Dead leaves transformed by winter snows emerged from beneath the snow as a fragrant mulch promising new potential. Warmed to unexpected highs of forty or fifty degrees, the sunlit days beckoned like a tropical isle after so many months of freezing temperatures. But winter reclaimed each night. Temperatures dropped back below the freezing mark, and thin layers of translucent ice, as fragile as hand-blown ornaments, crusted the little streams, only to disappear again with the rising sun.
In the stands of maple trees, the changing temperatures sent a primeval signal to the roots of the trees, whispering, “It’s time.” The stored energy of the sap stirred in its subterranean lair, and the tiny branches at the tip of the tree, like little children with many straws into a malted milk, pulled the tree’s leaf-giving nectar up from the roots to the light of spring and the birth of eventual maple leaves.
A few enterprising farmers tramped through the woods with their wood augers and silvery taps, drilling a single hole into each tree, sticking it with the metal channel to divert a fraction of the sugary maple drip into their clangy buckets. With the snow still heavy in the woods, the tappers were forced to break paths through the thick snow grown dense with water.
From the air, the crisscrossing doodles created by the itinerant farmers’ paths grew deeper with each passing day, as they took down one pail and replaced it with another. A gallon of sap or two from each tree combined with a gallon or two from each of its neighbors and all hauled back to the central site. Into a huge open pan six feet in length and a foot deep, the farmers poured the buckets of sap. As the sun dropped in the western sky, and the pan filled with the day’s collection of sweetness, the farmers lit a giant fire. For several hours, in the deepening dark of the night gone cold, they stirred the bubbling liquid. After many hours, the gallons and gallons of sap condensed almost magically into a thick stickiness and were poured into smaller containers, where it was brought into their finishing shed for the final boiling. At day’s end, one hundred gallons of sap were transformed into less than a dozen quarts of maple syrup. But each quart carried a beautiful amber color and a wonderfully sweet consistency.
If people paid as much attention to their breakfasts as they do their dinners, there would be a blue-ribbon society of maple syrup lovers. It would be the butternut amber of Wisconsin syrup versus the molasses brown of commercial Canadian syrup. People would talk about the good years for syrup, the undertone of berries one year, the tang of earthiness the next. Small-plot maple syrup would be as prized as the award-winning wine of a vintner who produced only one hundred cases of a great cabernet. For like any natural element, maple syrup reflects the quality of its maker and the environment from which it has been taken.
This spring, I acted like an oenophile thrown into the Napa Valley. I discovered each of the small farmers who still made syrup the old fashioned way, driving from dilapidated farm to dilapidated farm, tasting syrup, selecting the best of it, and buying several gallons for use in my restaurant.
Spring was coming to Thread. In each of us, an energy was rising. Yet we held no focus. The snow had grown too icy for downhill skiing. The lakes had become dangerous with pockets of rotten ice. Snowmobilers soon learned to proceed with caution over the packed snow that lay heavy and damp in the woods. There was no longer exhilaration in the speed of racing. At the high school, basketball season was over. The Screaming Loons again slid into the basement of their league rankings, although they had won two games. The short winning streak gave some townspeople hope, only to be quickly dashed. Few tourists appeared so late in March. And the news on the American Seasons front was as mushy as the snow outside.
All that was left was love. Love was blooming all around me in ways I could hardly anticipate.
Mr. Packer was at the counter with coffee cup in hand. “Keep your dogs tied up at this time of the year,” said Mr. Packer. “Their natural instincts emerge and they want to return to the allure of their hereditary packs. Perhaps the deer throw out some scent of their rutting that touches the dogs’ limbic memories triggering their wilding instinct to pack and to kill.”
“I think they’re just interested in the she-dogs,” said Thelma in her no-nonsense way.
“That could be another explanation,” acknowledged Mr. Packer.
“According to Danny, that cute little elkhound he bought for his father bounded off into the woods. And I say that little dog was looking for love.” Thelma was having a romantic view on life these days.
“Do you remember that collie that sat outside the cafe in the snow bank a while back?” asked Claire.
“I do,” said Cynthia breezily as she rushed through the room to deliver a plate of waffles and another of pancakes to a two-top near the window.
“Has anyone see the little thing since?” Claire asked with some trepidation.
“Who cares? Why do you want to think about that god darn dog, Claire? Something doesn’t seem the same with you lately. Aren’t you feeling well?” Bromley stopped looking at his caramel roll, paused for a moment, and then yelled over to Cynthia. “I changed my mind. I think I’ll have another caramel roll. And give me a rasher of bacon. Oh, what the hell, it’s nearly spring. How about adding in an order of scrambled eggs?”
“Got it Bromley,” smiled Cynthia as she waltzed back into the kitchen and shouted, “The usual for Bromley.” Then she came back out the swinging doors.
“It’s not my usual, young lady. I’m watching my weight.” Bromley was indignant.
“Something’s changed since that dog was here. It’s not the same anymore. I think it’s all due to that dog.” Claire’s voice was a sad whisper.
“Now, Claire, don’t get started on this again,” implored Bromley.
“Here’s your eggs and bacon, Bromley,” Cynthia set them down with a big flourish and then leaned forward, elbows on the counter, her chin resting on her overlapping fingers. “Claire, you know that collie wasn’t my dog.” Cynthia wasn’t paying much attention to Claire. Instead she was looking out the windows and across the town square. Chip Frozen Bear was walking out of the hardware store. Red Trueheart had stopped him on the street and the two were talking.
“That collie did something to my little men. Ever since the dog was here, my little men haven’t been visiting me.”
“I wonder what my Daddy and Chip are talking about,” mused Cynthia.
Thelma, taking a short break, turned around in her stool and also watched the two men across the street. She swirled back to look more carefully at Cynthia. Cynthia’s attention was across the square, and her face was alive with energy.
“Wally, what do you think of that Chip Frozen Bear?” Thelma asked. “Do you think he’s handsome? Or just good looking?”
Mr. Packer broke in. “No need to ask that question. Everyone knows he’s a very handsome man. There’s none that would deny that. More to the point, he’s quite an intelligent and ambitious man. Look at what he has done for the Lattigo. There’s progress in that town.”
“Why would the dog tell my men to stop visiting me? Does Arthur want them to stop? Is Arthur trying to tell me something?”
Bromley turned to Claire and snapped. “Would you shut up!” All the diners turned to stare, and Bromley gave them a stare back as though to dare anyone of them say one word.
“I think he’s just plain cute,” said Cynthia.
Thelma got up and walked around the side of the counter and motioned Cynthia back against the cabinets of liquor bottles. She bent close to her ear and whispered. My hearing was better than Thelma gave me credit for. “Can I tell you a secret,” Thelma asked.
“Sure! You know I love secrets,” bubbled Cynthia.
“Gilbert and I are planning to get married this spring. He asked me on Sunday night, I slept on it and Monday morning I told him yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Cynthia squealed with delight. Now everyone looked at her. “Oh, mind your own business,” she said in a mock voice of crossness. She grabbed Thelma’s hearty arms and did a seri
es of baby jumps. Thelma tried to hush her.
Claire pulled her muffin plate back toward her. “Tonight,” she muttered, “I’m going to wait in the field until they visit me.”
Cynthia stopped jumping. She moved in close to Thelma’s ear. “I have a secret too,” she said. “Can I tell you?”
“Go ahead,” a look of victory flashed across Thelma’s face.
At that moment, Officer Campbell walked into the restaurant. His big black and unbuckled galoshes, fully prepared for tromping through the spring melt, made a squishing sound and his usually timid face was strangely morose. He didn’t even try to catch Thelma’s attention, which proved to be a more effective tactic that his usual behavior.
Finally Thelma couldn’t take it any more. “What’s with you, Campbell?” she asked brusquely. By now, all of our attention was focused on the town cop. His shoes made one last squish and he was up on a stool.
“A cup of coffee, please?” he asked.
Wanting to cheer him up, Claire tried to push her basket of strawberry jams toward him. “How about a muffin and some jam?” she asked.
He shuddered. “I don’t want to see anything red the rest of the day. Neither would you if you had seen what I just saw.”
That was like throwing a lit match on a pile of oily rags. Suddenly he had the full attention of Bromley, Mr. Packer, Claire, Thelma and me. Even Cynthia came back out from the kitchen. Thelma took down a cup and a saucer, poured the man a cup of coffee and set it in front of him. Campbell was beginning to perk up a bit, realizing that Thelma was paying attention to him.
Finally, Bromley would have no more of the suspense. “Well, god darn it man, tell us what’s got you moping. Did you see some of Claire’s little men?”
He had my attention as well, though I was loath to admit it. Something lingered in the air of Thread and sooner or later you were infected. Perhaps the agent was in the water. Or maybe it floated through the air like a virus in a cough. It was as though a weird tale engagingly told made you move in too close and then you breathed in the germs of narration from the storyteller. Whatever the process, you couldn’t be quarantined and remain in Thread. Sooner or later, you caught the story bug. Once you had it, it was incurable. You felt compelled to pass along to whomever whatever you had already uncovered. Sooner or later, everyone in town caught Loon Town Fever.
Like all the others, I needed to know what Campbell was about to say. I knew there was no way his tale could possibly live up the expectations we had set for it. But then these little coffee klatches were much like a parasite that always took more than it gave back.
I finally had to give in. I was powerless in the face of the fever. “Tell us Officer Campbell. You know we all want to know.”
He straightened and puffed up a bit. The galoshes made another squish as moved about for the best storytelling position, and he began his tale of the doomed rabbits at the Siilinen farm. The Siilinen boy’s 4-H project had long ago grown out of control. According to Cynthia, who loved visiting the rabbits, the kid had nearly two hundred rabbits running loose in the ground floor of his father’s otherwise unused barn. Needless to say, rabbits being rabbits were only ensuring continued growth. It was unfortunate that I couldn’t get anyone in town to order a nice braised rabbit dish. I certainly could get the ingredient on the cheap from the Sillinen farm.
Campbell was explaining how Mr. Siilinen had “called me out because he thought aliens had been in his rabbit barn. He didn’t know how else to explain what had happened.”
“I knew they were up to something,” Claire said with disapproval.
“Explain what?” I asked, not really wanting to know.
“Every rabbit was dead,” Officer Campbell said. Cynthia gave a little cry. “Every rabbit had its little throat torn out. Must have been two hundred of them.” Cynthia gave several little cries. Thelma now had her arm around the girl. “There was blood everywhere.” Cynthia now was in furious tears.
“Dogs,” said Mr. Packer simply.
“That’s what I figure.” Campbell and the others all nodded in agreement.
Everyone knew about the emergence of those packs of wild dogs every spring and how they could go into a killing frenzy, killing for the sake of killing. I’ve seen when they’ve run down a deer and killed it that way. Then just left it behind, not a bit eaten. They’re not hungry. It was just bloodsport. I recalled from my buying visits how the Siilinen barn was quite a way from the house. The parents probably didn’t hear a thing.
“Anyway, I figure I got to round up a posse of men to go hunt down that pack of dogs,” said Office Campbell. “Now that they’ve tasted the blood, they won’t stop with the rabbits. They might go after a hog. Or worse. Could be far worse.”
Bromley had been quiet throughout Campbell’s story. Now he spoke but still very quietly. “Maybe it wasn’t dogs. Maybe it was the Lattigo.”
Cynthia tears quickly transformed into anger. “Why would you say such a thing? How could you even think it?”
“I don’t know what they might do these days,” Bromley was calm. “I’m told that when the walleye start running for the spawn between the lakes this spring, they plan to go spear fishing. It’ll be like a pack of dogs in a barn of helpless rabbits if they do that. Maybe you should be planning to set up a posse to keep the Lattigo in place, Campbell. If they kill all those fish, there won’t be a decent fishing season around these parts for years.”
“Then why would the Lattigo do it?” I demanded to know.
“To prove a point. They say the laws allow them to do what they want. So they’re going to do it. I guess they want to show us who’s the real boss in these northwoods.
“If they want a war, maybe they’ll just get one.” Bromley stood up, threw some bills to the counter and left. None of us remaining had a thing to say. Our tale telling was momentarily cured.
Four state patrol cars were parked in the town square. Thelma, Cynthia, Danny and I watched them out the window. They seemed to glow in the afternoon light of the spring day. Since arriving earlier that morning, occasionally one or two of the cars would be dispatched to drive around the town, eventually returning to the square. Everyone wonder why we needed so many police. Yet at the same time everyone knew why the cars had been dispatched to Thread. It was just that no one wanted to acknowledge the reason.
“Daddy made Bromley and Officer Campbell call in the state police because he’s afraid of what might happen tonight,” Cynthia said as though she were telling us a secret.
The tensions in town had been building, ever more rapidly over the past week and a half, with Bromley serving as a bellows forcing oxygen onto little flickers until they burst into flames.
For example, everyone knew that Rueben had been killed by his girlfriend over his cheating behavior and that she snipped off his ponytail only because he had been prouder of that hair than anything else. When she was captured by the police in Green Bay she proudly said she would have cut off his penis as well if it hadn’t been too small to find. So everyone knew the missing ponytail had nothing to do with scalping or the Lattigo. Yet now everyone was whispering that because Rueben refused to sell some land to the Lattigo, they contracted his killing. Some even claimed a few landowners were sent a lock of hair in the mail as a warning.
Of course, I knew this was all nonsense. The Lattigo weren’t even the people behind the land purchases. But between the rumors of planned strip mining and the Lattigo revenge, a panic was building. While some wanted to unload their land and get out of the county, others were more afraid of being cheated. Despite the trust Van Elkind had placed in me, no one in town would actually listen to any calming insight I might give.
Rumors and anger ratcheted up one more notch when Olli-Pekka Siilinen told Reverend Mall that he had been offered a good price for his farm, but that he refused to sell. Immediately, it became common knowledge throughout Thread that his son’s rabbits had really been killed by a band of wild Indians. No one wanted to work with Of
ficer Campbell to hunt down the pack of dogs because no one believed the dogs existed, even though the Siilinen farm had been surrounded by muddy dog prints. Officer Campbell told me one of set of prints looked like the puppy paws of a Norwegian Elkhound, but I hadn’t the heart to tell Danny that.
Bromley was always quick to nod sagely from his stool at the counter as though he had a secret reservoir of knowledge about such matters. When I would attempt a logical explanation, Bromley would interrupt with some non sequitur like, “Who’s to say that the Indians weren’t telling the pack of wild dogs what to do.”
To make matters worse, the Lattigo electronics plant was beginning operations and not one person from Thread had been hired. Since it had clearly been the Lattigo's intent to provide employment first to the residents of the reservation, this shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone. Yet this too had been transformed into another hostile act against Thread.
So when the State Supreme Court in Madison ruled that state fishing and hunting laws on or off the reservation did not cover Lattigo tribe members, the fuse was lit. Bromley immediately issued a statement that he would instruct his officers, namely Officer Campbell, to arrest anyone found breaking state fishing and hunting laws in the jurisdiction of Thread, and that the township would fight this ruling all the way to the national Supreme Court.
Hearing of Bromley’s bravado, Chip Frozen Bear tracked him down while Bromley was having coffee in my cafe. Frozen Bear threw a copy of the court judgment at Bromley’s plate and laughed at Bromley. “We can fish where we want. Tomorrow night, we’re going after the walleye in the Sapphire Run. Just try and stop us.”
The Sapphire Run flows from Big Sapphire Lake to Little Sapphire Lake, skirting the southern edge of Thread. This mile-long, slow-moving creek, while shallow, has a steady current in its center where the water remains clear and aerated. The stream is just deep enough in its center that a wooden fishing boat can float along it and move from one lake to the other. But as you drift beneath Highway 17, you must duck low or you will bump your head against the concrete culverts that were used instead of a bridge. The old railroad trestles further up the run are higher and more forgiving.
Tales From The Loon Town Cafe Page 31
