Driftless (20 page)

“Mink oil.”

“Of course,” said Rusty. “I remember that smell. I’ll be damned. Mink oil. My uncle owned a shoe store. When did you get to working on shoes?”

Ten minutes later Isaac and Abraham came inside looking for their father.

“Told you boys to stay in the truck,” said Eli gruffly.

“Not their fault,” said Rusty. “Cold out there. We’d better get going—plenty of work to be done. I’ll bring those boots over sometime.”

Work on the Smith house continued through the week. Rusty worked too, as much as he could, replacing the lower portions of siding. He also made numerous trips to the lumberyard for more materials.

He was impressed with Isaac and Abraham. It seemed remarkable that boys their age could pace themselves like grown men. Though they talked back and forth—usually in German—they remained focused on the project at hand and were most concerned with gaining the approval of their father, who watched them at all times. They employed Rusty’s saws and drills with practiced proficiency.

After three days, Rusty began to relax. He could see the likelihood of the work being completed by the end of the month.

But Maxine did not relax. As her mother and sister’s arrival came
closer, she became more anxious, and no corner of the house was safe from her worried inspection.

“You’d think the queen and all her court were coming,” Rusty told Eli as they replaced a rotten piece of siding.

“Women feel strong about their mothers and sisters,” said Eli. “And their mothers and sisters feel strong about them.”

At first the Amish ate their noon meal sitting on the bench beneath the oak tree. But Maxine soon had them at the kitchen table, so she could heat their coffee and soup on the stove. It troubled Maxine that the boys drank coffee, and she lectured them on the ills of caffeine in adolescent development at the same time that she filled their mugs.

Eli, Abraham, and Isaac remained guarded around Maxine. The formality that normally characterized their interactions became almost ritualized in her company. The more Maxine attempted to put them at ease, the stiffer they became. It was as if eye contact with her had been forbidden—something that passed unnoticed by Rusty but was quite irritating to Maxine.

She was also troubled by the amount of fat in their diet, judging by the items they pulled from their lunch pails, and took it upon herself to inform them of what modern nutritional science had to say on the subject. This led to one of the very few times when Rusty had words with her.

“Leave them be, Maxine. Leave them be. You can’t be telling people what they can eat. Look at ’em, they’re thin as posts—all of ’em. They’re a sight better off than most of our people. It’s part of their way. Leave ’em be. And as for the coffee, I used to drink coffee with my brother when we were those boys’ ages and it never hurt us.”

“Russell, you’re five- foot- five and your nerves are completely shot.”

“If you don’t leave ’em alone, we’ll eat outdoors.”

At the end of the week Eli handed Rusty a slip of paper with the hours he and Abraham and Isaac had worked, in pencil. Rusty asked if he should pay the boys separately and Eli said no. Rusty gave him a check.

“I wonder if you could go by the bank on the way home,” said Eli. “I need to deposit some of this.”

“No problem,” said Rusty.

“I should also say that we won’t be here on Monday or Tuesday next week.”

“Why not?”

“We have other things to attend to.”

“Whoa,” said Rusty, shaking a cigarette from his pack. “We’ve got to get this done. I told you that.”

“I know. But we have other commitments.”

Rusty inhaled deeply. “Well, I suppose a couple days won’t matter so long as you know the situation I’m in.”

“I know it,” said Eli.

But later that night when Rusty told Maxine that the workers would not return until Wednesday, her face turned white.

“What other commitments?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask them? Russell, my mother is coming and we—”

“Maxine, I know.”

“They haven’t even begun the work in the basement. We can’t have those humps in the floor, Russell. We can’t have it.”

“I know that, Maxine.”

“Did he promise to complete the work on time, or not?”

“I think so.”

“Either we’ve got a commitment or not. Which is it? Are you sure he knows how important this is to us?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“I did.”

“I knew this would happen. I’m going to have to get up on those ladders and paint the house myself.”

“No you won’t.”

“My mother and sister are coming in less than three weeks and we’re not anywhere near ready. I have the house to clean and the meals to plan and the Lord knows you’re little help.”

“I do the best I can,” said Rusty.

“Well maybe this time it won’t be good enough, Russell. Maybe this time it won’t be.”

The Amish returned on Wednesday and worked through Saturday. Rusty borrowed several heavy jacks from the lumberyard, and with wooden beams taken from Rusty’s barn they lifted the southwest corner of the house and began replacing rotten floor joists. The task proved unexpectedly difficult, and on Sunday there remained gaping holes in the foundation, through which wind, a wild cat, fox, coyote, or wolf might enter the basement during the night.

Early Monday morning when Rusty went to pick up the Yoders, no one came outside. He smoked two cigarettes then knocked on the door. The heavyset woman in bare feet opened it.

“Where’s Eli?” asked Rusty.

“Gone.”

“The boys here?”

“Gone with him.”

“When they coming back?”

“Don’t know.”

“Look, I’m Rusty Smith, and—”

“I know who you are.”

“Eli never said anything about not coming to work. My house is resting on blocks and there’s nothing but tarpaper covering most of the roof.”

“Ella come down sick. Took her to the doctor in the buggy.”

“Who’s Ella?”

“Eli’s wife.”

“Who are you?”

“Eve.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Might send her down for treatments.”

“Down where?”

“Iowa.”

“Iowa! What treatments?”

“Stomach treatments.”

“I wish you people had phones,” said Rusty, rubbing his forehead. The woman continued looking at the ground, without expression.

“Look,” said Rusty, “which doctor did they take her to? I’ll go over there.”

LETTER TO THE EDITOR

C
ORA SHOTWELL CALLED THE WISCONSIN DEPARTMENT OF Agriculture, Trade and Consumer Protection to check on the hearing date for her complaint against American Milk, only to learn that a hearing had not yet been scheduled.

“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.