Tamarack River Ghost (31 page)

“The department’s personnel committee has decided not to renew your contract. You may teach here for one more year as you look for other employment. I will write you a letter of recommendation, provided you seek a teaching job without any research responsibilities.”

“Thank you,” Randy said. He knew he had the right to appeal the decision, but he also knew he would probably lose. Even though he did not alter any research, he was still responsible.

“I’m sorry, Randy. You had lots of promise, the potential to become one of our top researchers.”

“I’m sorry I let you down,” said Randy. He had tears in his eyes, and his voice broke when he spoke. He got up from his chair and left the office, his shoulders slumped and his head down. It was one small consolation that Emily apparently hadn’t shared the video of the two of them.

It was the Fourth of July, and Josh sat at his desk at
Farm Country News
. With the paper putting several new pieces online every day, he was busier than ever. He and Assistant Editor Natasha Bruchs read the submitted material, searching for obvious factual errors and confused writing. Jerry Kolka, copyeditor, carefully read and corrected obvious spelling and grammatical errors before they put it online. Josh divided the responsibilities so that he worked on the front page and the “Latest Farm News” and “Market Reports” sections. Natasha was responsible for “New Ways for New Days,” “Tales from an Earlier Time,” and “Country Poetry.”

Lawrence Lexington insisted that something new be posted every day, holidays included, thus the staff members were all at their desks that Fourth of July morning.

Natasha stuck her head into Josh’s office.

“A word?” she said. She was clutching some papers. Natasha, in her early thirties, had short black hair. She was tall and willowy—and smart. A journalism major from the University of Wisconsin, she had worked for several newspapers as a reporter and features writer. She came to the
Farm Country News
with a couple of years’ experience as an assistant editor at the
Capital Times
in Madison.

“Sure, come on in. Have a chair. Celebrate the Fourth of July with me,” Josh said, smiling.

“This came in the mail yesterday—I think it’s supposed to be a poem— by someone with the initials ‘M.D.’ Do we want to publish something like this?” Natasha asked.

“We received several pieces from M.D. before, when we were a print paper,” said Josh. “Let me have a look.”

Natasha handed Josh the single sheet of white paper, with the following words neatly typed across the page:

“Was there a check for payment enclosed?” asked Josh.

“Nope, but there was eleven dollars in cash. It’s paid for. Should we run it?”

“Sure, let’s run it in the poetry section. Might get some reaction.”

Natasha returned to her office and Josh continued working on a two-thousand-word piece from Nathan West Industries headquarters in Dubuque, to be put on the paper’s front page. It came with a $500 payment (25 cents per word). Figuring it was written by some public relations person at Nathan West, Josh quickly decided it was wordy and at times repetitious and boring. He cut the piece to fifteen hundred words and refunded Nathan West the $125 for the words that he removed. As soon as it was copyedited, he put the piece online. It was noon. He sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head. The morning had been productive. The phone rang.

“This is Josh Wittmore. How can I help you?”

“Well, Mr. Wittmore, you can help me by agreeing to celebrate the fourth of Seventh-month with me,” said Natalie.

“What in heaven’s name is the ‘fourth of Seventh-month’?” said Josh, recognizing Natalie’s voice.

“Haven’t you read
Leaves of Grass
? Walt Whitman calls the Fourth of July the ‘fourth of Seventh-month.’”

“Oh,” was all Josh could think to say. It had been a very long time since he had turned the pages of Walt Whitman’s work.

“Are you planning to work all day?” Natalie asked.

“I should, but what do you have in mind?

“How about I pick you up at your apartment at about four, and we can drive down to Link Lake, see their displays, and take in the fireworks at night.”

“Sounds like a plan—and let me add one more thing. How about I take you out for dinner before the fireworks, at the Lake Edge Supper Club?” said Josh.

Josh left his office around three and drove to his apartment, his mind filled with thoughts of Natalie; the challenges and problems at the newspaper pushed into the background. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, typical for July.

Promptly at four, Natalie, driving her Civic, pulled up in front of Josh’s apartment. She was wearing a red dress, which showed off her blonde hair, which today she allowed to hang loose.

“Don’t you look nice,” Josh said by way of greeting.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, smiling broadly.

They followed Highway 22 toward Link Lake, chatting about the weather and how nice it was and talking about the last fireworks displays they had seen; neither had seen one for several years. They had an unspoken agreement these days: that neither of them mentioned anything about their jobs—about the number of arrests Natalie had made earlier in the day or the rift developing between Josh and his boss.

When they arrived in Link Lake, they found a place to park and then walked down Main Street, which had been closed to traffic. Tents and display tables lined both sides of the street. They stopped briefly at the Ames County Woodcarvers’ table, where three men sat whittling and talking with people about their work. They had an assortment of completed
items for sale, ranging from ducks to robins, from Santa Clauses to old farmers with pitchforks on their backs.

“Wish I could do that,” said Josh.

“I bet you’d cut your finger,” Natalie said. They both laughed, as did the men whittling—one held up a finger with a strip of white tape wrapped around it.

They walked past the Ames County Farm Bureau tent and, a few feet further on, a table promoting the Ames County Farmer’s Union. They stopped briefly at the Ames County Fruit and Vegetable Growers Cooperative’s display, where Josh chatted briefly with Curt Nale, whom he had met at the previous winter’s informational meeting about the Nathan West proposal.

Then they stopped at the Link Lake Rod and Gun Club display.

“You’re Natalie Karlsen, our conservation warden, aren’t you?” one of the members asked.

“I am,” said Natalie.

“Almost didn’t recognize you in a dress,” he said, then looked like he wished he hadn’t.

“Oh, I wear a dress once in a while,” Natalie said. She smiled.

They chatted for a bit about the good things the rod and gun club was doing for the fish and game populations in the county before she and Josh moved on.

At the Link Lake Historical Society display, Natalie picked up a copy of a pamphlet titled “Link Lake: A History.” She read the first paragraph and then gave it to Josh:

“Do you know this history, Josh? Do know about this preacher?”

“A little. My dad talked about the Standalone Church. Apparently, the members were a little on the unusual side.”

“The part about ‘challenging those who misused the land’ sounds interesting. I wonder what that was about—sounds like they were environmentalists.”

“I guess they were probably the first people in Wisconsin to really care about the land beyond trying to make a living off of it. Aside from the Native American of course,” said Josh.

They walked to the
Ames County Argus
booth and stopped to chat with Billy Baxter, editor.

“How’s it going, Billy?” Natalie asked. They had known each other since Natalie had first taken the DNR warden job.

“Oh, we’re still making it. Still keeping our heads above water.”

“You know Josh Wittmore, from
Farm Country News
?”

“Josh, how’re you doing? All of us small-town newspaper guys are watching what you’re doing at
Farm Country News
. How’s the pay-to-say program going?”

“We’re working out the kinks,” Josh said. “Seems to be working, though, lots of folks sending in material. And because it’s all free to the readers, we’ve got thousands of people looking at our website everyday— from all over the country.” He wanted to sound upbeat, but he worried his misgivings might be obvious from the tone of his voice.

“I’ve been doing some thinking,” said Baxter. “I want to do more with our website at the
Argus
. Right now it’s pretty primitive, needs work. Haven’t really figured out how to handle the advertising online. I know most people hate seeing ads when they’re on the Internet—but news is not free, no matter how you put it out there. Along the way, somebody’s got to pay.”

“That’s right. People don’t seem to realize that. On the Internet, there’s also the problem of what is news, what is opinion, and, frankly, what is rumor,” said Josh.

“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Baxter. “All this stuff on TV and the Internet that’s supposed to sound like news but really isn’t.”

“Okay, enough shop talk, you guys,” said Natalie, pulling on Josh’s arm. “This is supposed to be a day off—a day to celebrate.”

“You ready for dinner? If we go now, we can beat the rush,” said Josh.

“Sure, all the talk about newspapers has given me an appetite.”

“Glad it didn’t have the opposite effect.”

They walked the couple of blocks to the Lake Edge Supper Club, where they were promptly seated at a table by a window overlooking Link Lake. Water-skiers were skimming by, and across the lake, in a little cove. Josh could make out a cluster of boats, fishing boats, he assumed.

“How’re the water-skiers and the fishermen getting along these days?” asked Josh.

“Not well. They basically hate each other. Best we’ve been able to do is have the lake associations enact no-wake zones for the early morning and the early evening.”

Soon Natalie and Josh were feasting on fresh walleye, the special at Lake Edge that day, along with glasses of New Glarus Spotted Cow beer. The view from the window was about as good as it gets, with the cool, clear water of Link Lake providing a backdrop to the white and red pines that grew along its shore, along with the occasional birch or aspen, plus several weeping willow trees. It was the first time Josh had felt relaxed since he took over as managing editor of
Farm Country News
.

“Thank you for thinking of this,” said Josh, taking Natalie’s hand in his and looking into her brown eyes. “Thank you so much.”

“The dinner was your idea,” she reminded him.

“I know, but I would still be sitting in front of my computer if you hadn’t called.”

“I’ve got the same problem. I could be out there checking on fishing and boat licenses—I did that this morning from the crack of dawn. We all need some downtime.”

“Indeed we do.”

Neither said anything for a time, as they sat holding hands and looking out over the lake.

With dinner finished and a couple of hours before dark and the start of the fireworks, Josh and Natalie sat on a park bench by the lake—a few others had already gathered for a front-row view of the fireworks show over the lake.

Natalie jumped when the first “KA-BOOM” of an aerial bomb exploded high over the lake.

“Sorry,” she said. “Those noises remind me of my army days.”

“You don’t talk about your time in the army—why not?” asked Josh.

Natalie didn’t reply but tucked her hand into Josh’s as she continued looking out over the lake, now a dark shadow in the early evening. They sat quietly, enjoying being together. As darkness crept over the lake, the first rocket shot into the blackening sky with a boom and a sizzle, opening with a loud “pop” sending red, yellow, and blue streamers downward into the lake. A collective “ah” went up from the crowd. The show went on for a half hour, with bright colors exploding into a black sky and then cascading into the dark waters of Link Lake. For the grand finale, multiple rockets lit up the sky like daylight, so much so that the street lights, on light sensors, blinked off, sending the town into total darkness.

“Well, what do you think of that?” said Natalie.

“Typical Link Lake,” said Josh. “Never know what’ll happen next around here. Remember the place was that way when I was a kid.”

Through the darkness, they fumbled their way along Main Street and then to the lot where Natalie had parked her car. She invited Josh out to her cabin for a nightcap.

At 8:09 the next morning, Josh was at his desk; he had just begun to read his e-mail when he heard, “Wittmore, get your ass in here, and right now.” It was Lexington, yelling louder than Josh had ever heard him. He jumped at the command; no one had ever talked to him this way before. He walked into the publisher’s office and stood in front of his desk. Lexington’s face was as red as a newly ripened tomato; the veins in his neck pulsed.

“Did you read this e-mail from Nathan West?” yelled Lexington.

“I’ve just started going through my e-mail,” answered Josh in a quiet, unemotional voice.

“Well, let me read it to you. ‘We were astonished to see what your editorial staff did to the news article we sent you for
Farm Country News
. Your editors rearranged and cut a substantial number of words from the copy prepared by our public relations staff. I must say that we are more than a little disappointed. Returning some of the publishing fee based on the new word count does not make up for the hatchet job you did to
our article. Emory Perkins, Communications Manager, Nathan West Industries.’”