Driftless

by David Rhodes

  “At the conclusion of the first stage of the department’s investigation, depending on the findings of the investigative staff and the seriousness of any allegations which may be pending either during or at the completion of the process, an administrative hearing can be convened at the request of the department or at the request of an interested party only if allegations of wrongdoing are possibly felonious and then the case may be referred for determination to the A.G.’s office depending on the specific protocol of the administrative code.”

  “Is there going to be a hearing or not?” asked Cora.

  “That will be determined following the committee’s final investigative report.”

  “When will my papers be studied?”

  “I’m not certain which papers you are referring to but I can assure you that a formal investigation such as we are now completing is altogether rigorous and thorough and because of our licensing and regulatory oversight of all Wisconsin milk plants, both private and cooperative, the issues within our purview relating to procurement, testing, processing, labeling, packaging, sale, and distribution of milk and milk-based products will become fully transparent, the requisites both exhaustive and current, and all appropriate and relevant materials will be compiled, sealed, and duly examined in accordance with department procedures relating to the administrative review.”

  Cora found Grahm cleaning the barn and told him, “We need a lawyer.”

  “We’ve done nothing wrong. We’re not hiring a lawyer.”

  “Then we have to show the papers to someone other than your sister.”

  The person they chose was the son of a neighbor. They did not know him very well, but he had worked in the Luster Police Department for a number of years. Cora got the phone number from his parents, called him that evening, and arranged a meeting.

  In the morning, they copied fifty pages of documents at Kwik Trip and put them in a manila file folder.

  Lester Rund waited in the restaurant booth next to the window, wearing his uniform. They sat across from him and Cora dropped the thick file on the table, causing several heads to look up from their lunches. She explained how the papers had come into her possession, told Lester about the burglary of their home, their visit and phone calls to the department, antibiotics in their milk, how she had been fired for no reason, and their fears of being watched. She explained how they had reported the milk tampering to the state department, which sent a man to look around the farm and did nothing more.

  “What do you require of me, Mr. and Mrs. Shotwell?” asked Lester, paging through the folder.

  “We hoped you’d know what to do,” said Cora.

  “We at least want you to keep the papers in a safe place somewhere—so you can say we gave them to you,” said Grahm.

  “I’ll show them to the sheriff,” he said.

  At home, Cora and Grahm began composing a letter to the editor. They had a lot to say, and they disagreed about how to say it. Grahm thought they should first point out that this was the United States of America, where justice and fairness were every citizen’s right. Any government agency that did not treat its citizens fairly was evil. It was the government’s job to make sure that individual rights were never taken away, and a co-op’s job to market milk fairly so the dairy farmer—its rightful owner—could make enough to live an honorable life. But when the farmer—who by definition had less power than a giant co-op—could get no help from his government when his rights were violated, then what protections did anyone have? Once evil had taken hold, no limits applied. The Constitution and the Founding Fathers were dedicated to the principle of justice for all, but if these were just empty words and no justice prevailed, then American soldiers had given their lives for nothing. Veterans’ widows would have no comfort if the cause of their husbands’ dying—which at one time had been the light and hope of the entire human race—had been corrupted.

  Cora thought it best to stick to the facts.

  “These are the facts,” said Grahm.

  “We just need to write down exactly what happened.”

  “That’s not enough,” said Grahm. “First we’ll explain who we are and what we believe in. We’ve always been hardworking and honest, never spent a day on welfare, never been arrested for anything. We love America as much as we love our farm—we’re just doing what’s right. We speak the truth. And we’re not afraid.”

  “Those things can’t be written down, Grahm.”

  “They can. I’ve written most of them right here.”

  “They’re matters of the heart. You can only know those things by knowing someone firsthand.”

  “Other farmers will know what we’re talking about.”

  “We’re not writing to other farmers. We’re writing to protect ourselves. Then no one will harm us because it won’t do them any good because the truth will already be out.”

  “I’m not afraid of them.”

  “Grahm, it doesn’t matter if we’re afraid or not. We have to just go ahead and do it.”

  They checked with the newspaper on its letter policy and only then compromised about what to put in the letter.

  It was astonishing how little could be communicated in 250 words or less; it was like trying to put on too-small shoes. They were barely able to introduce themselves, describe where they lived, name their children, tell how many cows they milked, how many acres they farmed, and how long the farm had been in the family. Grahm banged his fist on the table out of frustration. When chore time came he abandoned the project to Cora and walked to the barn.

  Cora continued writing and rewriting, interrupted only by the arrival of the school bus and Seth and Grace’s frantic search to find something to snack on before disappearing upstairs. With great sadness she crossed their names out of the letter in order to eliminate half a dozen words and two commas.

  The final draft still contained 370 words, but looking through old issues of the newspaper confirmed that several published letters had exceeded the suggested size. She typed it, put it in an envelope, and attached a stamp.

  Placing the letter in the mailbox and closing the hinged metal door gave her an uncomfortable feeling. The action seemed dangerously irrevocable. After the mailman picked it up there would be no way to undo the act. The whole world was about to turn its attention on them: an elephant smelling an ant. They would be thrust into a public arena of movie stars, gangsters, politicians, and war crimes perpetrators. Their telephone would soon be ringing off its hook, the mailbox filled with letters from strangers wanting to become friends or kill them.

  She could sympathize with her husband interpreting the threat in a physical way. It seemed so tangible, at least for a person like herself who suffered from stage fright and could remember feigning sick in order to stay home from school to avoid giving a speech. Whatever malady it was that made attention-from-many radically different from attention-from-few, she suffered from it.

  But she had committed herself.

  Days passed, and after she had searched the paper many times, the letter finally appeared, reproduced exactly as she had written it, even with one misspelled word followed by “(sic)”, with their names and address directly below. Above their letter was one about the need for prayer in schools and beneath it an auction notice.

  To the editor—

  Our Thistlewaite County dairy farm has been in the family for over 150 years. My husband’s grandfather was a charter member of American Milk Cooperative way back when it was Winding River Cheese and we have always shipped to them. Four years ago I began working off the farm for AMC as a secretary and assistant bookkeeper at the branch office in Grange. I got regular raises and promotions. In the performence (sic) of my duties I discovered AMC was cheating farmers, lying to the government, and selling contaminated milk. I made copies of papers that proved all these things and called the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture, Trade and Consumer Protection to inform them. The very next day our milk tested positive for antibiotics, but we are becoming certifie
d organic and use no antibiotics. An inspector came out from the Division of Food Safety and we said someone put antibiotics in our milk. He said he would “make a report” and we never again heard from him. We lost our insurance. We were then called into DATCP and told NOT to bring our papers. Not very long later, someone broke into our house and stole the papers out of the upstairs closet. We called the police but they found no evidence. Later, our milk again tested positive for antibiotics and AMC canceled our contract. This time we took a sample to an independent laboratory and they confirmed the antibiotic gentamicin, one we have never in our whole lives and the lives of my husband’s parents used on the farm. A short time later I was fired from my job at AMC because I would not pick up the branch manager’s laundry on my lunch break though they said it was for something else. To Whom It May Concern: we have many more copies of the shipping records, lab reports, and tax forms and have given them to very important people. We are now shipping to a different milk plant and it will do no good to harm us because DATCP has begun an investigation and everything that is now secret will be made known. Woe unto those who sin in the sight of God.

  Cora and Grahm Shotwell

  Hwy Q, Words, Wisconsin

  Cora expected the telephone to begin ringing that day. Instead, a policeman arrived—one of the same policemen who had investigated the burglary. He politely handed her a notice to appear the following day with her husband before an administrative judge at the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture, Trade and Consumer Protection.

  The following day they left for Madison, and Cora took with them the Madison newspaper. On the front page began a three-page article featuring the American Milk Cooperative. The CEO, Burt Forehouse, grinned out of a half-page color picture surrounded by packages of butter and cheese, gallon jugs of milk, and bags of milk powder. Next to him stood the governor of Wisconsin. The text explained how AMC had grown from a “horse and buggy cheese factory started by hardscrabble dirt farmers before the days of milking machines, pasteurization, bulk tanks, and refrigerated trucks” into a prominent international business. There was another picture, on page two, even larger, of the twin Holstein statues on either side of the entrance doors at AMC’s headquarters. On page three was a picture of “Burt’s homeroom,” an office with rows of computers, awards on the wall, and dozens of smiling employees.

  Directly below the picture, it read, “ ‘A major player in the global marketplace,’ said Burt Forehouse. ‘Farmers can be proud of what they’ve built here. Wisconsin dairymen began this business, stepped up to the plate and hit a home run. They were never satisfied with just being good. They demanded to be the best. They saw the challenge of national and international competition and responded to it. We’re second to none in value- added milk products, and first in returning to our farm patrons the highest quality of services.’ ”

  When he was asked to comment on the less attractive aspects of his successful career, Burt Forehouse said, “Without a doubt the most difficult part of my job is having to tell a farmer—one of our patrons—we can no longer pick up his milk. It deeply saddens me to let someone go, and we try in every way to work with our less progressive farmers to help them adjust to the high standards demanded by the consuming public. But there are always a few who can’t make the transition from the old ways to the new economy. Some just can’t take hold of the tools of new technology. In the twenty-first century they still believe they can farm the way their grandfathers did before science learned what we know today about eliminating contaminants at all levels of production.”

  In a state building in Madison, Cora and Grahm were shown into a room with a nearly bald judge sitting behind an elevated bar, a black robe drawn securely around his neck. There was also a uniformed officer and five other men sitting at tables, but the Shotwells did not know if they were judges wearing suits, or lawyers, or who they were. No one introduced them, and the judge and men seated at the tables continued reading from papers.

  After five or ten minutes the judge read Cora and Grahm’s names and asked them to step forward. The uniformed officer held open the little wooden gate separating the seating area from the other half of the room and they passed through. Cora let her arms fall flat against her sides and Grahm put his hands in his pockets. The judge explained that a departmental investigation was under way, and that he was asking everyone to refrain from making statements about matters relating to the proceedings.

  “What does that mean?” asked Cora.

  “It means not to talk about this case or anything related to it.”

  “Not talk about it to whom?” asked Cora.

  “To anyone.”

  “Anyone?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not even each other?”

  The judge took a breath of impatience, rubbed his neck, smiled, and said, “Yes, even each other. This will seal the proceedings while they go forward and protect everyone involved. My ruling on this is final and any breach of it will be referred to the magistrate for immediate prosecution in the district court.”

  “I don’t understand this,” said Cora. “How can I not talk to my husband?”

  “Oh, you can talk to your husband,” said the judge, folding his hands and smiling in a fatherly way, “you just can’t talk about this case.”

  Grahm glared at the judge, his hands squeezed into fists inside his pockets. He felt small. He looked around the room and wondered why everything he knew seemed irrelevant here. His understanding of animals, plants, soil, machinery, chemicals, medicine, carpentry, plumbing, his family, and people in general—all became obsolete in this room. Everything here seemed pointlessly formal, like a bad dream. The judge wore a black robe, but why? Was it a requirement? And if so, who made it a requirement? Who decided on the color? Why did he sit behind an elevated counter? Were the carpenters given instructions to build a counter so high and wide—like the measurements of the altar in Solomon’s temple? What would happen if the counter were two inches too short, or too tall? Would that undermine his authority? And if not, why was the judge so far up in the air? Did the elevation have something to do with dispensing justice? Grahm shuddered to think of the poor souls who had stood in rooms like this and had their lives taken away from them, were severed from their families and friends and everything they understood through Rube Goldberg machinations they did not comprehend. And though the judge smiled at them and tilted his head to the side, no warmth came from his eyes. He had never even introduced himself, never said anything like, “Hello, I’m Jim Shabatz. My wife and I live in the house across from the park. We have two grown children. I was assigned to head up this hearing. My grandparents used to farm and I spent time on the farm as a boy. We’ve called you in because we needed to include you in this thing and I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad driving in.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but this doesn’t seem right,” said Cora.

  “Trust me, it is,” said the judge.

  The uniformed officer then held the little wooden gate open again and in no time at all Cora and Grahm stood looking at each other in the parking lot.

  “Do you believe this?” asked Cora.

  Back at the farm, they ate lunch at the kitchen table.

  “We need a lawyer,” said Cora.

  “We can’t even pay our bills,” said Grahm. “We haven’t done anything wrong. And if we needed a lawyer the judge would have told us. Aren’t they required to do that?”

  “That’s just it—we don’t know.”

  There was a knock on the front door. Lester Rund was not in uniform, and he stamped off his boots before coming inside. Today was his day off, he said, and he carried the manila envelope under his arm.

  “I’m afraid I can’t keep this, Mr. and Mrs. Shotwell. I showed it to the sheriff and he advised me to return it.”

  “Why?”

  “He said that keeping it could negatively involve the department and complicate an investigation taking place in another agency. So I’m returning this to you. If t
here is some other way that I could help I’d be more than happy to, and I hope you won’t hesitate to get in touch with me.” He then paused a moment before leaving, and said, “I hear we’re supposed to get some snow.”

  FIRE IN THE FIELD

  IN PREPARATION FOR WASHING THE INSIDE OF THE REFRIGERATOR, Maxine carried all the frozen food from the freezer compartment down to the basement chest freezer. Then she cleared out the ment down to the basement chest freezer. Then she cleared out the compartments. She found many things to throw out—some on the compost pile behind the barn; the rest she put in the pen with Rusty’s old white terrier.

  At around noon she answered the telephone and was asked by an operator if she would accept a collect call from Mr. Russell E. Smith. She agreed, astonished by the request. In over forty years of marriage she had never accepted a collect call from her husband.

  When he didn’t speak, she said, “Russell, is everything all right?” and she encountered a long pause.

  “Maxine,” he said.

  “You’ll have to speak up, Russell. I can’t hear you.”

  “I’m in Iowa.”

  “What are you doing in Iowa?”

  “We come down with Ella.”

  “Who’s ‘we’ and who’s ‘Ella’?”

  “Eli’s wife.”

  Rusty had driven Eli, Abraham, Isaac, and the boys’ mother to Dubuque, Iowa, because of a stomach problem. She apparently had a history of seeing a doctor from there—some herbal practitioner (they had no medical insurance). Other Amish families lived in the area and Russell said he would drive them around until they found a place to stay. Then he was driving back home. He’d return to pick them up whenever Eli’s wife improved enough to come home.