by David Rhodes
“That’s a damn lie,” said Burt Forehouse.
The security guards standing by the three exit doors moved forward.
Grahm took a piece of folded paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and began to read from the letter Cora had written to the newspaper.
After the first sentence, recognition flickered in Burt’s face. “You’re breaking a judicial restraining order!” he shouted.
This statement proved unfortunate for Forehouse. Had he refrained from making it, Grahm would have remained without support and the six guards would have taken him away. But it was now clear that something—something unknown but nevertheless real—lay behind Grahm’s actions.
A farmer in a jacket too small for him stood up and lumbered forward. Of unknown origin, perhaps a descendant of Chaldean giants, he easily moved the obstacles in his way to either side. His ponderous gait bore witness to a lifetime of bodily resignation. And it wasn’t just his size that sought to define him, it was also his determination to insert himself into the breach, as though he had some familiarity and perhaps even fondness for places of simmering violence.
Standing beside Grahm and looking directly at Forehouse, he said, “Let him talk.” Then he turned his wide body to face the approaching security force.
Inside the space of a single thought, the fragile alliance between those prospering from the farm economy and those actually farming weakened and in some cases cracked. A dozen farmers from nearby tables stood up—nine men and three women—and came forward, forming a small phalanx between Grahm and the guards.
The guards stopped and Grahm continued reading from his letter.
“We can’t hear back here!” someone shouted from the back of the room.
The large man in the small jacket clambered up on the elevated stage, stretched out an enormous hand, and took the microphone. Then he climbed down and pointed it at Grahm. “Start over,” he said. The cameramen and journalists rushed to recover their equipment and capture an unobstructed shot.
When Grahm finished reading the letter, ending with, “Woe unto those who do evil in the sight of God,” another thirty farmers rose to their feet and joined those already standing in applauding. Most did not completely understand what the letter referred to, as they had not entirely understood the speeches, but they endorsed the sentiment.
“Thank you, Mr. Shotwell, for your concerns,” said Burt Forehouse. “As you know, the issues you speak of are under departmental review. As a farmer-owned cooperative we try to avoid this kind of litigation because its legal costs come out of general revenues, which hurts everyone—especially our pay prices. But you have a right to your day in court, even when your case lacks merit. This is America, after all. So let’s move forward and get back to our—”
“Thank you,” said Grahm, not knowing exactly what to say next, but remembering when the rope slipped from his hands. “I’m glad you want to return as much money as possible to the farms. Keeping that in mind, how much does this cooperative pay you?”
“My salary is commensurate with those paid by other competitive businesses.”
“That’s not what I asked,” said Grahm. “If this is a farmer-owned cooperative, as you say, how much are the owners paying you? I mean, all the money I got paid last year for my milk—every dime—is on record and anyone can look it up. So how much are you being paid?”
“I’m not allowed to give that figure. It’s proprietary.”
“See, that’s just what my wife said you’d say. But how can a farmer-owned co-op have proprietary information that’s not available to the farmer owners? When my grandfather and his neighbors founded this co-op, there were no secrets written into the charter.”
Burt Forehouse stood behind the podium and watched fifteen Minneapolis police officers enter through the exit doors. Unlike the unarmed security guards, they had helmets, holstered guns, and polished black clubs. They took the microphone away from the giant farmer and escorted Grahm, July, and three others out to the parking lot.
“You’re free to go,” one officer said. “But don’t come back here.”
That night at the restaurant, the voice of her husband leaped out of the overhead television. Cora dropped a bowl of vegetable soup into the lap of a salesman from East Moline who was sitting at the counter.
The Channel Three footage from American Milk’s annual meeting was pared down to thirty seconds, and the portion chosen to represent Grahm was this: “That’s just what my wife said you’d say. But how can a farmer-owned co-op have proprietary information that’s not available to the farmer owners?”
“I’m sorry,” she said to the offended man, offering him a handful of napkins. “It slipped.”
“You stupid idiot, look at me!” shouted the man as he stood away from the counter. “You’re going to pay for this. These stains will never come out. I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cora.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. Look at this!”
At the end of the counter, Wade Armbuster stood up and walked forward.
“Look at this! You clumsy fool.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Shit!”
“Watch your mouth,” said Wade.
“Wade, this isn’t necessary,” said Cora. “We can fix this.”
“Get lost,” said the offended salesman. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does, because I’m the guy telling you to shut your mouth.”
“Wade, go sit down.”
“Nobody’s going to talk to you like that, Mrs. Shotwell.”
“Go sit down, Wade. Please go sit down.”
“That’s right, hillbilly, go buy another nose ring before you get hurt.”
At home, Cora waited up for Grahm. Seeing the headlights turn into the driveway, she met him in the yard. They talked in the kitchen.
“I wish you’d been there,” said Grahm, his face glowing. “Afterwards, in the parking lot, farmers kept coming over to talk. July and I stayed two hours. You wouldn’t have believed it, Cora. They’re on our side. There are families all over this country who feel just like we do. They know the system is against them, that things aren’t right, and they’re having a meeting up at Snow Corners in a couple months and they want us to come.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Folks like us. People who are tired of having other people wipe their feet on them. They’re forming a group to fight this corruption.”
“Grahm, we don’t have time to be going to meetings. And the judge told us not to be doing anything like that.”
“That judge can go to hell. I mean it, Cora. We’re not alone any longer. Others are with us. We’ve been pushed around long enough. It’s time to start pushing back.”
“You can’t push a judge.”
“You were right, Cora. I didn’t see it before. You were right to stand up to them. They don’t know what the right thing is anymore. The evil runs too deep. And there’s no such thing as justice without people standing up and demanding it.”
“I got fired tonight,” said Cora.
“Why?”
“I dropped a bowl of soup on someone and he got angry and said some things. Wade threw him through the front door. Cut him up pretty bad. I tried to stop it but I couldn’t.”
“Wade did that?”
“I tried to stop it.”
“I hope he at least gave the poor fellow a chance.”
“Not really. Wade doesn’t look as strong as he is and I guess the guy just wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Grahm laughed and his teeth flashed. “You got fired?”
“The salesman demanded they fire me because I wouldn’t tell them who beat him up, I mean after Wade ran off.”
“Good, I never liked you working there.”
Cora laughed. “It was kind of funny, Grahm. He told Wade he should go buy another nose ring before he got hurt and Wade said, ‘Here, I’ll give you mine if you think it will help you any.’ He unclipped it and handed it to him.
I mean it was kind of funny if you took the time to think about it.”
“You’re kind of funny yourself, Cora.”
“I am not.”
“And beautiful and smart.”
Grahm blushed and they looked at each other in a way they’d almost forgotten how to look at each other. Cora smiled as Grahm moved closer to her. All of a sudden she was no longer tired and there were still several hours before morning.
Later, upstairs, Cora said, “Grahm, you’ve got to promise me you won’t go to that meeting up in Snow Corners.”
“I can’t promise, Cora. I’ll do anything for you, but I can’t promise that.”
SLAUGHTER
SOMETIMES IN THE THEATER OF WINTER, A DAY WILL APPEAR with such spectacular mildness that it seems the season can almost be forgiven for all its inappropriate hostility, inconveniences, and even physical assaults. With a balmy sky overhead, melting snow underfoot, and the sound of creeks running, the bargain made with contrasts doesn’t look so bad: to feel warm, one must remember cold; to experience joy, one must have known sorrow.
Winifred Smith took the opportunity afforded by such a day to invite Violet Brasso to join her in a picnic lunch at a local park. Violet accepted the invitation—glad to have a social event away from her home—and agreed to meet her there after some errands she needed to run in Grange.
The bright, warm afternoon slowly made inroads in dispelling Winnie’s lingering discouragement over her encounter at the casino several days before, and as she drove her little yellow car toward the park she felt better and better. Amoeba-shaped pools drained from snow drifts lay along the shoulders of the road, in the ditches and fields, and though spring was not here yet, it could be imagined.
Occasional glimpses of grass were a heralded sight after so many months of winter. She thought how fat green blades of lilies and crocuses would, in time, be plunging up through the chocolate ground, putting winter to rest. She loved the sight of new plants growing among clumps of snow, happily swelling upward like prisoners released from casks of brown ice, holding no grudges. Mushrooms would be popping up, and there was absolutely nothing she loved better than finding mushrooms. It was a way of leaving the world of people and merging with the laced unconsciousness of nature.
She turned off the main highway in order to drive on back roads, over fields still mounded high with rolling acres of whipped cream. Great globs of heavy, melting snow fell from tree limbs, splattering on the road like buckets of watery paint.
Arriving at the county park, she drove up the steadily rising hill to the picnic area, where five picnic tables, the snow now gone from their horizontal surfaces, had been planted in a high, snow-covered field near a grove of poplar.
She contemplated the thawing stillness of the deserted park and the white-throated birds flitting along the edge of the woods. Carrying the picnic basket, she walked through the snow to the tables and began laying out lunch.
In the distance she watched Violet Brasso’s old Buick coming up the hill. It did not appear to be running well, and after it turned into the park the engine died when it was about fifty yards away. Winnie walked down the road to help the older woman carry her basket.
“Land sakes,” said Violet, struggling with arthritic difficulty to climb out of the car. “Troubles seem to be finding me troubled lately. The repairman said I should have something done—I can’t remember what it was, do something in the motor—and I guess he was right.”
“I can take you home after our lunch,” said Winnie.
“I know, dear, but someone needs to come get my car.”
“There’s an emergency phone by the utility shed. Here, give me that basket. Up we go.”
They walked to the phone booth and while Violet placed a call Winnie carried her basket and thermos to the picnic tables and continued to set out lunch.
“This was such a good idea,” said Violet after she had joined Winnie. “You don’t even need a jacket. Nature has such healing powers, and, land sakes, we all need healing.”
They sat for a long time, just looking. The ubiquity of the mounds of snow—everywhere shrinking imperceptibly—expressed a sublime, musical crinkling that could almost be heard and seen in the clear air.
“Oh no, I left the cake in the car,” said Violet.
“Let me go,” said Winnie.
“It’s on the front seat.”
Winnie walked down the blacktop and noticed buds beginning to swell in the tops of branches, the sky holding them in its blue grip.
She could not find the cake inside the Buick and called back to Violet.
“Look in the trunk, dear.”
Winnie found the keys sticking out of the ignition and opened the rounded truck, where a Bundt pan rested next to an assortment of clothes, garden tools, and quilting supplies.
A jeep turned into the park, climbed the hill, and stopped behind her. A man dressed in a disorderly way came out of it, his bristled, tired face smudged, carrying a toolbox.
“Hello,” said Winnie, not looking directly at him.
“I told Violet to replace that filter,” he grumbled, and walked past her. As she closed the trunk, he opened the hood.
Winnie carried the cake up to the picnic tables.
“My lands, I forgot the lemonade too,” said Violet. “It’s in the back seat on the floor behind the driver’s seat. There’s hardly a single thought I can think to keep hold of anymore and I don’t think I know anymore where my thoughts go.”
Winnie returned to the car just as the man was closing the hood and wiping his hands with a rag. The smell of grease surprised her with its sweetness.
Winnie found the thermos of lemonade and followed him toward the picnic tables. His back seemed wider, she thought, than backs usually were, but she couldn’t be sure, and his feet plodded through the snow as though he didn’t care where he stepped, his tracks ragged and uneven. Pointed strands of hair jutted out from beneath his cap like black flames.
“Will it start?” asked Violet.
“It will start. Your fuel filter was plugged.” He took from his pocket a cylindrical piece of grimy, rusty metal and blew into it as if it were a referee’s whistle. “See, it’s stopped up. Here, you try,” and he offered it to Violet and Winnie, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“No thank you,” said Violet. “Please, stay and share our lunch. Pastor Winifred, this is Jacob Helm. Jacob, this is my pastor, Winifred Smith. Do you know each other?”
Two heads shook.
“Come on, Jacob,” said Violet. “Sit down, sit down.”
Jacob looked into the distance, as though viewing all the things he would rather be doing, then grimaced and sat down, continuing to rub his thick hands with the rag.
“Jacob lives in a log house in the woods, over by Cemetery Road,” explained Violet. “He owns the craft shop.”
“That’s nice,” said Winnie.
“How did you make out at the casino?” asked Violet in a quiet voice, passing paper plates around.
“Not well,” said Winnie. Her face darkened with memory.
“I told you there was no good use going over there,” said Violet.
“I hope you didn’t lose much,” said Jacob, smiling at Winnie in a bored manner.
“I went there on a personal matter,” said Winnie. “I do not gamble.”
“I meant no offense,” said Jacob. “I don’t gamble either.”
“No offense taken,” said Winnie. “Do you have principled objections to gambling, or do you come from a secular humanist perspective?”
“I have no objections to gambling,” said Jacob, accepting a paper cup of lemonade. “It just seems a waste of time.”
“How pragmatic of you,” said Winnie.
Jacob drew the cup of lemonade toward the same mouth that had earlier blown into the grimy cylinder and a frown captured Violet’s face.
“Before you drink that,” said Winnie, “I think we should ask a blessing on our meal, if that’s all right.”
“Fine,” said Jacob. “Should we also hold hands?”
There was a long pause.
“Are you mocking me?” asked Winnie.
“Of course not. I was under the impression that people often hold hands before they pray. I don’t know.”
“Excuse us,” said Winnie, and bowed her head. “Our Heavenly Provider, please bless this food You’ve provided and teach us Your Everlasting Ways in the Name of our Lord and Savior Jesus. Amen.”
Jacob ate the cheese and cucumber sandwiches, potato chips, apple slices, and homemade vanilla pudding and cake, while Winnie sipped sparingly from her hot tea, noticing that Jacob had refused her beef and noodle soup as well as her potato salad.
From beyond the poplars—down the hill—came muffled, sporadic shouting. The shouting grew more distinct, until individual voices could be distinguished, followed by the sound of branches breaking. Then the high-pitched whine of small-bore engines. The sound of breaking branches grew louder and soon Violet, Jacob, and Winnie saw the shapes of large animals running toward them through the trees, followed by the sound of the engines and shouting.
At first it seemed to Winnie that they must be very large deer, as they leaped over bracken, through the snowdrifts, and around trees, picking their paths with quick, wild cunning. But she soon saw that they were cattle—five young steers and a somewhat older heifer. Behind them, men on snowmobiles shouted at each other and attempted to drive the animals south.
The young cattle reached the edge of the wood and stared at the picnic tables, open field, and road, their nostrils flared like dark trumpets, water dripping from opened mouths and their eye sockets rimmed with terror. The steers plunged forward into the waiting snow, crossed the road, and jumped the fence at the edge of the park. They continued into the adjacent field, where stalks of corn stubble poked through the snow. Again they looked almost like deer as they effortlessly cleared the next fence, hardly resembling the clumsy and ponderous movements of domesticated cattle in feedlots. The heifer followed, but due to her larger size she stopped at the four-foot fence and looked around in a moment of fearful indecision.