Tamarack River Ghost (24 page)

“Meet Lawrence Lexington,” said Cadwalader.

Josh and Lexington shook hands. Josh noticed that Lexington’s hand-shake was firm, but his hands were soft. He stood maybe five feet ten, a little shorter than Josh. He was nearly bald; Josh took him to be about fifty years old. Josh was now puzzled. He thought his meeting with Cadwalader would be about inventories and such.

“Mr. Lexington lives in New York, but he plans on moving to Ames County, he tells me.”

“Ames County is a good place to live. I was born and raised here and moved back last year,” offered Josh.

“Well, let’s all sit down and see if we can figure something out,” said Cadwalader.

“Mr. Lexington was an investment banker, and he is now looking for new opportunities, new challenges.”

“That’s right,” said Lexington. “Besides, I’ve had it with New York City. Some people like that place. I’m not one of them. It’s time to leave, make a career change. And it looks to me like the Midwest is a place where money can be made.”

“Mr. Lexington—” began Cadwalader.

“Call me Lawrence; everybody calls me Lawrence.”

“Lawrence,” Cadwalader began again, “has expressed an interest in purchasing
Farm Country News.
”

“Really,” said Josh. He was a little skeptical.

“Lawrence, tell Josh a little bit about your plans—and I must say, we here at the bank are selling at a good price. A bank doesn’t want to be in the publishing business.”

“Thank you, Hector. Josh, here’s what I have in mind for
Farm Country News
, if I purchase it. First, we are going almost entirely electronic, with the exception of one monthly print edition during the transition time. We are doing away with deadlines and publishing dates. As news becomes available, we will put it up on the
Farm Country News
website. And there will be no advertising.”

“No advertising?” Josh interrupted. “Decline in advertising revenues is what killed the paper.”

“That’s right, Josh. No advertising. We will try an entirely new model— one that, to the best of my knowledge, has never been tried before. We’ll be trendsetters in the industry.”

Cadwalader sat listening intently. Josh, always the skeptic, wondered what possible new funding model this fast-talking fellow from New York had in mind.

“Lots of people want to be published these days. Lots of them. Some have their own blogs and their own websites. They e-mail their stuff to every person they’ve ever met. But what they lack is a legitimate publisher. People are skeptical of these unedited, never-fact-checked pieces of writings. When you read something in the
Wall Street Journal
or the
New York Times
, or the
Atlantic Monthly
, you believe it. You know the piece, at least most of the time, has been well researched and carefully edited.”

“So how do you make money with this model, if I could be so bold to ask?” said Josh.

“You charge writers to have their material printed in the paper. Doesn’t matter if it’s a letter to the editor, a story about a new agriculture business, a new idea on the farm—you charge to have it printed. They pay so much a word to see their stuff in print.”

“What about the editing, the fact-checking? Keeping our journalistic integrity? Somehow, it doesn’t seem right that people should pay to have a news story published. How is what you’re saying different from selling and printing ads?

“Josh, this is the new journalism. The paper’s staff will be responsible for making sure the material is accurate and well edited. It’s a new way of
making certain we have an income stream sufficient to make a profit. It’s the future, Josh.”

Josh wasn’t quite sure he understood what he was hearing. He had many more questions.

“Something else,” Lexington continued. “At the end of each month, we’ll select the best pieces, the best stories we’ve run online, and put them in our print edition. We’ll distribute the print edition free at all the feed stores, all the implement dealers, the banks—everywhere farmers and agriculture people gather.”

“What about photographs?” asked Josh. “People expect photos these days.”

“Same plan. Anybody wants to submit a photo for publication, he’s welcome. The photographer will pay to have his or her photo published, of course.”

“I don’t know,” said Josh. “What about those stories that need to be told, the ones that require digging and careful writing, the ones like our stories about Nathan West Industries? What about those kinds of stories?”

“The staff will research and write them, but we won’t have as many of that kind of story. Journalism is changing, Josh. Changing as the world becomes electronic.”

Lexington went on describing his ideas for a “modern”
Farm Country News
. “We’ll have no bureaus,” he explained. “Everything will take place at headquarters here in Willow River. By eliminating the bureaus and all those employees, we will reduce our overhead by at least 75 percent— salaries cut into profits. We all know that. I’m thinking of a staff of about five or six at the office here in Willow River: a managing editor, an assistant editor, a fact checker, a copyeditor, and a couple computer geeks to make sure everything gets online when it should. Of course, I will also plan to work in the office.”

“Well and good,” said Josh, still quite skeptical of the plan. “But why are you telling me all this?”

“I want you to be our managing editor,” said Lexington. “I want you to run the paper. Make it work. Make it hum. And have it make money.”

Josh sat speechless; he’d thought Cadwalader had invited him to the meeting to discuss inventories. He had no idea he’d be offered a job.

“I’ll . . . I’ll have to think about it,” Josh finally said.

“Let me know by next week,” said Lexington. He handed Josh his business card with e-mail addresses and phone numbers. “I doubt I’d be interested in buying the paper without having you at the helm. We need somebody who knows both agriculture and journalism. And you’re the guy. No question about it. I read some of the stories you’ve written. You are definitely our guy.”

The three men shook hands all around. Josh got into his pickup and drove to his apartment. He didn’t notice that a warm southerly wind had moved into Ames County, bringing with it the rest of spring, which had been reluctant to show its face, for fear of another late snowstorm.

Fred Russo drove over to Oscar Anderson’s farm for a visit. The two of them sat on Oscar’s back porch, each in a rocking chair as the late April sun slipped behind the horizon and a warm breeze swept over them. Spring was in the air.

“You planning on plantin’ a garden this year, Fred?” asked Oscar.

“Thinkin’ about it. Always plant a garden. Never missed a year yet.”

“It’s a little late to put in potatoes—wanna get them in by mid-April so they get a good start before them damn potato bugs come around to feast on ’em.”

“Still April ain’t it, Oscar? Don’t wanna hurry these things too much. Garden plantin’ is not for hurryin’. It’s for taking your time and enjoyin’ it.”

“Suit yourself, Fred. I don’t much care when you plant your garden.”

“Well don’t get all het up about it. You got your potatoes in? You planted your spuds?”

“Yes, I have. I planted ’em yesterday. Got five rows of them in.”

“Five rows! What in hell you gonna do with five rows of potatoes?” asked Fred, looking straight at his friend.

“I like potatoes. Eat ’em three times a day in the fall and winter. Potatoes are good for you. Keep you fit.”

“Yeah, I guess they do,” said Fred.

The two rocked for a few minutes without saying anything. “Squeak, squeak, squeak,” the worn rocker runners ran over the uneven floor boards on the porch. A whip-poor-will called from the distance. Otherwise the evening was still, except for the little breeze that rustled the still-bare oak
limbs of the tree in the yard and the sound of the rockers gently caressing old porch boards.

“Two things I wanna ask you about, Fred. Get your opinion.”

“You already asked me one—asked about my potatoes—what’s the second one?”

“I got two more things on my mind.”

“Oscar, I didn’t think your mind could handle all that at the same time. Didn’t think you could keep three ideas straight.”

“There’s only two ideas. Two ideas, Fred.”

“So, what’s in your craw? What’s roaming around in that big empty head of yours?”

“You hear about the zoning committee vote on Tuesday night?”

“Yup, I did. Heard it on the radio. I bet you were at the meeting.”

“I was. You should have been there too.”

“I had other things to do. I’m pretty busy these days,” said Fred, smiling.

“Up until that cute redheaded chick from the university stood up and showed us her numbers, among other things, I thought the discussion was leaning toward opposing the big hog farm. But then she got everybody’s attention with them numbers, showin’ that most people are in favor of big hog farms—according to some kind of survey she and her young professor conducted.”

“Hear the committee voted to rezone the land and give the pig people a big green light to build.”

“That it did, and it’s a dirty shame. We don’t need no big hog farm here in the Tamarack River Valley. You mark my words, next year if we’re sitting here on your porch we’re not gonna be smelling spring; we’re gonna be smelling hog manure.”

“Expect that’s the price of progress,” Fred said. “The price of progress.”

“The old Tamarack River Ghost’s not gonna like the decision. Not gonna like it one bit.”

“You still believe in that old ghost, don’t you, Oscar? You still think that ghost is the real McCoy.”

“Yup, I do. The ghost’s still out there. He’s out there, all right. And I’ll bet he’s concerned. More than a little concerned.”

“How do you know that, Oscar? You talk to him?” Fred chuckled.

“No, I ain’t talked to him. But I feel it. Feel it in my bones. I can feel what that old Tamarack River Ghost is thinkin’.”

Fred shook his head but didn’t say anything. Sometimes he wondered if his old friend was going off the deep end on this ghost thing.

The two men sat quietly for a time, gently rocking and enjoying the evening.

“Thought you had two ideas you wanted to talk about. Two besides potatoes.”

“I do, but I didn’t wanna spring ’em both on you too close together. Wanted you to have time to mull things over a little before I brought on another thought.”

“Geez, Oscar, whaddya think, I’m stupid or something? Spit out what you got to say.”

“It’s about the newspaper.
Farm Country News
.”

“Hey, that reminds me. It was supposed to come today. It didn’t. Delivery guy must have missed me.”

“The paper’s dead, and so is its publisher. Bank took over the paper, and Bert Schmid had a heart attack and died.”

“I hadn’t heard. That newspaper’s been coming to our place since I was a kid and even before that. I think I heard Pa say once that Grandpa subscribed to
Farm Country News.
”

“Well, the paper’s gone. It closed down. The bank’s got it. Don’t know what the bank’s gonna do with it. Can’t see the bank runnin’ a newspaper.”

“Oscar, how we gonna find out what’s going on in farming? How we gonna find that out, with no farm newspaper coming every week?”

“I don’t know, Fred. Don’t know where everything is headed. Don’t look good, Fred. Don’t look good.”

The morning after the zoning committee meeting in Willow River, Emily

Jordan punched in a phone number in Dubuque.

“Hello, Nathan West Industries, Robert Jordan.”

“Uncle Bob, how are you?”

“I’m just fine, Emily. How’d the meeting go last night?

“It worked. My little number manipulation did the trick. Just heard on the radio that the zoning committee voted four to one to approve the zoning change. We can start building immediately.”

“Good news, Emily. What a great idea to have you work undercover as a graduate student! Worked wonders in Ohio; working in Wisconsin, too.”

“We may have a problem, though.”

“What’s that?” said Robert Jordan, some of the glee gone from his voice.

“This dorky assistant professor I’m working for wants to refigure everything. I’ll try to stonewall it, but the guy will likely find out that I tampered with the data. My hope is he’ll be too scared to tell anybody.”

“Let him tell somebody. What difference does it make? The committee has voted.”

“This will likely end my days as a graduate student.”

“So, you’ll be back in the head office a little sooner than we planned. Not a problem. We’ve got lots for you to do. Nobody knows you work for NWI, do they?”

“Not a soul. And I won’t tell them either. I’ve got a wild story about why I changed the numbers if they push me, but nobody will find out about why I really did it.”

“Good work, Emily. I knew we could count on you. This will probably earn you a promotion—certainly a bump in salary.”

“Thank you, Uncle Bob. Always good to talk with you. Say hello to Aunt Mary for me.”

Randy was in his office by 7:00 a.m. the morning following the meeting at Willow River and the little celebration in his graduate student’s apartment. He tried to move that latter bit out of his mind, for he knew well the consequences of a professor sleeping with his student, especially a graduate assistant he supervised. If there was ever a reason for dismissal, it was just that. The university had strict rules about sexual harassment, and he had clearly violated one of the most serious ones. His only hope was that no one would find out.

Randy immediately looked for the returned questionnaires he and Emily had been working on. He had not had time to examine them and had left much of the early analysis to Emily. Now he wished he had said “no” to a couple of committee assignments so he could have had more time to work on the research project. Emily had come with such high recommendations for her research skills that he had trusted her to do the early analysis correctly. Still, the project was in his name, and he should have reviewed the preliminary results before she presented them. Perhaps Emily had made an error; there was always that possibility. He needed to go through the returns himself and check what he found against Emily’s work. The university demanded accurate research, checked many times and often by several people.