Driftless. David Rhodes
at the branch office in Grange and the following year became an assistant bookkeeper.
Their situation improved. Though much of the money Cora earned went toward the farm operation, they now had a fairly reliable automobile, a roof that did not leak, and a refrigerator with a self-defrosting freezer compartment.
At the same time, their lives became more hectic, a frantic race from one workstation to another. The children were alone, they feared, too much. Cora often found reason to believe that Seth and Grace had grown bigger—grown up—during the space of a single day away from her.
In an effort to lower debt, Grahm added five more cows to his herd. He began leaving the house at 4:30 a.m. and did not return until after 8:00 p.m. They no longer kept a garden and had little time on the weekends for anything other than chores they neglected during the week. And for Grahm, weekends merged seamlessly with weekdays, as indistinguishable as links in a chain. Like most of their neighbors, they came to accept a state of perpetuating fatigue.
In April, Cora returned from work and found Grahm in the machine shed kneeling beside a grain drill. He set down the grease gun, with grease scrolling out of the nozzle’s end like a red transparent worm, and went to her.
“What’s the matter?”
“Grahm, they have a second set of books. There was a discrepancy in the shipping sheets. When I reported it to my supervisor, I was told I could find the correction in the main building in Madison. I drove there this afternoon. There’s a second set of records in back of the main office. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to see them. I don’t know—I’m just an assistant bookkeeper—but there’s a whole wall of file cabinets.”
Grahm stared mutely forward.
“I told my supervisor, but he told me not to worry about it. He said it only concerned upper management and they had a different accounting system.”
“What does this mean?” Grahm asked, feeling much like he had when he’d learned Cora was pregnant, both times. There seemed to be nothing for him to do. Something was happening that greatly concerned him but he had no way to assure that everything would turn out all right, and this somehow seemed like a personal failing.
“Maybe there’s another explanation. Maybe it’s just a mistake.”
“It’s no mistake, Grahm. With one hand they steal from us farmers and with the other they lie to the government. They’re breaking the law and it’s not right.”
Cora decided to gather enough information to prove her suspicions. The next evening she brought home two Xeroxed spreadsheets, folded and tucked into her purse. And she continued collecting evidence.
She also began having difficulty sleeping, migraines, and finally a doctor prescribed pills. But even then she often could not sleep.
Grahm and Cora’s intimacy dried up like attic furniture.
Grahm felt increasingly frustrated. Voices in his mind told him to do something, but he had no ideas. Like most of his neighbors he had devoted his life to farming. He liked farming. All he wanted to do was farm. Farmers had a long, proud history of avoiding social, economic, and political issues. They enjoyed nature, work, and solitude, and they eschewed everything that might be considered grist for the nightly news.
But after a lifetime of successfully defending his private life from the baneful affairs of the world, his wife had rolled a pestilential army of scandalous problems through the front gate. And now they were in his house, in a cardboard box beneath their bed.
One afternoon he drove his pickup to July Montgomery’s small farm, several miles away. Grahm didn’t remember exactly when Montgomery had moved into the area. He’d arrived unnoticed and blended in so well with his surroundings that it seemed he’d always lived in the old brick house, taking over a farm that had been for sale for a long time. Tim Pikes, the drunkard and former owner, had lost the battle against bank payments when Grahm was a small child. Most of the land had been sold off, and the remainder with the buildings—only a hundred acres—didn’t seem like enough for a viable farm, but apparently it was for July.
His place was easy to identify, with MONTGOMERY JERSEY FARM painted in large white letters across the upper front of the red barn. Each word sat on its own board, and the third board had recently come loose on the “m” end and now hung perpendicular to the ground.
Grahm pulled into the driveway just as the middle-aged man in a checkered shirt came around the side of the barn with a double-hung aluminum ladder. He planted the metal feet and pulled on the rope, hoisting the upper half of the ladder into its uppermost position. When the ladder was fully extended, the highest rung came within a couple feet of the hanging board, twenty feet in the air.
Grahm got out of his pickup and walked to the barn. “Hello, July,” he said. “Can I help?”
“Do you have a hammer?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Then I guess you can’t help,” said July and headed up the ladder.
“I can hold the ladder.”
“Good, you do that,” he said.
Watching him climb, Grahm wondered about July. He seemed odd somehow, and because he didn’t look especially out of the ordinary or deformed in any way, Grahm imagined the reason for this impression must come from something July had experienced beyond the normal range of what most people experience. His history, in other words, contained a deformity. And for some unknown reason this made him easier to talk to. He never seemed to be passing judgment.
Standing on the next-to-highest rung, July reached the errant board and worked it underneath the ladder. When it reached the horizontal level of MONTGOMERY and JERSEY, he took a nail from his shirt pocket and drove it into the wood. Then he dropped the hammer into the denim belt loop and climbed to the ground.
“Thanks,” he said.
They collapsed the ladder.
“You got a minute?” asked Grahm.
“Sure. You want some coffee?”
“No thanks, coffee makes me too nervous.” They carried the ladder over to July’s machine shed and hung it on an inside wall. July leaned against the back tire of his Minneapolis-Moline while Grahm paced back and forth over the dirt floor.
“I didn’t know who to talk to. I think we’re getting into trouble, my wife and I. I mean I think we really are.”
“We’re all in trouble,” said July. “We’re farmers.”
“Cora and I ship to American Milk, and Cora works in the office.”
“I ship to them too. Not many independent plants left. American Milk bought up most of them.”
“Cora says they keep two sets of books, and there are other things. One big farm is shipping watered milk; several others routinely test positive for antibiotics and listeria but are accepted anyway. Cora’s making copies of shipping and accounting sheets—stacks of them. She says they will prove everything, and she won’t stop.”
July took off his hat, rubbed a hand through his short brown hair, put his hat back on, and said, “Look, Grahm, this is serious. AM is a Fortune 500 company. The people who run it are wealthy and powerful, and it’s better to just leave them alone.”
“They’re not above the law.”
“Maybe not, but they’re not as far beneath it as we are.” In some ways he looked more worried than Grahm.
“My grandfather and some others started American Milk during the Depression. He was a charter member and it wasn’t a crooked outfit back then.”
“No, maybe not,” said July.
Grahm continued pacing.
July once again took off his hat and rubbed his hand through his hair.
“I don’t know what to tell