Ninety years ago, the census had the population nearly twice as high. Now, it is down to just over 300. There are no traffic lights in Plumville, Pennsylvania; but there is a two way stop. On that corner is located the Jimmy Stewart Bar & Grille.
The leafy profusion of spring has covered over the drilling rigs and wellheads. Once again, the leaf cover makes Indiana County, Pennsylvania resemble the covers of the old Saturday Evening Post. It is the third week of May.
Digger O’Dell sits alone in the back of the bar in an alcove next to the men’s room. A wall sconce makes the space glow with light. Digger is hot and has worked all day. He cannot roll his dirty sleeves up past the meat of his forearms, and so his cuffs dangle open. His massive shoulders darken a shadow against the wall. He overwhelms his table-for-two until it seems like furniture from a kindergarten. Digger has always known that the bass rumble of his voice causes some people, particularly women, to seize-up. He has learned to keep it light, or eager, or charming, and in this place, he keeps it folksy. It is a gentle accommodation. Most people learn to take unfair advantage of his good nature, and he lets them. Nothing shakes him up.
It is 5:45 P.M. and Digger is already half tight. He has started early. He has a Bloody Mary in front of him, several soggy pieces of celery stalks, and half a dozen Ball jars each three-quarters full with a cloudy liquid. They have been brought to him, one by one, since 5:00 P.M. These jars came from Plumville, from Beyer, from Sagamore, and even from as far away as Smicksburg.
The people in the valley have been dinning out more often since they had started receiving royalty checks on the mineral rights that they sold to Allegheny Fossil Fracking. Most of them have a pork tenderloin sandwich and onion rings on plates in front of them. These folks would not trade dinner at Jimmy’s for a night in Pittsburg. All the tables near the front door are full. Soon they will clear the tables and break out decks of cards. Card playing in a tavern is illegal in Pennsylvania, but no one is going to raid Plumville.
A middle-aged, gum-chewing woman with a beehive hairdo and support hose has walked in. She steps past the tables up front. She approaches Digger’s table. Digger will notice that her glasses frames have rhinestones at the temples. He will let that drop.
“I heard you was here, Mr. O’Dell.”
“Oh, Margaret.” He looks up; sounding surprised, and then quickly looks down at her hands. “Oh, yeah, you have one, too, don’t you?” He slides his drink, and the celery and several of the other Ball Jars out of the way to make room.
She sets a Ball Jar down sharply in front of him. He stares at it. She stares at him. Digger unscrews the lid.
“I guess you want me to, ah, you know, ah, well, don’t you?”
“Do you need a match, Mr. O’Dell?”
“No, no.” Digger pats his pockets until he locates at book of paper matches. “Here we are.” He smiles up at her. “Okay…here we go. Heads or tails Margaret? Put your hardhat on.” Digger is trying to loosen her up. She does not laugh.
Digger leans cautiously back in his chair, holding the matchbook out in front of him near the Ball Jar. The bar has gone quiet. The bartender and the men up by the front door are staring back to his corner. Digger swipes the match twice. It ignites.
Judiciously, he throws it into the Ball Jar, which erupts in a tongue of dancing flame. The wall above his table brightens. There is applause and a whistle from up front. Digger lays the lid across the Ball Jar and the flame snuffs out.
Digger looks up. “Yeah, I guess it caught fire, Margaret.”
“What are you going to do about it, Mr. O’Dell?”
“Well, Margaret, this is going to go right smack-dab into my report. Yes ma’am. Right into the office of the Northeast regional vice-president of Allegheny Fossil Fracking. That would be a Mr. Ralston.”
Margaret bends toward him and hisses. “Then you tell your Mr. Ralston that I won’t even water the dog with that. I have to use my sister’s water, way down in Elderton. Do you know how long it takes to drive down to Elderton, Mr. O’Dell?”
A mile north, a Blackhawk helicopter is descending through the trees into twilight.
“Sir, we couldn’t get a hold of the fellow that owns the airstrip. It says to call ahead first.”
One of the men in back shouts up to the pilot of the helicopter. “That’s okay. You won’t be here that long.”
“Who’s meeting us, Sir?”
“Pennsylvania State Police. You mean to say that this is it?
“Yes, Sir. This is it”
“This is the airport?”
“Airstrip, Sir,” he corrected.
“How can you tell, Sergeant?”
“He keeps it mowed, Sir.”
“Well, good. I wouldn’t want to disappear down into tall grass. Nice looking place for a twenty-mile forced march.”
“You want some whiskey to go with all that water, Duke?”
“No, no, just another Bloody Mary, Fred. Tonight the tenderloin is on special, isn’t it?”
The bartender just stares at Digger.
“Okay then, Fred. You talked me into it.” He waits a beat for the bartender to smile. “Okay then. I believe I’d like to order the tenderloin, Fred, with rings, please.”
“Surprised you still got an appetite, Duke.”
Digger slumps with resignation. “On second thought, may as well make that order to go.”
The State Trooper precedes Colonel Jeter and the others through the front door of Jimmy’s. Four tables near the door have just begun playing double-deck euchre. Smaller tables with twosomes are playing gin rummy. The card playing slows. They fold up their hands. They hold their breath.
The trooper turns away from the tables and walks up to the bartender. Everyone at the tables waits.
“Do you know a man named Brendan O’Dell?
At this, the players shrug, spread their hands again, and resume.
“The Duke?” The bartender is double-checking.
Margaret with the Beehive hairdo and the rhinestone glasses leans back on her chair legs. “If you’re looking for the Duke, he just left.”
The Trooper looks back at the bartender, who nods, saying, “That’s right, officer. Five minutes ago. The Duke drives a jeep. What’s he wanted for, if you don’t mind?”
Colonel Jeter takes this one. He indulges himself with the dramatic. Shake ‘em up, he thinks. It won’t matter this far out into the sticks, he thinks. “We want your Duke to save the nation.” The men in fatigues exit the front door. They have Digger’s home address.
The Trooper lags behind to lean over the bar. “Why do you folks call him Duke?”
Margaret raises her voice, leaning back on her chair legs again, “Cause it’s the Duke that brings the royalty.” She watches the trooper leave. The front door clicks shut. “Save the nation, my ass. Cause the whole damn place to explode is more like it. Okay, I’m making it spades.”
Digger listens to the Colonel explain the problem. They are seated on either side of the kitchen table next to the window. This is Digger’s trailer on Ox Hill. Through the screens comes the nighttime insanity of the Pennsylvania springtime woodlands. This is the bedlam of overlapping calls from frogs gathered round the edges of ponds, casual impoundments of runoff, and hollow rain-filled stumps. Everything that can croak joins in to make noise. Digger explains that what they are hearing is a healthy sign for the planet. Frog populations the world over are plummeting. It’s a virus, he tells them. He works on his sack of dinner from Jimmy’s.
The Colonel gives him the news about Yellowstone. He explains Professor Bennington’s plan. He finishes with the warning, “This has never been done before.”
Digger shakes his head. “No, no, That’s not quite right. With all due respect, General…”
“That’s Colonel.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I’ve had a few back at Jimmy’s. You see, every part of this has been done before. The difference is that we have to integrate those parts and ramp up the scale. We’ve used TBM machines of that size and for that long a route, just not at that depth. We’ve overcome high subsurface temperatures, just not quite that hot. All project’s have a completion date, it’s just that we’re not sure how much time we’ve got on this one. This is just a matter of scaling, if you’ve got a large enough budget.”
Colonel Jeter silently wonders if he should push for a carefully calibrated nuclear detonation. Colonel Jeter reflects that every artillery officer understands that if the charge remains the same, yet the bore size increases, then the muzzle velocity will slow down. The problem, as he now silently constructs it, is not that the volcano will be too large. It is that the volcano must be made large enough. He could have this volcano vented by the end of next month. He knows that a government full of lawyers would never agree to assume such liability.
They flew off with Digger O’Dell like Prometheus bringing fire.