.

“And what did I tell you? I told you no, didn’t I?”

Anne runs to her room and slams the door. Wild Gustie pursues. “Young lady, I told you never to slam the door in this house!”

Effen takes the phone, which has been left to hang down the kitchen wall, and assures the officer on the other end that Anne is home and safe.

Farrell can hear the girl's sobs through the door. She remembers all the times she and her own mom tussled. A funny thing: she could never remember what the fights were about. The lump in her throat’s too hard to swallow. She rubs tears from her eyes, hoping Effen doesn’t see.

He’s trying to take the sting out of the situation by tickling Mary, but she’s not in the mood for laughing. He appears hurt. “Hey, I should be the luckiest man alive. Here I am, surrounded by women, but they’re all crying. What gives?”

“Sorry for all the turmoil.” Gustie’s voice sags. She doesn’t ask about the hearing. Nor do Farrell and Effen volunteer information. She’ll hear everything from Tom, whenever he returns.

Walking to Bruton’s house isn’t easy. Police in riot gear patrol the sidestreets, ordering everyone they see to go indoors. Effen and Farrell are repeatedly stopped, asked for identification, and warned to go home and stay home.

Along Main Street, police close restaurants on startled patrons and workers. The mayor has declared a state of emergency. The town is closing down. There’s a curfew until six the following morning.

Is the action understandable? There’s no sign of disturbance. Storefronts are undamaged. There are no rioters in the streets.

Farrell suggests Effen return to The House. She should have no trouble walking the rest of the way alone. “Besides, you’ve done your good deed for the night.”

Effen is puzzled.

“Rescuing Anne,” Farrell explains. “You know, F.N., I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous of her.”

“I’d have done the same for you.”

“You’d have told the police you’re my father? Yeah, sure. G’night, Dad.” He's too surprised as Farrell bestows what strikes him as a quick but embarrassed kiss on the cheek and hurries away. He's sorry she has no idea how deeply he'd prefer a more substantial parting.

Back at The House, he finds Tom Von Aldo in the kitchen, scribbling notes on a legal pad, a bottle of Coke at his elbow. “Man, I can’t thank you enough for giving me sanctuary, France.”

Effen scowls. “You left Anne.”

“No, I didn’t. She left the hearing.”

Effen tells otherwise.

Tom whistles low. “Geez, it’s a good thing you were there.”

Effen places his hand on the page to stop Tom from writing. His eyes burn with intent. “So help me God, Tom, if you ever again put that girl in danger, you’ll have to answer to me. And then God help you, because I can’t promise you’ll walk away in one piece.”

Tom has the tentative grin of a person who isn’t certain if someone is joking or serious.

Effen propagates the serious by advising him to go home to Gustie and the girls. Now. “Go back now, and you’ll have less explaining to do than if you wait until morning.”

Tom rips off the paper, folds it sloppily and rams it down his back pocket. “I didn’t know about Anne. I honestly didn’t know.”

Effen says nothing. Tom leaves.

For a long time Effen sits at the table, dwelling on the hearing, the disturbance, Annie being led to the detention van. He remembers Farrell invoking Tallis. “’Why tak’th in hand the people fond, vain things to bring about?’”

He couldn’t tell her while they were in the middle of things, but now he thinks he knows.

It is nothing more than the need of a small group of people to impose their will on others. It doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t matter if the reason is right or wrong. Call it vanity, call it ambition, call it an exercise in politics. “It” is being done, and the doers don’t care what havoc and harm they wreak on everybody else.