with a sincerity that Rusty interpreted as feigned. “I’ve been meaning for a long time to stop. How are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“How are those knees holding up?”
“I’ll let you know. What do you want?”
“Dog won’t bite, will it? Looks mean.”
“Take your chances like everyone else,” said Rusty.
“Remember that grain drill I bought from you?”
“No refunds.”
“How did you set the boxes for barley?”
“Set the outside box on about the sixth notch, the inside ones on the tenth.”
“Sixth notch outside, tenth notch inside.”
“Worked for me.”
“A little wet to be mowing, isn’t it?”
“Not really. Want a job doing carpenter work?”
“No. What kind of carpenter work?”
“The house needs a new roof, among other things.”
“I found a good carpenter last summer. Eli Yoder and his boys Isaac and Abraham. They built my new shed.”
“Don’t want Amish,” said Rusty.
“I thought the same thing,” said July, taking his cap off. “But I hired them anyway, and it was the drop-dead best thing I ever did. They work like mules but you only have to pay them like horses.” He laughed. “No, seriously, they did a good job. Eli lives—”
“I know where he lives.”
“Say, have you seen any signs of that cougar?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. But they say it’s around. Many people have heard it and some people have seen it. I saw it myself.”
“First time I see it will be the last,” said Rusty.
“Big cats used to be all through this part of Wisconsin,” said July.
“Maybe so, but people back then had the sense to kill the buggers off.”
A ROOM WITHOUT FURNITURE
WHEN CORA HAD GATHERED ALL THE EVIDENCE SHE NEEDED to prove that the American Milk Cooperative was shipping adulterated milk, shortchanging its patrons, and manipulating government reports, she told her supervisor she didn’t feel well and took the afternoon off. On the drive home she kept her hands from shaking by gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.
The farmhouse seemed cold, and she turned up the thermostat. As her husband moved back and forth through the north windows pulling a chopper and wagon into a field of July hay, Cora poured a cup of hot coffee and drank it, thinking it might calm her down. Then she telephoned the number written on the back of a pink memo card. With the box of photocopied documents sitting on the floor in front of her, she listened to three distant rings before the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture, Trade and Consumer Protection answered.
“May I please speak with the compliance officer in charge of dairy,” said Cora.
“Who’s calling?” asked the secretary.
“A concerned citizen,” said Cora, bracing herself for the questions that would follow.
“I see,” said the voice on the other end. “I’m afraid Mr. Wolfinger is not available.”
“I have something important to speak with him about,” said Cora. “Very important.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wolfinger is not in his office at the present time. Perhaps you can call back later.”
“I must talk to him.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wolfinger is not in his office at the present time. If you wish, you may leave your name, telephone number, and the nature of the business you wish to discuss, and Mr. Wolfinger or a member of his staff will contact you as soon as his schedule allows.”
Reluctantly, Cora gave her name and, in a very general way, said something about the information she had to report. Neither elicited a response.
Outside, the thick sound of the chopper’s whirring vegetative violence ceased. Her husband drove out of the hay field, out of view. A short time later the auger could be heard running beside the bunker feeder.
Three cups of coffee later, Cora called back.
This time, a different voice answered.
“Hello, this is Cora Shotwell. Mr. Wolfinger is expecting my call.”
“One moment, please.”
“This is Mr. Wolfinger,” said a pleasant alto voice.
“I have something you will be extremely interested in,” said Cora.
“Excuse me?”
“I have something you will be interested in,” repeated Cora.
“To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Cora,” she said. “I have really important information to turn over to you.” She steadied her breathing and spoke again. “You will want to send someone immediately. It’s all here.”
“Could you tell me what this is about?”
“It concerns highly illegal actions taken by a very large milk-processing cooperative over a period of roughly six and one- half months. I have proof—all of it. I have it right here. For instance, on this May billing sheet the testing line for the ratio of butterfat and the dates are . . . ”
“Excuse me, where are you calling from?”
“The farm.”
“What farm?”
“We live in Thistlewaite County.”
“How did you come to have this information?”
“My husband and I ship to American Milk. I also work for them as an assistant bookkeeper—at their plant in Grange—and became aware of extremely illegal actions at the main office. I have records that prove everything. When will you be sending someone out?”
“Can you spell your name—last name first.”
“S-h-o-t-w-e-l-l, C-o-r-a.”
“One r?”
“Yes.”
“Your telephone number?”
She
