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 you,” he said. “Make more copies of the copies your wife brings home. Put them somewhere safe. Everything depends on them. If those papers get out of your hands, you’re done. Show them to people you trust. Do you have a lawyer?”
“We don’t need a lawyer.”
“I think you need a lawyer.”
“We can’t afford one.”
“Then maybe you can’t afford to be involved with this.”
“We shouldn’t need a lawyer. We haven’t done anything wrong. This is the United States of America.”
“No country is immune to human nature.”
Grahm reached the end of his desire to talk. He regretted coming. Talking to people was difficult enough, even in the best circumstances. Now he felt angry, and he drove away.
THINK LESS, DO MORE
J ACOB HELM CLIMBED INTO THE JEEP, BACKED OUT OF THE GARAGE attached to the side of his log home, and drove the eight miles into Words. He had bought the Words Repair Shop building soon after moving into the area, converting it from what had once been a creamery. At the time he’d known little about running a business, but he needed a new beginning. After Angela’s death, he’d quit his job of eleven years (he’d been an engineer for an electrical component company), sold their suburban property, and left Sheboygan. He ended up here, determined to immerse himself in anything that bore no resemblance to his past.
The old creamery was bigger than he’d needed for a repair shop—even a shop where he
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 you,” he said. “Make more copies of the copies your wife brings home. Put them somewhere safe. Everything depends on them. If those papers get out of your hands, you’re done. Show them to people you trust. Do you have a lawyer?”
“We don’t need a lawyer.”
“I think you need a lawyer.”
“We can’t afford one.”
“Then maybe you can’t afford to be involved with this.”
“We shouldn’t need a lawyer. We haven’t done anything wrong. This is the United States of America.”
“No country is immune to human nature.”
Grahm reached the end of his desire to talk. He regretted coming. Talking to people was difficult enough, even in the best circumstances. Now he felt angry, and he drove away.
THINK LESS, DO MORE
J ACOB HELM CLIMBED INTO THE JEEP, BACKED OUT OF THE GARAGE attached to the side of his log home, and drove the eight miles into Words. He had bought the Words Repair Shop building soon after moving into the area, converting it from what had once been a creamery. At the time he’d known little about running a business, but he needed a new beginning. After Angela’s death, he’d quit his job of eleven years (he’d been an engineer for an electrical component company), sold their suburban property, and left Sheboygan. He ended up here, determined to immerse himself in anything that bore no resemblance to his past.
The old creamery was bigger than he’d needed for a repair shop—even a shop where he
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