Driftless (34 page)

“Oh, I will,” said Olivia.

INSURGENCY

G
RAHM 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?” asked 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.”

“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.”