Tamarack River Ghost (23 page)

“Thank you, Emily. But I should be getting back to my place. I’ve got two committee meetings tomorrow, and you know how those can drag on.”

“I owe you a lot, Professor Oakfield. You helped me every step of the way with this research project. Come on up to the apartment for a glass of wine. It’s one small way I can say thank you.”

“Oh, all right,” said Randy.

Emily’s apartment was in an older apartment building on Langdon Street, easy walking distance from the campus. Her apartment was on the second floor, its north-facing windows offering a glimpse of Lake Mendota. Emily unlocked the front door of the building. “Up these stairs,” she said as she led the way to the hallway on the second floor and the door to her apartment. She opened the door, and they stepped inside. It was neat and
tidy, not at all like some of the student apartments Randy had seen. It consisted of a moderate-sized living-dining room, a small kitchen, a bath, and, he assumed, one bedroom. A large painting of a farm scene hung over a new-looking leather sofa, and a stuffed Bucky Badger sat in a chair near the sofa. A wooden table with four chairs, they looked new, sat on one end of the living room, nearest the kitchen. A big-screen TV took up most of one wall in the living room. The apartment was considerably better furnished than any graduate student apartment Randy had ever seen.

“Would you like some merlot?”

“Sure,” replied Randy. He didn’t want to confess that he didn’t know one wine from another.

“Take off your coat and relax. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Randy felt a bit uncomfortable. What if someone he knew, perhaps one of his students, had seen him enter the apartment with Emily? That would surely set tongues to wagging. He hadn’t seen anyone on the street. Late Tuesday evenings were fairly quiet, even on Langdon Street.

Soon Emily returned. She had changed clothes and was carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, plus some cheese and crackers. She wore a gray UW T-shirt and sweat pants.

She sat down at the table and poured the glasses half full.

“To our research project,” she said.

They clinked their glasses.

“And a big thank you to my major professor,” she said, raising her glass in a salute.

“Thank you,” Randy said. He wondered how he could graciously leave without offending Emily, who had obviously earlier planned to have him stop by after their trip to Willow River.

Emily made sure Randy’s glass remained filled, as they enjoyed cheese and crackers and chatted about the department, other research projects, and university life in general. Randy soon began to feel a little lightheaded— he had little experience with wine, or any other alcoholic beverage, for that matter.

As they talked, Emily put her hand on Randy’s arm and told him again what a wonderful advisor he was, and what a great future he had in the
department. Soon, her hand was on his, and he began to feel things he hadn’t felt since he was in high school and had attended the junior prom with a blind date who, as it turned out, was looking for more than dancing. He could feel perspiration beading on his forehead.

An hour later, his head still spinning, Randy found himself in bed with Emily, and neither of them had on a stitch of clothing.

“We . . . we shouldn’t have done this,” he stammered.

“Why not,” she said, smiling. Her long red hair lay mussed on a pillow.

“It’s not . . . it’s not right.”

“I won’t tell,” Emily said. “Besides, wasn’t it fun?” Emily giggled.

“I’ve . . . I’ve got to be going,” Randy said as he began pulling on his clothes.

“See you tomorrow morning,” Emily said. Smiling broadly and wrapped in a sheet, she walked him to the door.

Randy drove the couple of miles to his apartment on Mineral Point Road. His mind was a clutter of mixed thoughts.

The morning after the listening session, Josh Wittmore was on the phone with Cindy Jennings, chair of the Ames County Zoning Committee.

“Did your committee vote last night?”

“We did. We voted four to one to approve the zoning change. The university research results took most of the wind out of the sails of those opposing the project. Didn’t hurt that the company promised a pile of money to spiff up Tamarack Corners either,” said Cindy, “but I was a little surprised at those research results.”

“So was I. But the university wouldn’t report erroneous figures. I’ve never known it to do that. Looks like Nathan West will have clear sailing from here on out,” Josh said.

“It looks that way. Fellow from Nathan West called this morning too. Folks from the company will start building next week,” said Cindy.

“I figured they would,” said Josh. “They’ve already waited longer than they like for a decision.”

“Democracy sometimes takes time,” said Cindy.

“As it should,” said Josh.

Josh turned on his computer and read an e-mail from the mysterious M.D. He checked for a return address and saw nothing but numbers and letters. The subject line read: “Something for Your Paper.”

Josh printed the e-mail and set it on the side of his desk. He’d show the piece to Bert and then find a place for it in the next edition of the paper, due out the end of the week. He wondered what he would write about the hearing at the library and the vote taken by the Ames County Zoning Committee. He took the M.D. piece and walked out into the hall and then to Bert’s office. His door was closed—it was never closed. Josh knocked.

“Come in,” a muffled voice said. It didn’t sound like Bert. Josh wondered if his boss was sick. He opened the door and saw Bert with his head down on his desk.

“Are you all right?” Josh asked, surprised at what he saw.

“It’s lost.”

“What’s lost?”

“Everything is lost, Josh. Everything is lost,” said Bert as he lifted his head from the desk. His eyes were red. His gray hair was mussed. He put on his wire-rimmed glasses.

“What’s lost, Bert?”

“Our paper.
Farm Country News
is gone. Gone forever.”

“What happened?”

“Hector Cadwalader from the bank called about an hour ago. He said he couldn’t lend me anymore money, that he’d given me too much already. He’s pulled the plug on us, Josh. The paper is finished.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Nothing we can do. Everybody is out of work, myself included. Imagine, we’ve been in business since 1868; that’s more than 140 years. More than a 140 years and now, just like that—poof. We’re no more. Bank is gonna own us, what’s left of us. Cadwalader said he would try to find a buyer. Who’d buy our rag? If we couldn’t make it work, who does he think can?”

Bert looked like he was going to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Josh said. “Just when we had a good story going too. I thought we’d turned the corner, that people were paying attention to us again.”

“So did I,” said Bert. “But paying attention doesn’t pay the bills. Advertisements and subscriptions pay the bills, and, as you know, both have been disappearing the last couple years. Internet’s done us in. People expect to get their news for free these days, right off their computers or their cell phones. And they read these goofy blogs that every Tom, Dick, and Jane write and they think they’re getting the news. Or they listen to some horse’s-ass radio guy shooting off his mouth about something that he hasn’t bothered to research or think through. That’s what people think is the news. Well, it isn’t.” Bert pounded his fist on the table. As he talked, his face got redder and redder.

Bert paused and then said, “Hector said the two of us should stay on to the end of the week, at least until we let everybody know that the paper is dead. He said we should do an inventory of what we have here in the office. He’d make sure we’d get paid until the end of the week.”

“Want me to help you write letters to the bureaus to let them know what happened?” Josh interrupted, not knowing where Bert’s tirade was going to take him.

“I would appreciate it if you’d do that. Draft the letters, and I’ll sign them. Tell everyone how sorry I am that this happened and that I’d tried my best to keep the paper afloat and failed—use your own words. You’re a better writer than I am.”

Josh returned to his office, his mind in a muddle, He worried about Bert; he certainly wasn’t taking the news well. He worried about his own
career. What would he do? He had enough savings to last about four months, six on the outside, if he really skimped, and unemployment benefits would also help. He thought about Natalie and their relationship. He had even begun to think he might propose to her someday. But propose to someone when you don’t have a job? She’d laugh at him, and he couldn’t blame her.

He drafted a letter on his computer, taking the better part of an hour to do it. He knew Bert quite well, and he wanted to make sure that the letter sounded like his boss, not like him. He kept it simple, laying out the facts of the matter and explaining that everything possible had been done to keep the paper alive and well. He mentioned other newspapers that had folded and how journalism as a profession was suffering in the face of so much information available on the Internet, almost all of it free.

He printed a draft of the letter, knowing Bert would want to add some of his own phrases and perhaps leave out some of what Josh had written. Bert’s office door was still closed. He knocked gently, then louder. But there was no answer. He opened the door and saw Bert, face-down on the desk; his glasses had twisted and broken when he’d fallen on them. His arms hung limp from his sides. Josh immediately called 911.

The next few days were a blur for Josh. In one day he had lost two dear friends: Bert had died of a heart attack, and the newspaper where he had worked since he graduated from college had folded. The people at the bank that now owned the defunct paper were reasonable. They turned the informing—termination letters to all the staff at the various bureaus—over to Josh. Josh preceded each letter with a phone call. He believed the staff members deserved to hear a real voice tell them what had happened and why they were losing their jobs.

Josh received a few e-mails with questions about what had happened. He was surprised to see an inquiry from the
Wall Street Journal
asking for details of the paper’s closing, requesting a quotation about what he believed was happening in the newspaper world, even among newspapers such as
Farm Country News
, which had well-defined audiences.

Between business phone calls, Natalie called. “I’m so sorry to hear about Bert’s death; he was one of the good guys,” she said.

“He certainly was,” said Josh. “I just can’t believe he’s gone. Just can’t believe it. Bert took the demise of the newspaper pretty hard. He couldn’t accept that the bank was closing down his life’s work.”

“What about you, Josh? You okay?” Natalie asked. She had genuine concern in her voice. “You want to stop by tonight? I’ll fix you supper.”

“I can’t. I’ve got too much to do. The bank wants everything inventoried and organized by week’s end. I’m only about half done, and I’m the only one here. Everyone’s gone.”

“Well, I’m thinking about you, Josh.”

“Thank you,” Josh said. He was thankful that Natalie didn’t ask him what he was going to do with the rest of his life, now that he was out of work with no job prospects in mind. While he was inventorying newspaper archives, photo archives, computer equipment—a rather mindless job—he thought about his prospects. The more he thought about it, the more depressed he got. His job had been a rather specialized one, within a rather specialized area of journalism—agricultural reporter. The handful of other magazines and newspapers that focused on farming and agriculture also struggled to keep afloat. They surely weren’t looking for any laid-off farm reporters.

Shortly after noon on Friday, Josh’s phone rang. At least the bank hadn’t disconnected the phone, not yet anyway.

“This is Josh Wittmore.”

“This is Hector Cadwalader, over at the bank. Could you stop by my office this afternoon, say around 3:00?”

“Sure,” Josh said. He thought that Cadwalader wanted the inventory reports he been working on all week and probably wanted to hear how the former staff members had taken the news about losing their jobs. He hurried to finish the last of the equipment inventory, gathered up the lists, and put them in a folder. At 2:58, he was in the lobby of the Ames County Bank and Trust. The bank building, one of the prominent structures on Main Street, had housed the bank since 1912. It was built of quarried rock, built the way many banks of its era were: banks needed to show strength and power and let people know at first glance that if they put their money there, it would be safe. The bank’s lobby had been completely remodeled within the past year; it was as up to date as any new bank in the area. Josh stopped at the information desk, where a young woman worked at a computer.

“Can I help you?” She had a pleasant smile and a kind of welcome-to-our-living-room style of speaking.

“I’m Josh Wittmore. I have an appointment with Mr. Cadwalader.”

“Yes, he’s expecting you.” She motioned toward an open office door on the right side of the lobby.

Josh approached the door where he saw a man with thick, graying hair sitting behind a huge, wooden desk. When he saw Josh at the door, he
stepped from behind his desk and thrust out his hand. He was several inches taller than Josh and as thin as a fence post.

“I’m Hector,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I remember working with your dad some years ago. How’s he doing?”

“Oh, Pa’s hanging in there,” Josh replied. “He and my mother are mostly retired now.” Josh glanced around the office and for the first time saw another man sitting off to the side of the desk. The man was smiling as he stood up.