by David Rhodes
A dependent person like Olivia, by her very existence, created burdens for an independent person like Violet. She did not have to speak or even clear her throat to have a place in Violet’s mind, where she steadily lived like an unruly flame on the edge of a continent of long, dry grass. Every creak in the night, every cough, odor, drip, click, groan, whimper, and sigh found resonance. Even complete silence—especially complete silence—could not be trusted, and Violet’s vigilance had been honed to such acuity she frequently found herself weighing the vertiginous qualities of silence to determine if she needed to walk down the hall and check again.
But Violet’s concern for Olivia was matched and perhaps even exceeded by Olivia’s preternatural awareness of Violet. The only remaining bulwark standing between Olivia and the county home was the all-too-human figure of her older sister, and to not be aware of everything about her was equivalent to a pet not knowing where its food came from.
Even in her sleep, Olivia knew, exactly, Violet’s whereabouts. From the confinement of her wheelchair or bed—day or night—Olivia deciphered the language of stirring, occupied space and could tell if Violet was in her bedroom, sitting in the living room, or at the breakfast table.
Kitchen drawers and dining room cupboards uttered distinguishing sounds when they moved. Each piece of furniture had its own voice, wood-groaning in response to shifting weight. Each door latch possessed nuance and personality. Each light switch snapped on and off with a unique tonal decay. Footsteps in the hall differed from footsteps in the dining room as clearly as oboes differed from clarinets. The sounds on the second floor—where Olivia had not visited since the days when her father had carried her upstairs—she remembered with undiminished precision. Even the boxes and crates in the upstairs storage room—a room she had never, ever been inside—made familiar faces when they were moved. They were part of Olivia’s world, and like all world travelers, she guarded their places inside her.
And when Violet was out of the house, Olivia lived like Moses adrift in a basket, waiting, waiting, waiting. And though she might also be occupied with other things—important things—those other things were like minor skirmishes in the larger revolution against the time separating her from the satisfying safety of her sister’s presence.
The more intimate aspects of their life together further complicated this ballet of proximity. Ancestral blood and long, deep associations related them and they interacted through narrowly prescribed footpaths, each path worn shiny smooth by the need to avoid dangers on either side, where unsleeping family demons crouched, ready to spring. A false word or gesture could bring to howling life an ancestral civil war of ritual meanings in which hundreds of thousands had perished but neither side could ever confidently claim victory.
Olivia’s very life depended on Violet’s good graces, and she well knew the boundaries of her own desires, though she frequently did not—to her own regret—always keep within them. She understood not only when to ask for a glass of water or a ride into town, but also how and why. She tracked her sister’s changing moods like a flower following the sun.
As for Violet, she had, to be sure, made a heroic choice to care for her sister. It took sterling courage to stand against the prevailing notion that those who care for others do so because they lack the superior qualities needed to excel in the marketplace of personal achievement. The pervasiveness of this demeaning judgment—known only to those who have stood against those snarling winds—seeped into every corner of popular thought and accounted for, Violet thought, the main division between the “church” and the “world.”
The “world”—meaning the world of embodied ideas and spirits—insisted on the rule of individual rights and freedoms, and anything that curtailed their full expression was seen as illegitimate insurgency. The “church”—meaning the world of disembodied ideas and spirits—insisted on the rule of personal duty and mutual, deferential obligation. For the “church,” the curtailing of individual rights and freedoms was not just desirable but fundamental. The two civilizations viewed each other with uncomprehending hostility, and Violet remained ever watchful for signs of enemy advancement.
For these reasons it was absolutely necessary for Violet that Olivia be of high moral quality. Whenever Violet was convinced of this—that Olivia was worth it—she felt content with her life. But whenever she became unsure about whether the burden she carried served some heavenly purpose—if the scales of eternal justice might balance more evenly with Olivia sermonizing and hurling insults at strangers from a bed in the county home—then her life became more difficult.
And so the delicate counterpoise between Violet and Olivia suffered greatly when Olivia returned home covered in urine in the care of a violent-looking young man after gambling away their life savings. And it didn’t help when days later the crude fellow returned and took Olivia away again, only to return in a loud green vehicle with hell’s flames rendered in perfect detail on the front fenders, the two of them sitting inside, eating something from a shiny bag and laughing like wicked children.
Two days later—when Olivia announced that she had agreed to go with Wade to the dogfight the coming weekend—Violet said she would refuse to dress her.
“Of course you will, Vio,” said Olivia. “You know how much it means to me.”
“That’s what concerns me,” said Violet. “You’ve lost your mind mostly. Why would you have the slightest interest in going to a dogfight where they fight dogs?”
“Now, we already talked about that, remember? I agreed to tell you where we were going if you agreed not to judge.”
“I’m going to refuse to dress you for your own good. You have no business in a place like that. It’s against the law and that’s bad.”
“Plenty of things are against the law, Vio,” said Olivia. “Freeing slaves was once against the law.”
“Oh, just stop it, Olivia. Just stop it. That old slavery thing can’t be brought up every time a person wants to do something against common sense. This is just the opposite of that. The current laws need enforcement, making stronger, not changing them. Those poor dogs need to be rescued and given a real chance to have a happy life.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” said Olivia. “This is my chance to be happy.”
“If you’re not happy it’s your own fault. You have a perfectly good life and there’s nothing on earth wrong with it.”
“Yes, I know I do, but you have a life too and it’s so very much bigger than mine. This is my small chance. Please don’t prevent me from taking it. Please, Violet, you’ll get me dressed.”
“What kind of person takes a poor crippled woman to a dogfight? Indecent is what it is, Olivia, indecent.”
“Don’t be so harsh, Vio. He’s young and I’ll admit he doesn’t think through things as well as you or I, but that’s the very definition of being young. He has a good heart.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know I made a mistake. I know that and I’ve admitted it—how many times? I’m really sorry, Vio, but God will take care of us. See, that’s what I learned. God will take care of us.”
“What you mean is I will take care of us. But I don’t know how I’m going to be able to. We can’t continue much longer.”
“Yes, of course, Vio, and I’m forever grateful for you, but God will take care of us.”
“He was doing a good job of it before you gambled away all the money He provided for us to live on. And now, not ten days later, and that’s a very short time, not long, you want to go to a dogfight.”
“Jesus would have gone to a dogfight, Vio,” said Olivia. “He spent His entire life ministering to those on the margins. He called tax collectors, lawbreakers, and lowlifers to be His most trusted friends. Jesus would not refuse to attend a dogfight. He loved all people.”
“The question is if Jesus would have dressed his delusional sister so she could attend, if He had one, a sister. And no is the real answer. No.”
Finally, Olivia frowned until her ey
ebrows nearly touched and said sternly, “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t dress me, Violet.”
“Yes you will, when you see I was right you will and you’ll see.”
“I won’t ever.”
“Yes you will.”
“I won’t and you know I won’t. You know how long I can hold onto things. You may someday forgive me for losing all our money, but you know in your heart that I will never forgive you if you don’t get me dressed this weekend.”
“That’s unfair,” said Violet.
“I know it,” said Olivia. “But I’m that way. I’ll hate you until the day I die.”
Violet remained silent, communicating her surrender.
“Thank you, Vio,” Olivia said. “I’ll never forget you.”
“Yes you will,” said Violet. “But you have to promise to tell me everything.”
“Oh, I will,” said Olivia.
INSURGENCY
GRAHM SHOTWELL AND JULY MONTGOMERY DROVE TO THE Twin Cities in Minnesota. The parking lot of the Asmythe Convention Center was nearly full. Two large men in blue blazers checked July’s patron number against a computer list and allowed them to enter the cavernous room. A thick maroon carpet covered the floor.
They sat at the only unoccupied table in back and listened to the roar of hundreds of plate-clattering spoons, forks, bottles, glasses, china cups, moving chairs, conversation, and piped-in country western music.
Mostly old and middle-aged adults, dressed as though they were expecting to meet Dolly Parton, sat in groups of ten and twelve around circular cloth-covered tables. They toasted each other with frosted glasses, called for more food, laughed, shouted, and walked back and forth from the bathrooms. A line of elevated tables with co-op officers and honored guests sat in front. July pointed several out to Grahm, including a former U.S. secretary of agriculture, the Texas chairman of the House Ag Committee, a syndicated farm economist, and a radio talk-show host.
Cameramen from the three local news channels were setting up beneath the elevated podium, aiming black-shrouded lenses on tripods into the open space behind the microphone, joined by farm journalists and their smaller cameras. Waiters better dressed than July and Grahm served platters of steak and creamed potatoes, soup, mixed vegetables, salad, fruit, Colby cheese, butter, and fresh warm white rolls. Waitresses in peach-colored makeup, black skirts, and pressed blouses drove stainless steel dessert carts between the tables. The temperature was stifling, rapidly dissolving the ice in the water glasses.
Grahm thought it seemed odd that farmers should be so uncomfortable dining; after all, they produced the food. But the tables with working farmers were easily identified. Accustomed to out-of-doors grappling with bulky objects, noisy machinery, and natural elements, they appeared ill at ease indoors, shy in making eye contact, clumsy with their forks, spoons, and cups, and overly loud in talking with each other. Conflicting habituation could be read in their faces. Because it was late afternoon—chore and milking time—they were restive; but because they weren’t working and their stomachs were full, in a warm room, they should be sleeping, and they blinked, yawned, and grimaced to keep their eyes open.
The farm women, nearly starved for anything resembling higher culture, demanded more from the occasion than it could possibly yield. With eyes as white as freshly peeled hard-boiled eggs they inspected the jewelry, hair, and clothes of the other women, tasted each morsel of food disapprovingly, strained to hear conversations from neighboring tables, worried about wrinkles in their faces, and frowned at their husbands to sit up straighter in their chairs.
Grahm at once realized the problem he faced. The feasting roar—a room filled with well-dressed revelers and dignitaries seated at elevated tables; gold watches, new shoes, and relaxed smiles; white tablecloths; music, waiters, and copious platters of food; television cameras and spoon-dropping farmers and their scowling wives—was the Immortal Engine of Progress. Only the material out of which the engine’s cogs were fashioned had changed in thousands and thousands of years. The gears themselves moved in exactly the same direction and manner.
Ah, to be included at the table of people whose backs did not ache and feet were not swollen, whose nurtured capacity for merriment so exceeded all unpleasantness that the bass notes of living could be blithely ignored. This was the real human technology that from time immemorial had driven small farmers off their land and muted the howl of those caught in the gears. In the scramble to secure a place at the banquet—at least for their children—the cries of those run over by the Engine of Progess could scarcely be heard. Their own desire to be within the halls of leisure left them without sufficient volume to complain. The celebration of prosperity was so deafening, the intoxicants so strong, who could stand against them?
While the feasting continued, speakers walked from the elevated table to the microphone, their amplified voices wafting out over the room. The specific content of their short speeches was not important, only mood, cadence, and style. The Texas representative spoke of the need for farmers to become “global players on the world scene,” to “work hard, work smart.” The syndicated economist praised “the crude but infinite wisdom of the farm market” and congratulated those present for being “ship captains in the new economy.” The talk-show host condemned the “socialist agenda of rabid environmentalists” while extolling those “dedicated to achievement, quality, and economic freedom.” The former secretary of agriculture told of “government bureaucrats who couldn’t tell a Holstein from a spotted camel” and the need to restore the United States to a station of “honor, integrity, and excellence” in the eyes of the world. “You are the real leaders,” he said, “plowing furrows into the future.”
At each ornamental phrase the room erupted in applause. Even the working farmers—those without immigrants providing the labor on their farms—sleepily pounded their rough hands together, happy to be seen supporting the expressed sentiments. Their farms mortgaged to the furthest reaches of liability, their milk prices at historically low levels, they still did not wish to be impolite or run counter to community goodwill.
The emcee finally introduced the American Milk Cooperative manager and chief executive officer, Burt Forehouse, who carried the microphone around in front of the podium. Confidence radiated from every inch of his short frame and three- piece suit. American Milk had enjoyed an exceptional year, with record high revenues, and everyone present had “made it happen.” He said they were all “partners in building a world-class dairy industry.” The American farmer “can outproduce, outperform, and plain outfarm anyone, anywhere, anytime. We have always been the best, we will continue to be the best, and anyone who doesn’t think so can kiss my ass.” And for the sake of the government bureaucrats referred to by the former secretary of agriculture, he held up a picture of a Democrat donkey.
The room exploded in laughter and applause, which took a full minute to subside.
“Now, let me take some questions.”
The cameramen went back to their tables, satisfied they had made copy.
A young man seated at a table near the podium eagerly raised his hand and asked, “Has the acquisition of Lakeland Cooperative added to AM’s competitive position in the East?”
“You’d better believe it,” said Forehouse. “With Lakeland we now have a fluid stream into the New York milk shed, with potential for flows into other New England markets.”
Another question from the same table: “How important is the new Illinois drying plant?”
“I’ll let our economist from Illinois field that one.”
The dairy economist at the elevated table explained how diverting excess milk supplies during flush periods into world markets was critical in avoiding cheese inventory and price volatility. The Decatur plant, he explained, would facilitate asset allocation and expand opportunities in efficient procurement and marketing diversity.
“With all the talk in Congress about trading with China, what is the export potential for dairy products?” a
sked a woman at another front table.
“You might say there are more than a billion reasons to sell cheese in China,” said Forehouse.
More laughter and applause.
Grahm, his dinner untouched, his face pale and his hands shaking, stood up from the table. He exchanged a last, furtive look with July.
“Sit down,” cautioned July, giving the only advice he could offer. “This is a mistake.”
As Grahm walked around the tables, chairs, and dessert carts, it became apparent to many that he was not simply another person on his way to the bathroom. The fearful, glassy stare, for one thing, did not bode well for the uninterrupted flow of congeniality. As he walked, a hushed whispering grew up around him. At about midway, Burt Forehouse spotted him and began closing his remarks.
“I want to thank all of you for coming to help us celebrate another successful year,” he said. “Please feel free to continue eating and talking with your neighbors and friends. The bar will remain open for another hour, I’m told, and—”
“I have something to say,” said Grahm, coming to rest directly beneath the podium in the middle of the abandoned tripods, his voice uneven but loud. “My name is Grahm Shotwell. Somebody has been contaminating my milk, breaking into my house, and threatening my wife, and I think you know something about it.”
The room grew absolutely silent.
“You are responsible,” said Grahm, pointing his finger. “What you’re doing isn’t right and you know it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Burt Forehouse. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“You’re not as smart as you think,” said Grahm. “My grandfather was a charter member of American Milk. Years ago, it was an honest co-op. The farmers here know we’re being cheated now. We don’t know how you do it and we don’t know what can be done about it, but we know there’s crooked work going on. As for me, I know what you did to my family and I have the papers to prove it.”