Tamarack River Ghost (18 page)

“As a DNR employee or as Natalie Karlsen?”

“So, you really are two people?” Josh said, remembering an earlier conversation. Natalie laughed, and her eyes brightened. Josh liked that.

“As long as Nathan West meets all the requirements, jumps through all the hoops, it’s the company’s right. No law says a hog farm should be a certain size.”

“What about this old river we can’t see this afternoon? How will the Tamarack River and a Nathan West hog factory farm get along? What
about the people who live here in the valley, people who like it quiet, hold annual winter festivals, fish on the river, walk in the park, live out their retirement years in little cabins? What about a factory farm and these people?” asked Josh.

“I worry about these things, Josh. This is me talking now. Not an employee of the DNR. I think about these questions a lot.”

Natalie was looking out the window, staring at the swirling snow and the rivulets of water that trickled down the window.

After a few moments of silence, Natalie said, “How about some dessert at my place? I baked a cake.”

“You baked a cake?” Josh asked. Natalie wrinkled her nose at the comment.

Back in Josh’s pickup, he immediately punched the 4x4 button. They carefully made their way out of the restaurant’s parking lot and onto the county road that led to Willow River. As Josh drove, trying to keep his eyes on the tracks of the few cars that had traveled ahead of him, the truck’s wipers slapped against the windshield, scarcely able to keep up with the falling snow. He could not see more than ten or fifteen feet in front of his truck; he felt like he was driving into a wall of snow that constantly retreated as he entered it—at a top speed of twenty miles an hour. They finally arrived in Willow River; Main Street was deserted, and snow swirled around the street lights, casting eerie shadows. They drove through town, toward Natalie’s place. Josh pulled into the drive that led to Natalie’s cabin; he could feel all four wheels digging into what had become more than a foot of snow. He shut off the engine and turned off the truck lights.

“Quite a ride,” he said, letting out his breath.

“Come on in. We’ll start a fire in the fireplace and watch the storm over the lake. And have some of my chocolate cake.”

“You didn’t say it was chocolate. I like chocolate.”

“Most people do. You know how to start a fire in the fireplace?”

“I do,” Josh said. He crumpled an old newspaper, checked the damper, and balanced a few sticks of kindling wood on the paper, then struck a match to the little pyramid he had made. Soon a brisk fire was crackling.
Outside the big picture window, snow swirled and the wind howled, but it was cozy and warm in Natalie’s cabin.

“Like some more wine before dessert?”

“Sure; whatever you’ve got would be fine.” Soon, Natalie was back with the wine. She sat down beside him in front of the fire.

“Nice place you’ve got,” said Josh.

“I like it. I rented it shortly after I got here. Couldn’t see living in an apartment. Too many nosy neighbors around. Here, I’m all by myself.”

“Isn’t that a little dangerous, I mean being out here all by yourself ?”

“You forget; I do know how to use a gun. . . . Would you like me to rub your neck? I’ll bet it’s killing you after driving through a blizzard.” She began rubbing his neck and his s houlders, relieving the tension. It had been a long time since Josh had felt this good; it had also been a long time since he sat like this with a good-looking woman.

Soon, they were eating chocolate cake and drinking more wine. The blizzard had not let up; in fact, it had grown in intensity. One time, Josh looked out the window at his truck in the driveway, and it appeared nearly buried; a drift of snow had crawled up one side, and the hood was covered with what looked like at least six inches of the white stuff.

At eleven o’clock, Josh stood up and said he should probably make his way home.

“You should stay here tonight,” Natalie said quietly, putting her hand on his knee. It was warm and friendly. “You shouldn’t be out in a storm like this.” She smiled when she said it. She leaned toward him.

Damn, it’s cold this morning. Colder’n a witch’s tit,” said Fred when he joined Oscar at Christo’s for coffee the Wednesday after the Winter Festival. Fred rubbed his hands together as he spoke. “Quite a snowstorm on Sunday. Ain’t had one like that for a while.”

“Sit down, and quit complaining,” said Oscar, who already had a cup of steaming coffee in front of him.

“I ain’t complaining. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, though. Twenty below zero this morning,” said Fred.

“I didn’t think it was that cold. You sure your thermometer ain’t broke?”

“My thermometer ain’t broke. It’s just plain colder than hell.” Fred hung his red-and-black-checked wool Mackinaw over the back of his chair. “How’d you get your coffee already?”

“If you’d get goin’ a little sooner in the morning, you’d get early coffee too.”

Costandina, unbeknownst to both of the old men, was standing off to the side, taking in the conversation and smiling from ear to ear.

“You like some coffee, Fred?” she asked. She had an empty cup in one hand and a steaming pot of coffee in the other.

“You betcha I would. Need to warm up. Cold out there today.” He rubbed his hands together again.

“Looks to me like you got yourself a new haircut,” said Oscar.

“Yup, I did, had my ears lowered. Cap fits better now.”

“That’s one of the reasons you’re so damn cold.”

“What’s one of the reasons?”

“You got your hair cut, dummy. Nobody gets his hair cut in the winter. Hair keeps you warm. Olden days, nobody got a haircut in the winter. They let ’er grow.”

“Well, this ain’t the olden days, Oscar. If you haven’t noticed.”

“So, what’d you make of the winter festival?” asked Oscar.

“Saturday was pretty darn good. About the best Saturday we’ve had in years. That high school band over at Willow River, boy those kids are good. No question about it. Those kids know how to toot on them horns. Expect you’d like to hear what I’ve picked up about your ghost performance,” Fred said.

“What’d you hear?”

Fred smiled, hesitated, and took another sip of coffee.

“Well, what’d you hear?”

“Hate to have to tell you this,” said Fred, trying to be serious.

“What?”

“Folks said it was the best performance you ever gave. Best goll-darn ghost recitation you ever did.” Fred was smiling broadly. He took another sip of coffee.

“Pleased to hear it. Pleased to hear it,” Oscar said. “Sunday kind of fizzled, didn’t it? They did the snowmobile races—at least I think they did. You could hear ’em roaring down the river, but you couldn’t see ’em. Wonder how them snowmobile drivers could see where they was goin’? I wondered about that.”

“I didn’t stay. Drove on home when it started snowin’ hard. Tires on my pickup ain’t the best any more. Traction’s not so good,” Fred said.

“Say, you been reading the
Farm Country News
?” asked Oscar.

“Yeah, I read most of it the day it comes out. Sometimes I read all of it. Depends on how busy I am. Sometimes I’m pretty busy.”

“Well, did you read that stuff that somebody using the initials ‘M.D.’ wrote?”

“Yeah, I read it. Supposed to be poetry, I expect. Do you think it’s poetry, Oscar?”

“Doesn’t matter what it is, matters what it says and who says it.”

“I’m just not sure it’s poetry. Set up like poetry, short lines stacked up on top of each other, but isn’t poetry supposed to rhyme?”

“Damn it, doesn’t matter if it’s poetry or not. What’d you make of it, Fred?”

“First off, whoever M.D. is, he doesn’t think much of the new pig farm comin’ into the valley, does he?” answered Fred.

“He sure doesn’t, and I pretty much agree with him,” said Oscar. “I don’t think havin’ that many pigs on one piece of ground is a good idea.”

“But them pigs ain’t gonna be outside. They’re gonna be in buildings, big, new buildings,” said Fred, taking another sip of coffee.

“There’s still pig manure, Fred, inside a building or not. Pig manure’s gotta get outside sometime or another. And pig manure stinks.”

“But don’t we need something to lower our taxes? Property taxes are just about killin’ us. Keep goin’ up every year. Need a new business to increase our tax base.”

“That we do, Fred; that we do. I agree with you there. Say, who do you think is writing these poems? Who do you think M.D. is? Could it be one of our doctors in Willow River? They’re all MDs, aren’t they?”

“Nah, don’t think it’s no doctor. Those folks are so darn busy, they don’t have time to do anything but help sick people.”

“I think I know who M.D. is. I think I know,” said Oscar.

“Well, you gonna tell me, or just keep it to yourself ?”

“You’re testy this morning; you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“Maybe. Maybe I did. None of your damn business what side of the bed I got up on. So who is M.D., in your well-informed, intelligent way of thinking about things?”

“I think M.D. stands for Mortimer Dunn, the Tamarack River Ghost.”

Fred laughed out loud. “You serious? Old Mort Dunn’s been gone since 1900, hardly think he’s up to writing poetry or whatever that stuff in the paper is.”

“The ghost could be workin’ with a livin’ person, givin’ him the ideas to put down on paper and send in,” said Oscar.

“Oscar, I saw it comin’ your way, and I think it’s now here. Yup, I think it’s now here,” said Fred.

“What the hell you thinkin’ about now?”

“I’m thinkin’ about you.”

“I thought we was talking about who M.D. was.”

“We were.”

“So, what about me? What’s coming my way?”

“Senility, the old-timer’s disease,” said Fred.

“Hell, Fred, I ain’t no more senile than you are.”

“So why’d you think ‘M.D.’ might stand for Mortimer Dunn?”

“’Cause it just might. Say as you will, that old Tamarack River Ghost is still around. Still around. You can bet your bottom dollar on it,” said Oscar.

Josh Wittmore, ad manager Bixby Billings, photographer Steve Atkins, and Bert Schmid sat around an old oak table in
Farm Country News
’s conference room on the Wednesday afternoon following the Tamarack River Winter Festival. The conference room also served as the lunchroom, archives collection room, photocopy room, and a place where extra stuff was stored—such as newspapers from around the country, farm magazines, and the like.

Bert had written rows of numbers on the blackboard that hung on one end of the room. Above each row, he wrote a year, starting with 1965, and a year for every ten years since. The numbers represented profits, and from 1965 to 1995 they showed a steady increase—1995 was a peak. Since then, the numbers had been dropping. The newspaper was losing money, more each quarter.

When everyone was seated, Bert stood up and walked to the board. “You all know that we’ve got financial troubles, but I wanted to take a few minutes to show you how bad it really is. There’s a clear danger we might go bankrupt.”

The room was quiet. “The numbers speak for themselves—so, do you have any questions?”

“Have we had any increase in subscriptions since we started running some of the community contributions?” asked Josh.

“A little. A few more subscribers. We need all the subscribers we can find, but our big problem is advertisers. We need more advertising money. That’s how we’ve survived in the past; that’s the only way we can survive in the future. Bixby, what’s your take on increasing advertising revenue?”

Bixby Billings, a round-faced, bald, moderately overweight man, was prone to wearing loud neckties and bright shirts. He generally had a positive, I-can-get-it-done attitude. But not today. “I’m trying everything,” he said. “I tried various kinds of special offers. I make the rounds of the farm shows, talking to the big machinery and feed guys. I’m working ten-hour days, and when all is said and done—I just don’t know what to do. The Internet is killing us. No question about it. The big companies, the farm machinery companies, the feed companies, the chemical companies—they have as much advertising money as before or more than ever—but they’re advertising through their own websites and on dozens of other farm-related websites. I don’t know how to compete with that.”

“Josh, what’s your take on all this?”

“I think Bixby’s got it right. The Internet is the future for lots of people, farm people included.”

“Damn Internet,” Bert said, pounding his big hand on the table. It’s gonna destroy all of us. How in hell do you fight something you can’t see? Tell me that?”

The room was silent, as everyone knew Bert’s attitude toward computers and the Internet. Bert insisted on writing his stories with a manual typewriter—the paper’s secretary retyped his work onto the paper’s server so it could be sent to their printer, which refused to accept anything that wasn’t digital.

“One last hope we’ve got,” said Bert, rubbing his hand through his thick, unruly gray hair. “That’s the Nathan West story. That’ll probably be the biggest story we’ve ever done, after the feedlot stories, that is; we sure got people talking about how beef cattle are fed for market. Folks are split every which way about the coming of this big factory farm to the Tamarack River Valley. Soon as you do your visit to the farm in Iowa, we’ll step up our coverage. Get people reading about Nathan West—and arguing. Can’t beat an issue like this for stirring up interest.”

“I hope you’re right,” Josh said quietly. “I hope you’re right.”

Josh returned to his office. He was worried about his future with
Farm Country News
, but at the same time more than pleased with how his relationship with Natalie was developing. At his desk, he opened a plain envelope postmarked Waupaca. It contained two more submissions signed
“M.D.” Josh had given up trying to identify the writer. What he did know was that people were talking about M.D.’s writing, and that’s what was important. It didn’t matter if they were for or against the writer’s positions; what mattered is that they talked about it—and bought more newspapers.