Chapter 2

Bruton follows Von Aldo to the small, brick house that serves as the museum’s visitors center and up the cramped, winding staircase to the former bedroom that now enjoys life as the museum’s executive offices. A sign on the wall at the top of the stairs says room occupancy is not to exceed two people at any one time. Von Aldo bends to avoid hitting his head on the angled ceiling. He tosses his hat upon the cluttered desk, scrunches himself into the corner, and helps himself to coffee. His face is red; he sniffles.

The room is warm and smells of overdone coffee and old, wet wood. The ceiling resounds with bumps and bangs. Museum volunteers are rushing around the tiny garret, dressing to take visitors on one of the village’s many regularly scheduled lantern tours.

“How many tickets sold?” Bruton asks.

Von Aldo, who has filled a heavy, white ceramic mug to the brim, steps around a variety of muskets and black powder cartridges with care, then retrieves a ragged piece of paper from the desk. “Sold out, of course.”

“Amazing, what people will spend their money on.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Von Aldo settles on a clear edge of desk and proceeds to suck up the coffee with the noisy determination of a cappuccino machine.

Bruton winces. Fair Mantle Village is a living history museum that interprets an iron works that made weapons and utensils during the Revolutionary War. The director of museum interpretation assigned Von Aldo to interpret a molder, a carpenter who fashioned wooden molds for the ironworkers. Bruton thought it a piece of intuitive typecasting. The real-life molder Von Aldo interprets may have been a highly skilled laborer, but he was uneducated and uncouth. As a graduate of Rutgers, the state university, Von Aldo himself is educated, but there’s little room to doubt that he too, at least in Bruton’s mind, lacks certain delicate social abilities.

Though the room is warm, Bruton refuses to remove his hat and long black wool cape. His character, unlike Von Aldo’s, belongs to the upper sphere of village life. Visitors are supposed to divine this by merely looking at him.

Von Aldo’s clothes alone, without Von Aldo’s personal garnishings, bespeak a humble station in life. There are the harsh woolen coat, the stained, buff-colored knee breeches, the coarse woolen stockings and well-worn shoes. His rumpled cravat and plain, brown waistcoat could be menus for a local eatery. His stained handkerchief dangles out of a sleeve. Dandruff speckles his long, auburn ponytail.

Bruton, on the other hand, is the picture of prosperity. His light gray coat is cut in the latest French fashion that hit American nearly a year after it fell out of fashion in France. His stockings and cravat are of silk. His waistcoat is richly embroidered; there are silver buckles on his shoes, and he wears a powdered wig.

Bruton takes pride in his appearance. He sometimes secretly gloats that Von Aldo obviously claims no similar satisfaction. He picks lint off his sleeve, muttering, “They’re taking a damned long time.”

“Who?” asks Von Aldo. He’s migrated to the chair behind the desk and now idles through an issue of New Jersey in the Wild.

Bruton jerks his head toward the ceiling. “The interpreters. I told them to be here by five-thirty, dammit. The tours started twenty minutes ago. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, they know how long it takes to get dressed.”

“Take it easy. It’s Friday. Most of these people work until five, and some of them have to drive twenty-five miles to get here.”

“Don’t give me hearts and roses, Tom. These people aren’t interested in the village. They’re looking out for themselves. I know them. Hell, I know every single one of them! The ones that don’t work are using the village as a network to find work. The ones that do work want to be here just because it looks good on a resume, or because it sounds good when they schmooze at the country club. Bunch of goddammed social climbers.”

“Yeah, but if it weren’t for all the social climbers and all those other selfish people, there wouldn’t be a Fair Mantle Village.”

“Yes, there would. The state would be forced to make the entire village, every single building, part of its park system, not just the grounds.”

“Well, I’ve got news for you. From what I hear, the state likes the way the non-profit group is running the village. It’ll never absorb the museum, or the educational programs, or the costuming, or anything else you do to keep the place alive.”

“It’ll never absorb the cost, you mean. Exploitation’s the name of the game, kiddo. Give the village virtually no money; just let it run on volunteers, preferably other exploiters who couldn’t care less. Call it the sound financial planning of the ‘Nineties.”

“Hey, I care.”

“You don’t count. You’re park superintendent; you owe fealty to the state.”

“Yeah, I owe fealty. I’m a friggin’ serf who doesn’t get paid overtime for playing dress-up. Tell me, Brut, have you seriously thought about subjecting yourself to re-election as chairman of the board of trustees next month?”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Too late, Von Aldo realizes he’s going too far. Entertaining a vision of flight, he sets down the mug and magazine and slowly unfolds himself from behind the desk, taking care not to his head on the ceiling. “Well, it seems to me, squire, that if ye be not in the vein for rejoicing in the work ye’ve appointed yourself, ye ought not to be in it. Ye know the proverb: ‘Like a gold ring in the snout of a pig…’”

“Balls,” Bruton snorts.

“No, a gold ring-"

“Mr. Von Aldo! Would you like to count yourself amongst the walking dead called the unemployed?”

“No, though I take pride in saying I would not be the first you amputated while exercising your budgetary prerogative.

“Then I suggest you end your coffee break and bring your Revolutionary rump back outside to make sure our guests are safe and sound. Liability, you know.”

“Hell, the liability’s in here,” Von Aldo grumps. He heads for the door, but his escape is barred by Greeta, the college student who staffs the reception area in the visitors center’s slender entrance vestibule. Her real name is Margareta, but Von Aldo thinks the shortened form, Greeta, is more appropriate in light of her duties as hostess.
She’s wearing a modest brown caraco, brown-striped petticoats and a plain white day cap. “We’ve got two more groups waiting,” she announces. “Who wants the honors?”

Von Aldo shouts, “A reprieve!” and charges for the stairs.

Bruton, who detests such displays of immaturity, shakes his head. “I’m waiting for the people from the state historic preservation office.”

Greeta pours herself coffee, leaving very little for the next person and showing no interest in making a fresh pot. “Geez, Doctor B, didn’t you hear? They couldn’t make it.”

Bruton isn’t blatantly annoyed. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re telling me they canceled. When.”

“Monday.”

“Five days ago.”

“We left you a message.”

“I told you people to call me at my office if anything important—"

Greeta trips downstairs, calling “Someone will be right with you” to the parties below.

Bruton reflects that the girl’s lack of concern is to be expected. If the state refuses to hire interpreters and proper office help, then the state should realize the museum’s quality must necessarily suffer. It’s a matter of “buy cheap and pay dear.”

He tears past surprised visitors in the vestibule and into the night. He’s got to find Von Aldo.

Eye-searing light from fluorescent lamps hanging on wrought iron poles splits the night every hundred feet or so. It’s a weird light, busting darkness for only a few feet within the vicinity of the pole. After that, all is pitch black again.

A dark glob bobs along the path toward the chapel: visitors en silhouette against a fluorescent lamp. A single dark form in a three-cornered hat and knee breeches is off to the side, accompanied by a pale, golden light that wildly swings up and down.

Bruton noisily pushes out the air that has dammed up in his chest. Only Von Aldo would lead a lantern tour from the side. Some of the group breaks off and agitates through the chapel’s door. The choir’s collective, off-key voice wavers from the unadorned, whitewashed sanctuary: “Why doo vain mortals tremble at the sight of death and destruction in the field of battle?”

Von Aldo’s tour doesn’t see its guide being yanked around the corner of the building. Nor do they hear Bruton saying through his teeth, “You knew they weren’t coming."

Von Aldo mashes his hat atop his head. The rudeness of the abduction makes his heart pound, but he nurtures a glimmer of recognition which assures him his person is in no danger. He brings the lantern to Bruton’s face. “What? Who?”

“They aren’t coming.”

“Who!”

“The people from the state.”

“Right, I know.”

“You just found out, too?”

“Hell, no. They told me on Monday.”

Bruton remembers the conversation he enjoyed with Von Aldo less than an hour ago. “You’ve known since Monday? Why in God’s name didn’t you say they weren’t coming when I asked you?”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“When?”

“At the bakery.”

“But I thought you wanted me to say the delegation was coming.”

“Why would I want you to do a fool thing like that?”

“Because of the militia. According to the scenario, we’re waiting for an evaluation from the state’s delegation to Congress—“

“You were interpreting?”

“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Bruton ushers Von Aldo farther away from the chapel. “You might have let me know.”

“I had no reason to suspect you didn’t know they weren’t coming. My boss told me your office had been notified.”

“My office is a thing, a receptacle of furniture and files that can’t speak to me and can’t speak for me. Dammit! Dammit, Tom, they had to be out here. Now. Tonight. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not next month. Not next year. Now. Tonight. They have to hear it for themselves. Hell, they have to feel it for themselves.”

Von Aldo squirms. “Get a grip on yourself. You know there’s no guarantee it’ll happen tonight. Not at this hour, anyway. It’s a weird time for Concordes to be flying in.”

“Oh, it’ll happen, Tom; it’ll happen. Those supersonic transports fly over just when you think they won’t. Just when you start to breathe easy, or settle down for a good night’s sleep, they cut down the supersonic speed and belch a roar that jars every atom in your body and your house. Christ, I’ve lost count how many times I’ve detached the cat from the drapes.”

“And I’ve lost count how many times I’ve had to clean up after the dogs,” Von Aldo admits.

Bruton squeezes his arm. His manner is unusually warm. “You know what I think, Tom? I think you were afraid to tell me. Weren’t you. You were damned afraid to tell me they weren’t coming.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You were afraid to tell me!”

Bruton is getting loud. Von Aldo glances over his shoulder. The choir has reached the last verse of Andrew Law’s “Bunker Hill:” “Life for my country and the cause of freedom is but a trifle for a worm to part with. And if preserved in so great a contest, life is redoubled.”

Von Aldo likes the old church anthems. The mournful, minor-moded melodies, like this one, are comforting and mysterious. They seem to carry the same hopes and sorrows harbored by humanity across the ages.

“You’re not listening,” Bruton hisses, and shakes Von Aldo’s arm.

The visitors applaud the end of the anthem. From outside, it sounds like the gentle patter of a light spring rain. Von Aldo can’t tell if the audience has been distressed by the bad voices, but he has no doubt they’ve been captured by the sound and substance of the song.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, but Bruton holds fast. “There’s no sense in fighting, Brut. The people at the top don’t care what happens here. Why should they? They were the ones who agreed to let the Port Authority change the flight patterns. People along the coast didn’t want the Concordes flying over them on the way to the airports on Long Island.”

“They think I’m obsessed about the sonic booms breaking the illusion out here, don’t they?” Bruton presses. “They think I’m a fanatical reenactor, like those Civil War people who wanted to do the Battle of Gettysburg here last year.”

Von Aldo tries to pry the fingers from his arm. “I’ve got to go. The tour—“

“They think this is all about make-believe, don’t they?”

With a force that surprises him more than his captor, Von Aldo breaks free and bounds toward the chapel.

Bruton dashes behind him. “It’s not about the noise, Tom! It was never about the noise. It’s about the damage, God damn them!”

Von Aldo stops but does not turn around.

Bruton lowers his voice. “So, you’ve seen it, too.”

“The tour,” Von Aldo says softly. He goes into the chapel.

The choir sings its final anthem:

“The day is passed and gone. The evening shades appear. Oh, may we all remember that the night of death draws near.”

Bruton looks to the moonless, starless sky, waiting for the planes.