Bennington had it all figured out before He and Claire had ever left Yellowstone for their evening in Jackson. In the hands of a lesser man, this would have been only a matter of going home, but Bennington imagined it as a whistle-stop tour, lacking only the brass bands.
An airline would be too quick. He wanted to draw this out. He had reserved a compartment on the Empire Builder out of Pasco, Washington for the trip east to Amtrak’s station on the Wabash River, almost at the edge of campus. The way Bennington had it figured, it was going to have to be a train. Nothing else would do. It turns out that the Professor knew his history, too.
Bennington talked the Colonel into pulling strings to let him hitch a ride on one of the freights headed into Pocatello, and from there on the Union Pacific up the Snake River Valley into Pasco.
By the time Claire had taken Bennington to the station in West Yellowstone, the professor had called his literary agent, and his contacts at four newspapers. Random House had agreed to fly a senior editor out west to board Bennington’s train in Williston, North Dakota. That is what the Empire Builder would soon be called: “Bennington’s Train.” On the day Bennington left, headlines already bannered “Bennington is Coming” and “Bennington Heads East.” National Public Radio put Ira Flatow on the train in Pasco to begin an entire week of coverage of the Yellowstone Supervolcano on an expanded edition of “Ira Flatow’s Science Friday.”
Crowds gathered at the stations along the way. There were banners saying, “Tell us, Bennington” and “Send out Bennington.” And at each stop, the professor would step from his car with the little step stool the conductor used. He would mount it and from right there on the platform, he would tell them that the Army had things under control. He told them that they were boring a tunnel into the Yellowstone Caldera to relieve the pressure. He said they had at least a year, maybe more. Then he would reboard the train. He did this at stops at Spokane and Cut Bank, Wolf Point and Whitefish, and points east. Everywhere, people needed to know.
The crowds became larger in Fargo and St. Cloud. Finally, in St. Paul, Amtrak told him he would have to remain on the train. There was just too much commotion. So that in Red Wing, the next stop, he sat in his window seat, in his private compartment, with Ira Flatow and the editor from Random house, simply watching the crowds until they began chanting his name: “Bennington, Bennington, Bennington.” Then a voice would call out, “Send out Bennington.” Then the train pulled out and he watched them standing, staring after him.
The editor at Random House was astonished. “Who the hell are all these people?”
With a modest smile, Bennington explained, “You are watching a very worried Main Street, America,” Then, cocking his head, Bennington turned it to advantage, adding, “Book buyers, Mr. Thornton, Our book buyers.”
The editor thought the problem through exactly as Bennington guessed he would. He first saw that Bennington played these people like a fiddle. Mr. Thornton concluded that Professor Bennington was a phenomenon.
NPR put Bennington’s address to the crowd on the radio and a worried America tuned-in. Colonel Jeter had received several calls from his superiors about Bennington. The Colonel had called the Professor twice asking him to not talk about the TBM. Finally, Jeter was seriously considering asking Marshal Blevins to intercept Bennington at one of his stops. But, no. Pulling Bennington off the train would have sent the story into orbit.
That quiet first summer was drawing to a close. Kids were going back to school. Purdue would start the Fall Semester in a week. People were becoming worked up. They would stay that way. Bennington was becoming a household word and, although she never knew it, Claire Cheviot’s name was catching up to his.
Bennington had called ahead. The Geology Department had crated up Claire’s gas-chromatograph and had it next-day-air’d out west in care of Colonel Jeter. Bennington’s dissertation committee would get to work on approving Claire’s submission of the topic for her PhD dissertation. He wanted to keep her busy. Idle hands were the Devil’s workshop. At a minimum, he wanted to keep her Purdue’s.
Thornton, the Random House editor, got off in Chicago. Bennington had his book deal and a six-figure advance. Back at Purdue, the Professor dashed off a quick 90,000 words and it was printed and bound faster than the election night edition of Dewey beats Truman. It sold just as fast.
Ira Flatow went all the way to Purdue with him and got off the train ahead of Bennington to photograph his return for the NPR website. Bennington had returned without Purdue’s truck, without his bear dogs, and without his graduate student. But no one noticed except Bennington.
Bennington had played it like a man of the people, like a Lincoln, or like a Teddy Roosevelt. Bennington was so well oiled that nothing stuck except the shine.
His annual Fall Semester lecture hall class, Geology-100, had to be temporarily held in the Loeb Playhouse until the crowds died down. On the first day, even university president Mitch Daniels had found a seat in the back.
Even now, Wikipedia was already writing him into the various sections on Yellowstone and its caldera. It had indeed become Bennington’s volcano.
The scene at the train station in West Yellowstone—several days prior to Bennington’s triumphal return—had been restrained, unlike any of the scenes to follow it. Claire had driven. Bennington’s cargo bag rode in the back amid the jumble of tools and supplies. His revolver and gun belt rode under the driver’s seat. They would remain. Claire’s laptop was behind the driver’s seat as were all of the things that Jim had bought for her in Jackson. The truck doors have locks. Tents do not.
Back at camp, the remaining dynamite from their summer’s work lay in a box under the picnic table in the center tent. The dogs wait at the top of the hill.
Afterward, Claire would drive up into Bozeman to establish residency in Gallatin County, Montana and to obtain a gun permit. She listed her address as in care of Colonel Robert Jeter in West Yellowstone, Montana. That was close enough.
Even when Yellowstone Park was open, it had allowed both concealed carry and open carry. Soon Claire would always strap on both the .44 and the knife. Claire became as snug as these things and the Karelians could make her.
This is a long train. There are two locomotives up front, followed by six boxcars, and then thirty-four flatcars, which had hauled in steel and were now deadheading back out empty. Bennington will ride with the crew that the train carries for switching track and shunting cars.
Claire and Bennington walk solemnly along the tracks toward the end of the train. A crewman is slouched against the railing around the platform at the end of the caboose. Normally, these days the caboose is only used for trains with hazardous cargo, but Jeter wants no shortcuts. “You want hazardous?” He would ask. “Make me miss the date I have with that volcano and I will show you hazardous.”
The crewman calls out, “You the guy?”
Bennington straightens. “Yes, Sir. I am.”
The man glances with understanding at Claire. “I’ll come back out to give you a five-minute warning.” He disappears from the platform, stepping into the train car.
“Thanks,” Bennington calls after him.
The rail yard is eight pairs of tracks wide. Warehouses line the other side. Busy forklifts stab across the sides of flat cars. Workers pull pallet jacks, hauling skids from out of boxcars. Pairs of sentries patrol with shouldered rifles.
On the platform, Bennington pulls Claire next to the building, where they lean. She goes where he places her, obediently, not complacently. He looks deeply into her face. She stares back unflinchingly.
Bennington decides that she is a Madonna, a glowing image from a religious icon. He has not seen it until now. Perhaps she has never looked like this before, but here she is looking as a Madonna might look, as would an Earth Mother, as potent as the Earth can be and as rich and fertile.
That makes him think. Odd that it has never crossed his mind. Odd that they have never spoken of it. Could she be pregnant? That would throw a wrench in things. Hell of a time to start thinking of this. A woman like this gets pregnant easy. Look at her. She could have fifty babies. She would keep it too. It would also be wonderful. It would throw a wrench into everything, but it would also be wonderful. He finishes thinking about it. He knows that he cannot bring it up, not now. The time to do so has passed weeks ago. He wonders if she wonders why he never has mentioned it, and he wondered why she has not talked about it.
Why is she looking at me like this? Is she imploring me? What is she imploring me to do, or to say? Why is she silent? She is not sulking. She is very much with me, but she says nothing.
On this last morning, Bennington and Claire feed the bear dogs together. In their tent, he straddles her at first light, when she is fresh from dreaming, before she might be awake enough to load with resentments or with disappointments.
She answers him by putting her hips into it, as though she wants it just as much as he does. Hers are always workman-like hips, matching his rhythm, stroke for stoke, at just the right measure so that he stays in. He has never congratulated her for her lovemaking. Now he thinks about doing so, even though a train platform is a ridiculous place to mention this, and, of all times, this is the wrong time.
Claire stayed below the hill to watch the dogs feeding. She sees Bennington pulling himself together up among the tents, trying to leave. She is glad that she has made love to him this morning.
She sits on a whitened log next to the eroded outcrop along the steam bank. This is the log that she had rolled over to her work on that morning so very long ago. She sees where she had finished working. She sees the hole from which she and Jim had pulled the Rhodochrosite. She is sorry that she has never returned to this place. She would like to do so now that Jim is leaving, while she still has time, before the gas chromatograph arrives.
She has not thought about the Rhodochrosite. Neither one of them have mentioned it. They have not looked at it since they wrapped it and tied it up, working at the picnic table in camp. How do you forget about anything so beautiful and so rare? What did he do with her pick hammer? She must remember to ask him.
It is too late to talk about the Rhodochrosite now. It would be foolish to bring it up now. But she does want to know what he did with her geologist’s pick hammer.
There seems to be something else that she knows, but it has no name. It does not speak to her, yet she hears it, as through a wall. It is telling her something urgent. Life would be easier if this thing that she knows had a name.
On the train platform in West Yellowstone, Claire and Jim speak little. Any words are almost sure to miss their mark. Yet, a kiss is always right. Always a kiss means what you want it to mean. It is a placeholder.
“Here is the Purdue credit card.”
“Okay.” She nods.
“It is for gas, food, dog chow, stuff like that.”
She nods and exhales, “Okay.”
“Stay in touch with me about your dissertation.”
She lifts her chin. “Only about that?”
“No, of course not, Claire. I mean don’t forget about it.”
She eyes him. “Don’t forget only about that?”
“Oh, Claire. You know what I mean.”
She looks away. “No. I don’t think I ever know what you mean.”
“Don’t you know that I love you?”
“No.”
“I do love you. I have never stopped loving you.”
“Not even that one morning at Chickadee Lake?’
“Not then. Not ever. Not in the midst of any of the insanity and stupidity of which I am so capable. Do you still love me?”
“I haven’t been able to tell since then. Maybe now that I am alone, I’ll find out if I do.”
The recoil pushes Bennington back on his heels. He feels himself wobble. The next instant he recovers, retreating into a hard thought. She will not be alone for long. Who is she trying to kid?
“Five minutes, Mister.” The crewman has stepped back out onto the platform behind the caboose. It is time for Bennington to board.
“Okay. Thanks,” he answers over his shoulder. “Claire, find a vet and know where he is and his phone number. Just in case the dogs get hurt.”
“Okay.” Claire feels herself sinking into a depression. “When do I get the instrument?” She knows she must stay busy.
“It’s on its way right now.”
“Okay.” Tears overfill her eyes and run quietly down her cheeks. She grabs his sleeves and pulls him toward her, then only hugs him.
Bennington reaches down for his bag and stares into her face one last time. He reaches for her cheek to touch a tear. Then he grimly turns toward the train and boards it. He follows the crewman inside and is gone.
She watches the window of the caboose but he does not appear. She begins to retrace her walk back to the truck.
As the train lurches forward, Bennington rushes to the window. He looks out, but she is gone. He stays in the window until the train has cleared the station.
She remembers late. She has forgotten to ask him what he had done with her pick hammer.