Читать книгу Driftless - David Rhodes - Страница 20

A ROOM WITHOUT FURNITURE

WHEN CORA HAD GATHERED ALL THE EVIDENCE SHE NEEDED to prove that the American Milk Cooperative was shipping adulterated milk, shortchanging its patrons, and manipulating government reports, she told her supervisor she didn’t feel well and took the afternoon off. On the drive home she kept her hands from shaking by gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.

The farmhouse seemed cold, and she turned up the thermostat. As her husband moved back and forth through the north windows pulling a chopper and wagon into a field of July hay, Cora poured a cup of hot coffee and drank it, thinking it might calm her down. Then she telephoned the number written on the back of a pink memo card. With the box of photocopied documents sitting on the floor in front of her, she listened to three distant rings before the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture, Trade and Consumer Protection answered.

“May I please speak with the compliance officer in charge of dairy,” said Cora.

“Who’s calling?” asked the secretary.

“A concerned citizen,” said Cora, bracing herself for the questions that would follow.

“I see,” said the voice on the other end. “I’m afraid Mr. Wolfinger is not available.”

“I have something important to speak with him about,” said Cora. “Very important.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wolfinger is not in his office at the present time. Perhaps you can call back later.”

“I must talk to him.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wolfinger is not in his office at the present time. If you wish, you may leave your name, telephone number, and the nature of the business you wish to discuss, and Mr. Wolfinger or a member of his staff will contact you as soon as his schedule allows.”

Reluctantly, Cora gave her name and, in a very general way, said something about the information she had to report. Neither elicited a response.

Outside, the thick sound of the chopper’s whirring vegetative violence ceased. Her husband drove out of the hay field, out of view. A short time later the auger could be heard running beside the bunker feeder.

Three cups of coffee later, Cora called back.

This time, a different voice answered.

“Hello, this is Cora Shotwell. Mr. Wolfinger is expecting my call.”

“One moment, please.”

“This is Mr. Wolfinger,” said a pleasant alto voice.

“I have something you will be extremely interested in,” said Cora.

“Excuse me?”

“I have something you will be interested in,” repeated Cora.

“To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Cora,” she said. “I have really important information to turn over to you.” She steadied her breathing and spoke again. “You will want to send someone immediately. It’s all here.”

“Could you tell me what this is about?”

“It concerns highly illegal actions taken by a very large milk-processing cooperative over a period of roughly six and one- half months. I have proof—all of it. I have it right here. For instance, on this May billing sheet the testing line for the ratio of butterfat and the dates are . . . ”

“Excuse me, where are you calling from?”

“The farm.”

“What farm?”

“We live in Thistlewaite County.”

“How did you come to have this information?”

“My husband and I ship to American Milk. I also work for them as an assistant bookkeeper—at their plant in Grange—and became aware of extremely illegal actions at the main office. I have records that prove everything. When will you be sending someone out?”

“Can you spell your name—last name first.”

“S-h-o-t-w-e-l-l, C-o-r-a.”

“One r?”

“Yes.”

“Your telephone number?”

She gave it.

“And address?”

After giving her address she anticipated that directions would be needed and began explaining how to reach the farm from Madison. Before even getting off the interstate, she was interrupted.

“Pardon me, but I have enough information for right now. Next week you will be notified about a time to come into the department. Thank you for contacting us.”

Cora put down the phone and tossed the papers she was holding into the box on the floor.

She felt undone, unfinished, like a room with a fresh coat of paint but no furniture. How could someone register so little interest in what she assumed would be the lifeblood of his agency?

Not wanting to remain in her tomb of arrested expectations, she drove into town to pick up her children and save them a long bus ride.