Chapter 22

More than four hundred people were arrested and charged with disorderly persons offenses. By midnight, word of the disturbance and the closing of the town reached major media in New York. Come dawn, Fair Mantle must contend with more than an unwelcome neighbor to the north. Print and broadcast journalists are camped around Borough Hall. Satellite trucks are everywhere as competitors jockey for interesting spots. Broadcast journalists interview officials, merchants, residents, children.

Meanwhile, the local papers tout screamers about the hearing, the riotous aftermath, and, of course, the volcano, which has no official name until an appellation circulates: Mount Can’t. Nobody knows where the name comes from, not even the journalists. But everyone agrees it was founded on an expert’s statement that a volcano can’t form where it’s forming.

Eventually the satellite trucks move out to Fair Mantle State Park. Any hope of catching Mount Can’t on film is quashed by the presence of the National Guard. So the news teams shoot the Guard (so to speak) and take closeups of the damage at Fair Mantle Village. Bruton, who didn’t get the chance to speak at the public meeting, grants on-site interviews with the coarse-throated, stuff-chest aplomb of a vindicated mob boss.

By mid-week, word of Mount Can’t has spread overseas. Volcanologists from Europe and Japan fly in to inspect the site bur are turned away by the Guard. Petitioning the state through their consulates in New York has no effect. The state has the right to keep people out of the area for safety reasons. An appeal to the federal government brings a similar response. The scientists will have to do what other mere mortals must do: sit and wait. The state’s experts will gladly share any information gleaned from the site.

It’s not long before a cable news network tries to fly over the park in a light plane. The plane is chased and forced down; the pilot and news crew, arrested for violating the no-fly zone. Fearing copy-cats, the governor reinforces trooper-piloted choppers with Air National Guard fighter jets.

Despite the publicity, despite offers of help from scientists around the world, Trenton insists on literally keeping the lid on Mount Can’t. Locked under that lid, the residents, like the contents of any tightly lidded, boiling pot, begin to bubble and brew in their own juices. The boil starts slowly, with slim strands of beads rising to the top. There are those who believe in the volcano and there are those who do not. Those who do, look to the sky and wait for the earth to shake. Feeling and seeing nothing, they assume a volcano in their yard can’t be such an awful thing after all. They take the mayor’s advice; decide against leaving town. They’ll wait and see what happens.

Those who don’t believe in the volcano try to get on with their lives.

Both sides, believer and non-believer, share common ground: Mount Can’t. Either they want to see it to believe it, or they want not to see it to believe it doesn’t exist. Either way, the only way they’ll be satisfied is by going into the park and seeing the site for themselves.

One person alone can rally the believers and non-believers into a viable force: Tom Von Aldo.

Tom’s creed is “Safety in numbers.” The more people involved in a cause, the greater the chance for success. He’s been marshaling the sides into an impregnable unit ever since his performance at the meeting. As soon as he escaped to Effen’s house, he was on the phone calling sympathetic ranges and friends. The next day he located protesters who had been arrested at Borough Hall. Word of his search got around. Before he knew it, people were calling himat the home he shares with Gustie, or just appearing at the door.

Now, a week after the meeting, there are so many strangers coming and going that Gustie is afraid to leave the house. Tom urges her not to hang around. If the powers that be find out what he’s doing, they’ll raid the premises. Gustie will be arrested as an accomplice.

Gustie goes to work, but her mind stays home. While writing up the obituaries, she turns sons into daughters and survivors into the deceased. Effent doesn’t want to embarrass her. He tactfully corrects her by making light of the errors, and he discreetly intercepts her notices before they’re faxed to the papers.

Well before dawn on Sunday, Effen wakes to the whispered sound of his Christian name. The room is dark. Having absolutely no reason in the world to suspect he’s not alone, he considers the sound was the product of the half-dream state that precedes full consciousness. He bunches the pillows and nestles his head in the soft flannel.
This time his name has a question mark after it. Something solid nudges his shoulder.
The voice belongs to a woman. Any sense of recognition is dwarfed in the knowledge that someone has sneaked into his home. Heart racing, he lets out a cry and throws himself on the lamp. In the dark, he miscalculates the distance. The lamp topples. The person beside him catches it and turns it on.

“I was trying not to scare you,” says Gustie, standing the lamp on the table.
Effen peers at his watch, Four o’clock. Lovely. He can hardly think. “What’s the matter?”

Tom appears beside Gustie. “Sorry, France, I couldn’t take the chance of calling. I was wondering if you’d look after everyone this morning At least this morning,” he adds quickly. “The girls shouldn’t be at the house.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you. Not that I don’t trust you. I don’t want to place you in a position where you’ll have to perjure yourself down the road.”

Tom goes, but not before instructing the girls to “be good.”

Effen asks Gustie how she got in. She holds up the key she gave him for the business. “We were going to wait downstairs, but I wondered if a little knock on the parlor door would wake you up. I tried the latch. It wasn’t locked. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Effen doesn’t know what to say. He’s not thrilled with the prep-dawn invasion, but he shouldn’t be mad at Gustie. Clearly, Tom’s got something up his sleeve. It’s decent of him not to implicate Gustie and the girls, but did he have to wait until the dead of night to give birth to the project?

Effen asks Gustie to give him a few minutes to make himself human.

“No, that’s all right. The girls had a rude awakening, too. I’ll make sure they’re nice and quiet.” She turns out the light.

Effen re-snuggles the pillows. “Have breakfast?” he asks through the flannel.

“We brought doughnuts. Tom stopped at one of those all-nighters near the police station.”

“Well, help yourself to whatever’s in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks. We brought milk and coffee, too.”

There’s silence, but Effen hasn't heard Gustie leave. “Something else I should know?”

He hears the swallow. “It’s just that every time something’s wrong …” he imagines her gesturing to the darkness, frustrated by her inability to express herself. “I guess what I want to say is, thanks for helping, France. You’re a real prince.”

He almost says, “So was Lucifer,” but it seems awfully negative. He wants to pretend he didn’t hear. That won’t do, either. She’ll think he doesn’t want to talk to her. “F’rget it, Gust. See you later.”

“Yeah,” she whispers, and closes the door on the way out.