by J. L. Wilson
I sat back, my stomach twisting into knots. “Rob Huntington? He knew?” Rob was the Chief of Operations at the production plant, a job he took several years earlier when he sold the hardware store he inherited from his father.
“He had to know. The cover-up goes all the way to the top.”
How could Rob do it? How could he deliberately put lives in danger? Damn. I was going to Rob’s house. How could I face him knowing this? “Are you sure?”
Will pointed to the USB stick. “It’s all there. Pictures, videos, copies of documents.” He got to his feet. “Keep it for me, okay? I don’t dare keep a copy on me. I emailed a copy to my contact in The Group but I want a backup. I think I’ve been followed.”
The Group was the humane organization Will worked for. I couldn’t remember the name. Farm Humane, or Farm Freedom, or something like that. He showed me some of their literature and it sickened me so much I immediately tossed it away, probably not the marketing strategy the graphic images of caged and injured farm animals was meant to evoke.
My cell phone, buried somewhere in my purse, blared George Thorogood’s “I Drink Alone,” one of my bar-themed ringtones telling me someone was calling. “I’ll keep it for you, Will.” I went to the entryway table to retrieve my bag. “I’ll put it in my safe at the bank.”
“No, keep it with you, please.” He picked up the USB stick and followed me to the door leading to the garage. “I’ll let myself out this way and go around back.”
A crack of thunder sounded overhead. “It’s pouring rain. At least take a jacket or umbrella.”
“Nope. It’ll be better if I come home soaked. I don’t know if I trust the other guys in the apartment. They’re company men, I’m sure of it.” He pressed the memory stick into my hand.
I would’ve laughed at his somber accusation but he seemed so damn serious. I reached for my purse, but George had stopped singing. I dropped the memory stick into an interior pocket, zipping it inside and making sure Will saw me do it. “Take care, sugar.” I stood on tiptoes to tug his shoulder to my level.
He stooped and I put a kiss on his whisker-stubbled cheek. He was so tall and grown-up but when I peered into his pretty blue eyes, I still saw a little toddler I chased around our house. “You take care. Don’t go getting into any more fights.”
“You know me. I can’t walk away from ’em.” I opened the door to the garage, swinging it wide so the motion light came on to show the three short steps. “Be careful,” I said when he slipped past my car and headed for the back door leading into the yard.
He raised a hand. “Love you, Auntie.”
“Love you, too,” I said, but he was already gone, the door opening and closing so fast I might have imagined it.
I stepped back into the house when my phone blared “I Drink Alone” again. This time I managed to find the phone before the caller hung up. “Who is this and what do you want at—” I checked the clock, “—at two damn o’clock in the morning?” A crackling noise on the line garbled whoever was talking. It was either static or the person was talking around marbles. “Slow down, slow down. Who is this?”
“It’s me. It’s Rob.” He laughed shakily. “You don’t have to come. I was wrong. I didn’t . . . God, I guess I’m too drunk to know . . . going on.”
I longed to fling the phone against the wall. Why me, Jesus? I stared at the ceiling and took a steadying breath. “I was getting ready to leave. Are you saying I don’t have to?”
“Oh, good . . .you might be on the road . . . drunk or . . . passed . . . and when I came to . . . gone. I think I saw him walking ….”
“You think you saw him? You mean Guy?”
“I was kinda fading in and out.”
Another burst of thunder crashed overhead and static swelled, drowning out whatever else he said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come out?”
“No, no, don’t come out. It’s a mess. I’m a mess.” Rob talked so fast his words tumbled over each other. “It’s terrible. I mean, the house is a mess, and I’m a mess and I cut my head and there’s blood. Don’t come. Please.”
He sounded desperate. I remembered how drunk he’d been. “Are you sure? Are you okay? What do you mean, you cut your head?”
“I’m fine. Really. Please. I’m sorry I called you. I shouldn’t have done it. Go to sleep. Everything is—” A burst of static punctuated his final words.
I waited but he didn’t come back on the line. I clicked the phone off and dropped it back in my purse. My Good Samaritan personality warred with my Don’t Give A Shit personality. If Rob was injured, someone should check on him. He was there by the river, alone.
I turned off the light next to the couch and walked to my bedroom. Rob was a grown man and he was married. If his wife didn’t care, why should I?
My Don’t Give A Shit personality won. I peeled off my clothes, dropped into bed, and was asleep before my head touched the pillow.
****
I slept the sleep of the innocent, deep and without dreams and awoke refreshed and ready to face the day. I sauntered to the mailbox across the street to retrieve the morning paper and yesterday’s mail, delivered late in the afternoon when I was at work.
It was a beautiful summer day, the cool breeze contrasting with the bright sunlight dancing off puddles from last night’s rain. I drew in a deep breath of grass, flowers, and warmth then sneezed, a reminder I needed to take my allergy pills. My lawn needed mowing and my hedge needed trimming, but my ineptitude with power tools had convinced me to hire a landscape service to handle it. Now that the heat wave was broken, they would probably be coming to work their usual magic.
Mine was one of the oldest neighborhoods in Barnsdale, with many mature trees providing me with privacy and shade. Through one of the breaks in the trees, I spied my neighbor on the right puttering in his flower garden and across the street I saw a couple walking their dog. Other than those folks, it was all quiet in Sherwood Acres. I sometimes felt like I’d been transported to Beaver Cleaver Land. All that was lacking was the Beav himself, riding by on his bicycle.
I returned to the house and opened the windows, anxious to let in fresh air. When I examined myself in the bathroom mirror, I decided my eye wasn’t really so bad. My vision was no longer blurry and the color had morphed into a decidedly bluish-gray. Therefore I was on the mend and didn’t need a visit to the optometrist.
While I sat on the couch nursing my second cup of coffee, the phone rang. “It’s your dime, so start talking,” I said around a sip of dark roast Columbian.
“Tucker, this is Marianne Archer. Could you come to the office before you open the bar today? I need to talk with you.”
I longed to slap myself upside the head. Why, oh why, couldn’t I learn to check caller ID before picking up a phone? “I’m not sure, Marianne. I’m kinda busy. Why? Is this about Rob?”
She laughed, a sad, soft noise. “Yes and no. Can you stop by?”
I could easily imagine Marianne at her desk in the Barnsdale Bugle newspaper office, the phone almost hidden under her mane of white-gold hair that tumbled along her back in curls. Most women in mid-life sported short hair-dos, but Marianne still was like a throwback to the Sixties, with loose clothing, long, flowing hair and a kind of breathlessness that reminded me of the Hippy Movement. Everything Marianne did had a brittle quality to it, like she was made of porcelain and would break if touched too roughly.
I eyed the clock. It was now ten in the morning. I alternated as head bartender on the weekends with Miller, the head brew master, and this was my weekend to work. I had a firm rule that the Acorn didn’t open to the public until two p.m. even though the Parlor opened at eleven in the morning. As far as I was concerned, no one had any business drinking before two in the afternoon.
“I’m surprised you’re in the office on Saturday,” I said, stalling for time. “Don’t newspaper people get a day off?”
“I’m working on a special insert for Wednesday’s paper about the Founders’ cel
ebration. Can you drop by? I usually eat lunch at my desk, so any time would be fine with me.”
“I suppose.” I mentally tallied the errands I needed to run. “I’ll drop by before I go to the Acorn.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” She hung up before I could say I can’t stay for long, though.
I heaved myself off the couch and went downstairs to my partially unfinished basement, which housed the laundry room and my exercise equipment. I set my television to home improvement shows, hopped on the treadmill and did a forty-minute fast walk followed by twenty minutes of free weights. I was dripping with sweat by the time I finished, so I toddled off to the get ready for the day. If I timed it right, I could drop by the newspaper office a few minutes before I was scheduled to open the Acorn for the afternoon. That way I had a built-in excuse to not stay long.
Cheered by my plan, I showered then toweled my hair and finger-curled it into place where it would dry eventually. Next, I examined myself in the mirror. My face had returned to its normal shape and I no longer looked like the Old Me, praise Jesus. I kept few reminders around me of The Fat Days, but I did hold on to a pair of jeans which used to be snug. I used those pants to remind me whenever Dairy Queen or fast food called to me.
I dabbed on tinted moisturizer but didn’t try to cover the shiner. No amount of foundation would cover it. I passed on the eye makeup and went to my home office. I got the memory stick from my purse and without stopping to consider the consequences I opened the contents on my computer screen.
A Read-Me file caught my attention. I opened it and saw a detailed list of dates, times, and what appeared to be file names. There were also some notations I didn’t understand and a cryptic note: Make sure this information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. It might mean your life.
Good heavens. Surely Will didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t sure what he meant. I turned my attention to the other files, many with .doc extensions and many with .jpg or .vid extensions. I clicked on one of the .jpg files and leaned back, stunned.
I knew factory farming was inhumane. Anyone who knew anything about agriculture knew you couldn’t mass produce animals without some suffering. But this? Holy God in Heaven, someone should smite the people who did this. Will’s files showed pictures of hens so confined they couldn’t move, couldn’t flap their wings, let alone do the things that chickens do: build a nest, perch, or simply breathe without another animal nearby.
I skimmed through the documents he copied, some of which were probably taken with a cell phone or another less-than-perfect camera. Yes, I saw Rob’s signature on bills of lading, on safety reports, on production reports. He had to know what was going on, had to know those animals were being so tortured, so confined that disease was inevitable.
I opened one video file and it was my undoing. What I saw sickened me. Animals so jammed together they were like bundles of feathers, the din of their screaming like something from hell. Small chicks were mowed down by machinery, mangled by metal while the hens screamed and flapped, terror so evident in their motions I wondered how anyone could stand there and film it. I jerked the memory stick from my USB port and dropped it in my purse with shaking hands.
I took steadying breaths and focused on my desktop. This kind of barbaric behavior was going on right now, seven miles from me in York, Iowa. No wonder the workers called the place The Yoke. They must feel as dehumanized as the creatures confined there. In many ways, the human workers were also confined, kept there by relatively good pay for simple manual labor. How could they do it? How could they go there, day after day, knowing what was happening?
I’ve heard people dismiss chickens or pigs or cows as lesser creatures, without feelings, without knowledge of pain. Were they being dismissive because they didn’t dare think about what was done to provide them with a cheap food source?
I pushed away from the desk, the images of those terrorized creatures flashing through my mind. They knew pain. I’d stake my life on it. Someone had to pay, not only for this brutality, but also for putting humans at risk in order to save money and maximize profits by shipping unsafe food. If Rob didn’t pay, someone would.
I’d see to it.
I was getting ready to leave the house when my home phone rang. I checked the caller ID this time and when I saw the name, I was primed to give him a piece of my mind. “What the hell do you want, Rob?”
He laughed shakily. “I’m sorry, Tuck. I can’t blame you for being pissed off at me.”
“You have no idea.” I struggled to remind myself that the information on the USB stick was private, confidential and dangerous. I couldn’t mention it to anyone. Will trusted me and I would honor his trust.
“Did I keep you awake last night? I’m sorry. I should never have called you. I was upset and I couldn’t call Marianne again because she was mad at me.”
“Don’t ever come to my bar drunk again. I won’t have the Oak’s Acorn getting a reputation for serving lushes, do you understand me?”
“That’s a bit rough, isn’t it? I mean, it’s only a bar. People expect that kind of thing now and again.”
I felt like the top of my head might blow off. “Don’t you dare say the Acorn is only a bar. Alan and I worked hard to make it more than that. We didn’t have anybody helping us to do it, either.”
There was a pause. “What’s that mean?”
“You heard me. I scraped together every penny I could to go in with Miller on the Pub and when Alan joined us with the restaurant, we had to dig deep to renovate the building. None of us had a father or a friend to give us a job. We worked to make the Oak’s Acorn a success. We have nothing to fall back on if it doesn’t succeed.”
“And you think I do have something to fall back on?”
“You have a wife.”
“Not for long. I don’t know what I’ll do if Marianne leaves.” Rob’s voice morphed from anger to morose.
Several answers popped into my head. Quite well, Rob. Or maybe, Easier than you think, Rob. Or how about, You’re better off without her? I restrained myself admirably. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“And what if I lose my job?” he continued. “What will I do?”
The same as most people, I longed to say. You’ll make do. “What do you mean?”
“Richard is coming to town next week. The investigation isn’t going well. The Feds are trying to pin the salmonella outbreak on us.”
“Of course the investigation isn’t going well. Your factory is hell on earth. Why should it go well?”
“That’s not true.” He said it automatically, with no passion behind it.
“We can argue until we’re blue in the face. You know and I know factory farming is wrong, it’s unethical, and it should be banned.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll bet you’d be the first to yell if your food prices went up. What would happen to your precious restaurant? You’d have to raise prices and then what would happen?”
“We use all organic food now,” I retorted. “No one has complained about our prices. John Smalley charges a fair price for his food.”
“John.” Rob almost snarled the name. “Did you know he’s sponsoring egg-free Friday?”
“Good for him.” A local consortium of vegetarians were advocating for Meatless Mondays and Egg-Free Fridays as a way to educate the public about the costs of a carnivorous lifestyle. “Why shouldn’t he sponsor it?”
“It’s hypocritical, don’t you think? After all, John raises animals for slaughter and chickens for their eggs.”
“You’re missing the point, Rob. John’s operation is natural and organic, the kind of thing which doesn’t require large sales to stay in business. Unlike a factory which has millions of dollars tied up in the operation. If more people used meat or eggs as an option, not a main course—”
Either Rob didn’t understand or he didn’t care. “If everyone tried to go organic, prices would shoot up. That’s what would happen if we didn’t have large-scale meat and poultry processing.”
“Rob, you’re so full of shit I’m surprised you can walk without farting chunks.” I slammed the phone so hard the end table wobbled. I slung my purse over my shoulder, more resolved than ever to see the damned Yoke shut down. If Rob lost his job, so be it. That asshole could figure out something else to do with his life. He wasn’t my problem.
I stalked from the room, a woman on a mission.
Chapter 3
I drove into town, still shaking with anger from my argument with Rob. I don’t normally air my viewpoints, but I was a proponent of the locavore movement long before there was a movement. Alice Waters and Frances Moore Lappé were, in my not so humble opinion, Goddesses of American cuisine and their insistence on using in-season foods for freshness and quality was an epiphany for me.
I studied their philosophies and their recipes, seeing in the locavore movement a return to home cooking in its simplest, most basic form. When I met Alan, whose culinary talents were centered in organics, I knew I found a business partner I could trust. My dream of opening a pub expanded to include the kind of restaurant I never thought I could own.
I took several calming breaths while I drove through the Sherwood neighborhood, noting how last night’s downpour perked up the grass, flowers, and trees. Prior to the rain, everything had a dusty, tired feel, which came from too long in heat with too little water. But now the red and gold marigolds in the flowerbeds seemed especially vibrant, the oak and maple trees glistened with health, and the grass of lawns appeared almost lush and soft again.
It’s June in Iowa. If I stood long enough near a field, I could probably hear the corn grow. My jangled nerves relaxed while I drove past tidy home gardens, with fields of green corn and soybeans in the distance.
I parked on Main Street and first dropped by Barnsdale Hardware to pick up a new screwdriver to replace the one I lost outside. A Closed sign was on the door and when I peeked through the glass window, I saw the goods were off the shelves and someone was in the middle of painting, evidenced by drop cloths on the floor. I made a mental note to drop by the Weed and Feed Store on the outskirts of town and get the screwdriver.