The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County (32 page)

She slapped her open hand on her desk. She was furious with herself but now, being the strong-minded and usually clear-thinking businesswoman that she was, she wondered what she should do next. Surely, once the world knew the true identity of Stony Field and where he lived, people would be traveling to Link Lake in droves to see the real Stony Field, to interview him and see where and how he lived. And, she quickly surmised, some would come to see the old Trail Marker Oak and the site of the sand mine that Stony had written about in his columns.
What else is going to happen to me?
she thought.
Bombs, tornadoes. And now the real Stony Field revealed. Is this part of God's plan for me? Do I really have no control over my life? Am I merely a puppet in God's hands, doing his will? What will he want me to do next?

She knew what she must do. She had to let the Economic Development Council know as soon as possible, as Stony Field had been a thorn in their side from the day they began discussing bringing jobs to Link Lake. And she looked forward to attending the emergency meeting of the Ames County Eagle Party that Lucas Drake was calling. The Eagle Party tended to disagree with almost everything that Stony Field wrote. The party saw him as a great deterrent to the nation's progress, if not the world's progress.

T
hat evening, the community room at the Link Lake Library was filled with members of the Ames County Eagle Party. They did not yet know the purpose of the meeting, but they trusted Lucas Drake enough to come out when he suggested they should meet.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” said Drake as he got the group's attention. “We have an extremely important situation on our hand. I need your advice on how we should proceed.”

Some fifty Ames County Eagle Party members, including several members of the Link Lake Economic Development Council, most of whom belonged to the party, were in attendance. All were well aware of the problems the Village of Link Lake had as the Alstage Sand Mining Company was making preparations to begin operations in October. Eagle Party members had not been directly involved in the fussing and fuming about the mine and were surprised when Drake said, “We have just learned the true identity of Stony Field, the national environmental writer who, to put it mildly, is not a friend of the Eagle Party, nor is he a friend of the Link Lake Economic Development Council.”

The room was so quiet you could hear a lone mosquito buzzing in the back of the room, looking for a likely victim.

“I've just found out Stony Field lives right here in the Link Lake community,” continued Drake. “And he is someone nobody would ever have guessed would be a famous writer. Ambrose Adler is Stony Field. My neighbor, that old stuttering vegetable farmer, has been fooling us for years.”

“Are you sure?” asked someone in the back. “This sounds preposterous.”

“I'm positive,” said Drake. He took a few minutes to explain how he lived just down the road from the Adler farm, and how his son, Noah, had by accident stumbled upon the secret room where Ambrose did his writing.

“I've got solid evidence here in my hand,” said Drake, waving a sheet of paper above his head. “I've got here a draft copy of one of Stony Field's columns that my son fetched from old Ambrose Adler's wastebasket. This is the smoking gun that proves Ambrose is Stony Field.”

“But are you absolutely sure?” someone else spoke up. “I happen to know Ambrose Adler; I've bought vegetables from him. That man can't speak a sentence without tangling it up, he stutters so bad.”

Marilyn jumped in, “Just because someone stutters doesn't mean they can't write. It doesn't mean they can't think straight.”

“You defending that old bastard, Marilyn?” asked Drake.

“Certainly not. But I am stating a fact. Just because Ambrose Adler stutters doesn't mean he is stupid.”

“He sure writes some stupid stuff,” someone in the front row said, followed by laughter.

“Okay, what are we gonna do about it, now that we know who the real Stony Field is? You are the first to hear the news; we've told no one else. What should we do next?” asked Drake.

There was buzzing in the room. A hand went up. “I say we call the sheriff and have him arrested,” said an angry person standing in the back.

“On what grounds?” chimed in Marilyn.

“On pretending to be someone he is not. Isn't that called impersonation?”

“I don't think that's illegal,” said Marilyn.

“Well, it sure as hell sounds illegal to me. That old bearded stuttering bastard has fooled thousands of people for years. It sounds illegal to me. Let's call the sheriff. That's one thing we can do.”

“Any more ideas?” asked Drake, trying to ignore the previous speaker and looking around the room for someone holding up a hand.

“Well, I have an idea,” he said. “I know one way to shut him up. I suggest we call the
Los Angeles Journal
that syndicates his column and tell them that unless they quit sending the Stony Field column around the country, people will cancel their subscriptions. That should get everyone's attention. And we should call the
Ames County Argus
and suggest the same thing. We'll shut off that old bastard before he does any more harm to this country.”

A
s soon as his father left for the Eagle Party meeting in town, Noah Drake climbed on his bike and pedaled to the Adler farm. Ambrose was sitting on the porch, in an old rocking chair, Ranger and Buster at his feet.

Noah parked his bike and walked up to the porch.

“Hi, Noah,” said Ambrose, pleased to have some company on this pleasant September evening. The crickets had begun singing shortly after sundown, a sure sign that autumn was on the way, but otherwise it was peaceful on Ambrose's porch. The rocking chair squeaked as Ambrose rocked slowly back and forth.

“I have something to tell you, Ambrose,” said Noah as he looked down at his shoes.

“Here, sit down,” Ambrose said, motioning to an empty chair next to the rocker.

Noah took off his cap and sat down. He continued to look at his shoes.

“Nice evening,” said Ambrose. Ranger walked from Ambrose's rocker to the chair where Noah sat. Noah reached down and petted the little animal.

“I did a terrible thing,” Noah blurted out. He continued looking at his shoes. Ambrose didn't say anything but looked at his friend, who didn't look back.

“You forgot to lock your office door this morning,” Noah began. He looked out toward Ambrose's barn, still avoiding looking at his old friend. “And I looked inside. And I know I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have done that,” Noah said quickly, his bottom lip quivering.

Ambrose reached over and put his hand on Noah's arm. “I . . . I,” Noah hesitated. “I figured out that you are Stony Field, the writer.” The words gushed out of Noah like a person who turned on a hose and water poured out in a rush.

“It's okay,” said Ambrose in a quiet voice. “It's okay.”

Tears ran down Noah's face. “I'm so sorry,” said Noah. “So sorry. And one more thing. I told Pa. I shouldn't have told him,” Noah sobbed. His entire body was shaking. “Pa is off at a special meeting in town right now to talk about you, to talk about Stony Field.”

Ambrose continued to pat young Noah on the arm. The little raccoon, sensing Noah's discomfort, rubbed against Noah's leg.

For what seemed like forever, the two friends sat quietly listening to the crickets and feeling the cool night air. Ambrose, his hand still on Noah's arm, said, “Look at me.”

Slowly Noah turned his tear-stained face toward his old friend. “I . . . was going to tell folks myself,” said Ambrose, smiling.

“You were?” said Noah. “You really were?”

“Yup. Don't have to now.”

56

I
n her office at the supper club, Marilyn Jones looked up the phone number for the editorial desk of the
Los Angeles Journal
and gave it to Lucas Drake. “Are you sure you want to make this call, Lucas?” Marilyn asked. “Can you imagine what's going to happen when the country finds out that Stony Field lives right in the Link Lake community?”

“Marilyn, you're going soft on us,” Drake replied. “People need to know who Stony Field really is so they can put a stop to his liberal nonsense. Let the chips fall where they may. Ambrose Adler deserves all that he's going to get, the old bastard. To think he's fooled us all this time. Unbelievable. We gotta stop him. We gotta figure out a way to do it before he does any more damage to this country. One way to do it is to cut off the snake's head right in his nest. And that nest would be that damnable
Los Angeles Journal
that's been sending his columns all over the country.”

The next morning, Drake fussed and fumed and waited for ten o'clock to roll around before he punched in the numbers for the
Los Angeles Journal
.

“
Los Angeles Journal
,” said a pleasant voice upon answering the phone. “How can I be of help?”

“This is Lucas Drake calling from Link Lake, Wisconsin,” Drake said, trying to keep his fury under control. “I would like to speak to Stony Field's editor.”

“Sorry, but she is not available just now. May I take a message?”

“Are you sure she can't come to the phone? What I have is pretty darn important for her to hear.”

“Yes, I am quite sure. Please give me your message and I'll pass it on to her.”

“Well, you tell her that this Stony Field guy who's been a mystery all these years—well, some of us in Link Lake know who he is.” Drake paused for a moment. “You got all of that down?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Well, here's the kicker. Stony Field is really an old dirt farmer who lives on a little farm just outside of Link Lake, Wisconsin. His name is Ambrose Adler and he stutters so bad you can hardly make out what he says.” Another pause. “You got that? Stony Field is really Ambrose Adler who lives near Link Lake, Wisconsin.”

“Yes, sir. I've got it down. But are you sure you have it right?”

“Miss, you're damn right I got it right,” said Drake, unable to control his anger anymore. “You folks have gotta stop those Stony Field columns, and I mean right now. You got all that?”

“Yes, I've got it all.”

“Well, I hope so. I never did trust big city newspapers, not one bit. Most of them are in cahoots with those damn Democrats. A bunch of damn liberals. Ruining this great country of ours, sending it right down the tubes. Dirty shame too.”

“Sir, thank you for the information. And thank you for calling the
Los Angeles Journal.
” The line went dead.

“Well, I'll be damned,” said Drake. He thought,
That newspaperwoman just hung up on me. I had more to say if she'd have listened. But those damn liberals never did know how to listen. Especially to somebody who makes sense. Wonder if she'll do anything about what I told her or just make sure that nobody sees the message. That's the way those liberals work. When they hear about something they don't agree with, they hide it.

After he cooled down a bit, Lucas Drake punched in the numbers for the
Ames County Argus
. “Connect me to Billy Baxter,” he said.

“And who shall I say is calling?”

“Lucas Drake.”

Brief pause. “Lucas, it's Billy Baxter,” said the editor.

“You know who I am, don't you?” said Drake.

“Sure, you've got that big farm out by Link Lake, and you are chairman of the Ames County Eagle Party,” said Baxter. “How's the corn doing this year? Price looks pretty fair?”

“The corn is doing just fine. But I'm calling because I've got some news for you and a request from the Eagle Party.”

“Okay, shoot,” said Baxter.

“We've figured out who the writer Stony Field really is.”

“You have? Well, that would be news.”

“Are you ready for this? Stony Field lives right outside of Link Lake.”

“You sure about that?” said Baxter, using his journalist's show-me-theevidence voice.

“You damn bet I'm sure,” said Drake, his voice rising.

“Well, who do you think Stony Field is?”

“Dammit, Baxter, you listen to me now. I don't think, I
know
who the bastard really is.”

“Well?” said Baxter.

“Stony Field is really Ambrose Adler, that old vegetable farmer who stutters so bad nobody can understand him.”

“I know Ambrose Adler. What you're saying is a little hard to believe.”

“There you go, you're just like those other damn liberal newspaper people, afraid to face the truth when it stares you right in the face.”

“What evidence do you have?” Baxter asked. “Can you prove that Ambrose Adler is really Stony Field—which does sound a little far-fetched?”

“So you don't believe me. You can't take my word?”