by Jerry Apps
Later, the community learned that the mysterious buyer lived in Milwaukee and he'd purchased the land for hunting. He had no interest in farming at all. Later that fall, he invited the Link Lake Fire Department to come out and burn the buildings, as a practice event—property taxes on the land would of course be lower with the buildings gone. Many memories went up in smoke the day the Claytons’ farmstead buildings burned.
22
Jake Stewart
The week of the Clayton auction, the “letters to the editor” section of the Link Lake Gazette was nearly bursting with commentary about recent events.
A young girl, upset about the spot-rot problem, wrote:
Dear Editor:
My two brothers and two sisters and I have an acre pickle patch that our pa gave us. He said we could keep half the money we earned, as long as we did all the hoeing and weeding. We all worked hard, even my youngest sister who is only three years old came out to the patch to help. Our cucumbers grew real good, and they produced lots of cukes, too. Then the spot rot came and the pickle factory people wouldn't buy our cucumbers anymore. What are we supposed to do? Now we kids have no money. Pa and Ma needed the money too. It's just not fair.”
Sincerely,
Amy Wilson, age 12
Everyone's heart went out to that little girl and her family. But she was only one of many kids in the Link Lake community who were feeling the sting of a shortened cucumber season.
Dewey John expected several letters from the people in the Rose Hill School District after the election. But there wasn't a peep out of those folks; they apparently had chosen to fight their battles among themselves and keep their disagreements out of the newspaper.
That wasn't the case with the “Preacher affair,” as people referred to it. One letter writer accused the paper of whitewashing the whole thing. This person started off with “Dear editor: Your paper has sold out to H. H. Harlow.” How in the world this person came to that conclusion escaped Dewey John. She slammed the paper for its “continuing big business bias.”
Another writer went after young Andy Meyer: “The manager of the pickle factory is not able to control his workers. Andy Meyer has allowed the pickle factory to become a love nest. He has lost control of his small staff of workers and should be fired. Anyone who allows such immorality to take place has no right to manage anything. H. H. Harlow should replace him, and quickly, before we hear of some other scandal at the pickle factory.”
Still another critic, a member of the Church of the Holy Redeemed, mailed the paper a four-page tirade that began:
To whom it may concern:
That harlot bookkeeper at the Harlow pickle factory seduced a popular area preacher and noted spiritual leader right under the less-than-watchful eyes of the factory manager. Mr. Andy Meyer has failed his Christian duty to maintain a Christian purpose and a God-fearing atmosphere at this historic Link Lake establishment. The pickle factory manager has tarnished the reputation of our fine village, and has put our entire congregation in a state of mourning at the loss of their revered pastor.
Dozens of letters like these piled up on Dewey John's desk. He'd never seen anything like it. Tangle a preacher in a sex affair, and pens and paper come out and the comments fly. Few people seemed concerned about what had happened to the couple or where they had run off to. Neither of their cars was missing, the depot agent said neither of them had bought rail tickets, and the Greyhound office in Plainfield had no record of them purchasing bus tickets. Marshal Quick concluded that a long-distance trucker had picked them up and took them who knew where. A story began circulating that around the time of Preacher's and Helen's disappearance, a white eighteen-wheeler that had delivered a load of lumber to the Link Lake Lumber Company was seen leaving town with more than one person in the cab.
Helen's neighbor, Abigail Martin, told another version of what happened. “I saw a big black car pull up in front of Helen's house in the dead of night. I think it had Illinois license plates—and it looked like a mobster's car,” Abigail said. When Marshal Quick asked her why she thought it was a mobster's car, she said, “Well, the car was big, it was black, and it was night.” She didn't recall whether anyone had gotten in or out of the vehicle. “But it surely looked suspicious, very suspicious.”
Karl Swanson, Helen's ex-husband? The marshal thought. He tucked the idea in the back of his mind for further consideration.
A couple weeks after J. W. Johnson refused to buy Jake's cucumbers, Jake stopped at the Link Lake National Bank and asked to see his old friend, Amos Caldwell, whom he had known since they were kids.
“Amos,” Jake said in his high-pitched voice. “I'm in a bit of a pickle, what with Harlow refusing to buy any more of my cucumbers.”
“Heard about that, Jake. Damned shame, that spot rot coming in and wiping out your crop. Terrible thing.”
“Had thirty acres you know, and they was doin’ purty good—got to the point where I had nearly paid off Harlow's loans for fertilizer, seed, and haulin’ the migrants up here from Texas. Just about ready to make a little money, I was. Then bam, I'm out of the cucumber business.” Jake clapped his hands together for emphasis.
“It's a shame, Jake. Dirty shame. How can I help you today?”
“Looks like I'm gonna need a little extension on my mortgage payment comin’ due next month. Was countin’ on the pickle money, and now there ain't no more pickle money.”
Amos Caldwell paged through a thick file he had in front him on his big, oak desk. Papers piled high on both sides of the desk left but a small clear area in the center. Behind the desk, a window provided a view of the waters of Link Lake, blue and inviting.
“We've got a lot of money in your operation,” Amos said, looking over glasses that hung on the end of his long nose. His bald head shined with perspiration.
“I know that,” Jake said quietly, almost in a whisper. “I know that. Always made my mortgage payments.”
“Not quite true, Jake. Remember two years ago, when we had that dry spell and your corn crop didn't amount to much? You were six months late.”
“Yeah, that's right. Kind of forgot about that.”
Amos Caldwell rubbed his hand across his head and then closed the folder in front of him.
“I'm afraid we can't give you an extension, Jake. Sorry to say that. But we are way over our loan limit with you—we were counting on your cucumber crop, too.”
“You mean that's it—you won't give me an extension after all we've been through together? We've known each other a long time—you can't just cut me off.”
“Can't help it, Jake. We've got rules to follow, and I've already stretched them way too far in your case.”
“So what am I supposed to do? “What can I do?” Jake asked, quietly. He was rubbing his hands together.
“I frankly don't know,” Amos said. “But I've got to tell you that unless the bank gets a mortgage payment this fall, we'll have to start foreclosure proceedings on you.”
“Foreclose on me?”
“Afraid so. Wouldn't be my choice. I'd argue against it. But rules are rules.”
“Some kind of friend you are,” Jake said, standing up quickly. “Some kind of friend.”
“I'm sorry, Jake. Really sorry.”
“I'll bet you are. You damned money people are all the same. Lookin’ out for your own skins first, to hell with what happens to us poor farmers.” Jake spun around, left the office, and drove out of town.
Upon his arrival at home, he noticed a big green Cadillac parked in the yard, under the elm tree that shaded his back porch. On the doors of the car were the words “H. H. Harlow Pickle Company.” The car must have just arrived, as dust still hung in a cloud over the gravel road.
As Jake approached, a tall young man wearing a white shirt and a green tie stepped out of the car.
“You Jake Stewart?” the man said, smiling. He had a friendly way about him. His shiny brown shoes and white shirt contrasted with Jake's denim overalls and chambray wor
k shirt.
“Yup, that's me,” Jake said.
“Name is Henry Harlow,” the man said. “I'm from the H. H. Harlow Pickle Company.” He extended his hand, as did Jake.
“Nice day,” Harlow said.
“Guess so,” Jake answered. “Hadn't really noticed. Got other things on my mind.”
“I know about your cucumber fields,” Harlow said. “Shame. Just a shame what happened to you.”
“Yeah, just when I was startin’ to make some money and pay off my debt to you guys.”
“I'm here to talk about next year,” Harlow said. “There is always another year.”
“Might not be another year for me,” Jake blurted out. “Bank's plannin’ on foreclosin’ on me. Had counted on the cucumber money to make the mortgage payment.”
“Didn't know about that,” the young Harlow said. “Tell you what: I think I may have an answer for you.”
“I'm a listenin’,” Jake said.
“You're planning on growing cucumbers with us again next year,aren't you?”Harlow asked. He had an intense look in his eyes.
“Haven't decided yet.”
“Oh, you can't let one year get you down!” the young man said enthusiastically.
“I can if it works out like this one did.”
“Here's what we'll do.” Harlow paused for a moment.
“Yeah?” said Jake.
“If you plant fifty acres of cucumbers next year . . .”
“Fifty acres? I'm losin’ my shirt with thirty.”
“This year was a fluke. We've got new seeds that are resistant to spot rot—developed right down there at the College of Agriculture in Madison. You won't have that problem again. Guaranteed.”
“Guaranteed, huh? What do I have to do?”
“Well, you sign a contract with us for fifty acres. We'll provide you with all the seed, all the fertilizer, and arrange for the migrants—at our reasonable prices, of course. And we'll roll over the money you owe us until next year—you'll pay a little interest.”
“Yeah, well all that does is put me further behind and owing you more money. And where am I gonna get the money to make my mortgage payments this fall?”
“And we'll also lend you whatever you need to make your mortgage payments—at reasonable interest rates. And you don't have to pay us a thing until your crop comes in. You won't owe us a cent until next fall, a year from now.”
“I'll . . . I'll have to think that over. Have to think that over,” Jake said. “Does sound like a good deal, though.”
“Good deal. You bet it is. You'll be the biggest cucumber grower in Ames County, bar none.”
“Guess that would be the case, all right.”
“I know how people see you, Jake. You're a leader, someone who has his eye on the future. Someone who has a vision for agriculture in these parts.”
“Suppose so,” Jake said. “Suppose so.” He stood up a little straighter.
“You let me know in a week or so, Jake. The deal can't hold much longer than that. I'm giving you about as good an arrangement as you'll find anywhere.”
“Does sound that way. Does sound that way,” Jake said quietly.
23
Closing Down
Andy Meyer didn't deserve the abuse the community dumped on him. Not only did the letters to the editor in the Link Lake Gazette take him to task for something he had no control over, but rumors began flying that high school kids had been using the basement of the pickle factory as a place to “make out,” as one rather outspoken member of the Church of the Holy Redeemed said. Of course there was not one shred of truth to that, but it was one of those rumors that worked its way through the Link Lake Tap, made the rounds of the grist mill, and only a day or so later was a topic of conversation among the women shopping at the Mercantile.
The Monday after the Clayton auction Dewey John drove over to the pickle factory to talk with him about the spot-rot situation.
“Everybody's got it in for me,” Andy said. He sat in the little office with the payroll records spread out in front of him, doing the work that Helen Swanson had done so well until her disappearance.
“Jake Stewart thinks I came down too hard on him, that I should have bought more of his spot-rot cucumbers. All the little kids with pickle patches hate me for drying up their source of money. Those old biddies from the Church of the Holy Redeemed are blaming me for what happened between the preacher and Helen. And now this rumor that I allowed high school kids to screw in the cellar—well, that's just a crock.”
Andy, usually so mild-mannered, was showing some of his mettle. “What should I do, Dewey?” he asked. “Should I write a letter to the editor giving my side of the story? I could do that.”
“Don't know if it would help,” Dewey said. “Usually these things blow over and people forget about them when some other piece of news comes along.”
“Doesn't seem to be blowing over.”
“Oh, sometimes it takes a little while.”
On his way back to the office, Dewey John decided to write a short editorial about the matter, hoping it would put to rest some of the rumors and outright lies that were floating around Link Lake. He wrote:
INCIDENT AT THE PICKLE FACTORY
Our community has taken an incident that occurred at the local pickle factory and made a mountain out of what is surely a molehill. We know that Pastor Arthur Ketchum and Helen Swanson, both employees at the pickle factory, have come up missing. There is no evidence whatsoever that illicit parties have gone on in the pickle factory basement or that our high school students have been involved. It is hardly fair to blame Andy Meyer, the pickle factory manager, for any of this. Those who know Andy consider him a young man of the highest integrity—this is his fourth year managing the factory, and no one has but the highest praise for his work.
Some people also blame Andy for the spot-rot problem. That is absurd. People have blamed him for refusing to buy their infected cucumbers. Do they expect the H. H. Harlow Pickle Company to purchase a spoiled product?
We should all be thankful that the Harlow Pickle Company has a factory here, and that they have chosen an upstanding person in Andy Meyer to manage it.
The same day the newspaper came out with the editorial supporting Andy, J. W. Johnson pulled up to the pickle factory loading dock in his green pickup and slowly got out. He walked with his head down, big shoulders slumped. He stomped up the stairway and slowly walked to the office where Andy was working on the books.
“Hi there, Andy,” he said in his gravely voice.
“Hi,” Andy answered, looking up from the salting records. He didn't remember Johnson ever calling him Andy before. “What can I do for you?” Andy expected a tongue-lashing about the preacher affair and how it was blemishing the good reputation of H. H. Harlow. He thought Johnson would say something like, “What would Mother Harlow have to say about all these goings on?”
“I'm afraid I've got bad news, Andy,” Johnson said. He had a kind of hangdog look about him, his eyes were watery, and his face was red.
“Bad news?” Andy responded.
“Yup, worst kind of news.” Johnson was fiddling with his green cap with the little cucumber on it. “Don't even know how to say it.”
“Well, just spit it out,” Andy said. He had heard nothing but bad news for the past few weeks, and one more piece wasn't going to make much difference.
“Harlow is closing this factory when the season ends.”
“They always close it at the end of the season.”
“Well, this time it's for good. No more pickle factory in Link Lake. You are out of a job as manager.”
“Why?” Andy said, too loudly. “The spot-rot problem? The preacher affair? Something else I did?”
“None of those things, Andy. Not one of those things.”
“Well then, why?”
“It's economics. That's how young Harlow explained it to me. They can't afford to keep this factory and a bunch of other little ones going. They're c
losin’ them all down and buildin’ a big new pickle factory in Green Bay.”
“What about all the farmers and their pickle patches? What about them?”
“Farmers will be offered contracts to grow cucumbers, as long as they agree to grow at least twenty acres. No more little cucumber patches.”
“No more little ones? Why, we've had pickle patches in Ames County for thirty-five years,” Andy said. “Maybe fifty years.”
“That bastard Harlow can see nothin’ but dollar signs. He's a son of a bitch. He's already holding Jake Stewart's feet to the fire, offerin’ to keep him goin’ with a loan Stewart will never be able to pay back. Makin’ him put in fifty acres next year!”