The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County (35 page)

“Wait, wait,” said Karl, trying to take in all that he had just heard. “Your last name is not really Adams?”

“Oh, it's Adams alright, but I'll get to that part of the story later,” said Gloria.

“Is . . . is Marilyn Jones your sister?” asked an incredulous Karl Adams after a brief pause. He was running one hand through his hair as he drove with the other.

“Yes, Marilyn Jones is my sister. I haven't seen her since 1966, when I moved to California when I had a breakup with the family.”

“You . . . you haven't talked to your sister since 1966?”

“I talked to her once, when our folks died in a car accident in 1973. I told her she could have the supper club. Appears she has done quite well.”

“Wow, I don't know if I can handle all this. Hard-driving, ultraconservative Marilyn Jones is your sister.” A few hundred yards ahead, Karl spotted a rest area and he pulled in, stopped, and turned off the car.

“Okay, Mom, so Marilyn Jones is your younger sister?”

“She sure is, and I'm more than a little anxious about seeing her again, after all these years.”

“I can't believe it. I can't believe it,” Karl said as he ran his hands through his hair again.

“Is Marilyn well?”

“Oh, she's well alright. In fact she probably looks years younger than she really is. For all her faults, she's a darn good businessperson. She's got the Link Lake Supper Club humming. Had a little setback a few weeks ago when a tornado tore the roof off the dining room and smashed up her office, but she's got it all back in shape and doing better than ever.”

“Well, that's good,” said Gloria.

Both Gloria and Karl had gotten out of the car and were now sitting opposite each other on a picnic table that was on the banks of a little stream that ran by the rest stop.

After a couple minutes of silence, Karl said, “So my name is not really Karl Adams?”

“Oh, it's Karl Adams alright,” said Gloria.

“Now I suppose you'll tell me that my father really isn't dead.”

“That's right; your father is still alive.”

“Oh, Mother. You are driving me nuts. What is going on with you? Why haven't you told me this before?”

Gloria reached across the table and put her hand on Karl's arm. The little stream sounded like little bells as it flowed over some rocks in the streambed. Karl, his hair mussed and his face red, sat staring at his hands.

“I'm sorry, Karl. So sorry it all happened this way. I had to tell you something when you were a little boy and you asked about your dad, and it was easiest to say he died in an accident.”

“So where does my father live?”

“He lives in Link Lake,” Gloria answered.

“In Link Lake, Wisconsin?” Karl said, raising his voice.

“Yes,” Gloria said quietly.

“Do you think I may have met him?”

“Yes, I believe you have.”

“I have? You think I've met my father.”

“Your father is Ambrose Adler.”

“Who?” said Karl, once more raising his voice. “Who?”

“Ambrose Adler.”

“Ambrose Adler is my father? How could that be? How could that ever be?”

Gloria went on to explain how she and Ambrose had dated and had even been planning to get married when her parents violently objected, and she moved to California and began working for the
Los Angeles Journal
.

“The first thing I did when I got to California was to change my name from Jones to Adams. I didn't even know I was pregnant with you then,” Gloria said. She had tears in her eyes as she continued her story. “I didn't want anyone to come looking for me, to find me and encourage me to come back home. And when you were born, I gave you the name of Adams as well. You were another one of my secrets, Karl.”

A long pause.

“Okay, where does Stony Field fit into all of this?”

Gloria explained how she had kept in contact with Ambrose over the years, and when his parents died in 1971, she helped him start a weekly column, which her paper syndicated and she edited.

“Your father wanted no one to know that he was the author of the column, so he came up with the name Stony Field. I promised him I would tell no one who Stony Field really was, and I haven't. Neither of us could have predicted that the column would become so wildly popular.”

She explained that Ambrose never accepted any of the money the column earned. Gloria had started the Stony Field Trust Fund that donated money to various environmental groups.

“I just can't believe it. My father is the famous environmental writer Stony Field. I can't believe it,” said Karl.

“Your dad isn't feeling well these days, and he's been pondering letting people know that he is Stony Field. He wasn't quite ready to let people know when a fellow by the name of Lucas Drake called our newspaper and said he knew that Stony Field was really Ambrose Adler, and he had the evidence to prove it.”

“Slow down, Mom, you're almost telling me more than I can handle.” Karl was quiet for a moment, then he said, “You know from the moment I first met Ambrose Adler, I knew there was something familiar about him—mostly when I looked into his eyes. You know what, when I look in the mirror, I see the same eyes. I never made the connection, but I had a feeling.”

“You do have Ambrose's eyes,” said Gloria. “Those gray penetrating eyes that I never forgot. Whenever I looked at you, Karl, from the time you were a little baby, I saw Ambrose Adler, the only person I ever loved. You made life bearable for me, Karl.” She put her hands on his.

“Something else, Mom. Do you remember when I told you I saw a photograph hanging in Ambrose's kitchen and I told you on the phone that it looked like you when you were younger? Remember that?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“That photo really was you, wasn't it?”

“Yes, yes it was,” said Gloria. “And you know, Karl, I don't have one photograph of your father. Not one. What does he look like now? He was rather handsome when he was a young man.”

“Well, he has white hair, a white beard, walks a little bent over, but his gray eyes are still bright. He lives without electricity and all the rest that most of us take for granted. And he has a pet raccoon that seems to go with him everywhere.”

“Sounds like my Ambrose hasn't changed much over the years. You didn't mention his stuttering.”

“Oh, he still stutters, especially when he's anxious and there are several people trying to talk with him. But one-on-one he does pretty well.”

“What's the deal with this sand mine coming to Link Lake?” Gloria asked, changing the subject.

“Ah, God, Mom, you should ask. I'm caught right in the middle of the worst community fight I've been in for all the years I've done this mining consulting work. Your sister, Marilyn, chairs the Link Lake Economic Development Council, and they, together with the village board's approval, lined up the Alstage Sand Mining Company to open a mine in the village park.”

“Yes, I remember reading all of this in Stony's columns. What's the status of the mine?”

“Looks like they are right on schedule to open in October, in spite of all that's going on. But lots of folks are opposed to it. Mom, it's a mess, and everything you just told me . . . well, I don't know what I'm going to do. Ambrose Adler is a member of the historical society that opposes the mine—and we both know that Stony Field has no time for sand mines and supporters of the mine hate Stony Field's guts. Mom, it's awful.”

“Well, that's why I decided to fly out here,” said Gloria. “Two of my favorite people are up to their ears in controversy—on opposite sides, it appears—and I thought I would come to see where I could help.”

“Mom, I don't know what to do. You want me to drive you out to see Ambrose?”

“No, not tonight. It's too late. We'll go out tomorrow morning. I assume you've got an extra bed at your place?”

62

A
t 6:00 a.m., both Karl and his mother were awakened to the sound of sirens. Karl had not slept well. His mind was a tangle of thoughts after hearing all that his mother had told him the previous evening. He was trying to accept the idea that Ambrose Adler was his father and that Marilyn Jones was his aunt. It was almost too much for a person to accept at one time.

He pulled on his robe, walked to the kitchen, and snapped on WWRI, the station that everyone in Ames County listened to for the news. “I've just gotten word that there is a barn fire west of Link Lake,” said announcer Earl Wade. “I don't have any further details, but the Link Lake fire trucks along with those from Willow River are on the scene. I'll let you know when I have more details.” The station resumed playing a Willie Nelson tune.

“What's going on?” Karl's mother asked when she came into the kitchen, pushing her gray hair back from her eyes.

“Radio said there was a barn fire west of Link Lake. Happens this time of the year—something about putting up hay that's not cured enough. Heard the county agent talking about that on the radio the other day.”

Karl started the coffee pot. “Want some breakfast, Mom?”

“Sure, what have you got?”

“Not much. Some instant oatmeal. Some peach yogurt. Some toast.”

“That will be fine,” Gloria said, a big smile on her face. She sat down at the kitchen table.

When the toast and oatmeal were ready, Karl sat down opposite his mother.

“You don't look so great this morning,” Gloria said, smiling at her son.

“Mom, you expect me to sleep after all you told me last night? I still can't believe that Ambrose Adler is my father. Just can't believe it. What must he think of me, working for a sand mining company that has disrupted this community more than it's ever been disrupted in the past? What must he think?”

“Oh, my guess is that he will be pleased when he learns he has a son who has done well.”

“Ambrose doesn't know about me, doesn't know he has a son?” blurted out Karl.

“No, I never told him. I didn't think it would be right to burden him with anything else.”

“So he must think I'm just another Joe trying to make a living.”

“We're going to find out when I introduce you to him,” Gloria said. “My guess is he is going to be mighty proud of this son he never knew he had.”

“Mom, you got any more bombs you're going to drop on me?”

“No, don't think so,” said Gloria, trying to keep a serious look on her face.

Their conversation was interrupted by Earl Wade's voice, as he cut in on a Johnny Cash tune. “I have further information about the barn fire west of Link Lake. The barn is on the farm of Ambrose Adler, who we all have just learned is the famous writer Stony Field. The firefighters found Mr. Adler unconscious in the barn; he had apparently sought refuge there from the many media people who have been trying to photograph and interview him. He has been taken by ambulance to the Link Lake Clinic. His condition is not known.” Country music came back on the air.

“Oh my God,” said Gloria, bringing her hands up to her face. “Oh my God!”

She and Karl quickly dressed and drove to the Link Lake Clinic, which already had media people filling the lawn.

“Please, let us through,” said Gloria, pushing her way through the crowd of media people. Karl followed close behind his mother. At the counter, Gloria said, “We're here to see Ambrose Adler.”

“Sorry, but he is to have no visitors beyond close family.”

“We are close family,” said Gloria.

The receptionist raised an eyebrow. “You're sure about that?” she said.

“Young lady, there is nothing I am more sure of,” said Gloria, in a voice that had all the authority of a woman with years of executive experience.

“Room three,” the receptionist said.

Gloria quietly eased open the door for room three and saw an old, white-haired, white-bearded man with his eyes closed, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and tubes in both arms. She, with Karl a few steps behind, walked up to the bed. Gloria took Ambrose's calloused hand in hers and whispered to him, “Ambrose, Ambrose, it's Gloria. It's Gloria.”

Ambrose's eyes slowly opened. Then a tear appeared as he recognized the only person who had really cared about him, and who had moved away so many years ago.

“I'm here, Ambrose. I'm so sorry. So sorry about everything that's happened to you. So very, very sorry.” For a long time, Gloria stood holding Ambrose's hand in hers, she saying nothing, he unable to speak because of the oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth.

After a few minutes passed, Gloria said, “I have somebody here to see you.” Gloria motioned for Karl to stand beside her. “I believe you have met this man before. Ambrose, this is Karl Adams, and he's your son.”

A strange look came over Ambrose's face, as if his mind was rolling back the pages of history to the time when he and Gloria were dating and enjoying each other's company and were planning marriage. And then the tears began running down his tired, wrinkled face.