“He yanked it right out of my hands!” she said, standing in the boat. “I couldn’t hang on to it!”
And then Owen reeled his line in, chuckling, until he produced her rod at the edge of the boat. “Looks like we caught each other.”
She laughed out loud and then restrung her hook with a fresh silver minnow from the minnow bucket. But no sooner had she put her line back in the water than she burst suddenly into tears.
“What’s wrong? Did you get hurt? The minnow? You know I’ll bait your hook for you.”
She pressed her hand across her mouth, placed her fishing pole in its holder, turned toward him, her knees touching his, and buried her face in her hands.
“Sadie, sweet Sadie. A bad memory?” he asked. He knew she had memories and nightmares sometimes, because she’d told him. Memories of being out in a snowstorm, terrified, searching for her mother. Nightmares of things she’d seen at the boardinghouse. Things no child, she’d said, should ever see.
But always, she’d told him her secrets in whispers.
And not once with tears.
“Sadie, Sadie,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”
He dropped to his knees on the damp floor of the wooden boat. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He lightly kissed the top of her head. But she kept crying, her back heaving. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say, so he waited. When her breathing returned to normal and she sat up, wiping her eyes, he held her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then her mouth. Together they shut out the world, and the anchored boat cradled them, bobbing on the chop as the darkness enveloped them.
At last, Owen asked softly. “Can you tell me now?”
“In three days,” she began, “I go back to school.”
He nodded. She’d entered college the fall of her sixteenth year. Though Owen was a year older, he was already two years behind her in formal education. “You have to. You’re starting your sophomore year.”
She drew in a breath and held it. When she exhaled, she said, “I don’t want to lose you!”
To that, he’d laughed lightly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he replied. “I’ll be right here when you return.”
Only now as he approached the squat, brick building of Jensen’s Creamery did Owen wonder. That night in the boat. Had Sadie seen a different future . . . and understood that things would change between them? Since that night, he’d always thought Sadie’s outburst of tears had been sweet, an unnecessary worry about his finding someone else.
Maybe she’d feared—even known—she’d be the one to drift away.
It was after five when Jerry, without setting off the brass bell, entered the creamery.
Owen looked up from his ledger. “Sheesh, Jer. You’re quiet as a cat burglar.”
Jerry smiled impishly, and with the grace of a vaudeville actor, swept his bowler hat from his head and bowed. “Gentlemen.”
“Hi, Jerry,” Erling added, suspenders hanging loose on his trousers and standing beside Owen. They’d been going over the books and invoices since Mom went home with a headache. Truth was, Erling was a little slow with numbers, but Owen tried to be patient.
“Clear the counter for the day,” Jerry said, pulling a flask from his jacket. He held it out, offering it to Owen and Erling.
Owen shook his head. “We’re still on the job.”
Jerry took a drink. “Heck, I’m always on the job. Besides, that never kept your dad from drinking back when.”
Erling’s body tensed. “He stopped drinking years ago,” he said defensively.
Owen walked out from behind the counter. “You’re both right. No sense in arguing about what was.”
Jerry nodded at Erling. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. I joke around. Sometimes say things . . . you know, go a little too far.” He reached his hand out to Erling. “Sorry, buddy.”
Erling’s chin quivered, but he reached down and shook Jerry’s hand.
Jerry capped his flask, put it squarely away in his jacket, and clapped his hands together. “So, the latest news. Hear about the photographer in the Falls? The latest rotgut casualty.”
“Foxridge?” Owen said, surprised. “Yeah, I knew him. His business is on Main Street in the Falls. He’s got a wife and kids.”
“Had,” Jerry corrected him.
Erling crossed his arms. “Maybe outlawing every drop makes sense. Not that I’d go around to saloons like that crazy Carrie Nation, busting up places with her ax. But when you hear about whole families left behind. What’s poor Mrs. Foxridge going to do now?”
“Learn to run the photography business,” Jerry said, with a slight laugh.
Erling didn’t laugh. There was a second of uncomfortable silence. “She’ll have to do something, won’t she?”
Owen felt bad for Mrs. Foxridge, for her kids. He understood being left behind to run things. Moonshine, rotgut, hooch. Whatever you called homemade booze brewed up in a still, it was always suspect. At best, a moonshiner produced alcohol from fermented potatoes, barley, corn—natural ingredients. “Minnesota 13,” for example, was a reliable, good-tasting moonshine made from corn in Stearns County. But at worst, a moonshiner might add turpentine, mercury, lead, or arsenic. Not only did such brews rot the gut; they killed folks, too—over a hundred deaths a week nationwide. Problem was, the bad stuff was cheap, and since alcohol was now outlawed, there wasn’t a speck of regulation to protect consumers. The U.S. government could no longer monitor the production of booze. That’s why Pengler was practically doing folks a favor, bringing in high-quality Canadian whiskey from real regulated distilleries.
“Fred Foxridge,” Jerry said, “must have bought it cheap from some backwoods still. They say he must have stumbled down his stairs, then crawled out on the sidewalk, looking for help. Couldn’t breathe. Face turned purple. Somebody sold him poison. Rotgut. That’s what should be outlawed.”
Erling scoffed. “You can try to convince yourself, but I’m staying away from the stuff. I’ll be playing ball someday, and I don’t need booze to hold me back.”
“Real swell for you, Erling,” Jerry said.
Owen didn’t know his own mind anymore. He’d vowed to quit drinking, yet he was part of selling Whiskey Sixes to help transport booze from Canada. And it was high quality, not the rotgut that did in Mr. Foxridge. That seemed a good thing, since anyone set on drinking was going to find booze when they wanted it. Yet the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead Act made it illegal. So how could he justify being on the right side of anything when the laws stated all booze was criminal? It was a bad law. How can you tell the difference between right and wrong when all the legal lines are blurry?
Jerry asked, “Say, any interest yet on your Studeys?”
Owen shook his head.
With a nod of confidence, Jerry said, “I’ll tell you what. You drive a model or two out to the horse race next week. Lots of folks show up from all over for that event. You never know who’ll be there.”
“Yeah,” Owen agreed. “Good thinking.”
“But that’s not why I’m here,” Jerry said, leaning onto the counter over the open books. “One Ear. He turned up colicky this morning.”
“Cripes.” If One Ear was suffering from colic, he could die. A horse could get colic for any number of reasons—too much grain, too much stress, too much early spring grass. With snow still on the ground, grass wasn’t the problem. “Did he get into the grain? Overeat?”
“No, he didn’t have access. I don’t know what got into him. Sometimes you don’t know. I walked him for an hour, and when I left he seemed a little better, but I wanted to come right over and tell you. Just in case he can’t race. I figured you’d come up with another plan.”
13
SOMETHING WAS CLEARLY GOING ON AT THE TRACKS AS Owen drove into Ranier after his rounds. The train of boxcars was stopped, with several doors slid wide open. Off to the side of the tracks, wooden barrels lay scattered, guarded by a swarm of law en
forcement. Sheriff Vandyke and Deputy Kranlin stood nearby, their guns clearly visible.
“A bust!” Owen said aloud, pulling over to the side of the road and stopping. He glanced toward his lot of six Studeys, all shine and chrome, waiting for buyers.
In the opposite direction toward the bay below the tracks, federal agents in their long coats rolled barrels onto the ice. Other agents were busy busting open the casks with axes. Locals gathered, too, taking advantage of the spillage, collecting the amber whiskey with buckets and cups. A dozen barrels were already on the ice, smashed, with more coming. Owen climbed out to look around.
“What a good day to be alive!” one fellow exclaimed, filling his cup.
“The Lord taketh and the Lord giveth,” another joked.
Owen laughed to himself.
Frank Hetter, the leading customs agent who lived in Ranier, raised an ax above his head, then brought it down squarely into another cask. Crack! He wiped his brow. “It’s the law. I’m doing my job.”
“Ah, Frank! C’mon, do you have to do this?” one man whined.
“Jeez, Hetter! Whose side are you on, anyway?”
Johnny Schoeller inched closer with his bucket.
“Johnny, you go on home,” Frank Hetter ordered. “Now back away!”
But Johnny Schoeller, known for gambling, just laughed. “You can beat me at the silver dollar toss, Frank, but you can’t beat me out of this!” The “toss” was a local game of seeing who could toss a silver dollar closest to a crack in the sidewalk. Frank Hetter was unbeatable. Now Johnny spotted an opportunity and darted in, scooped up a bucket of slush and whiskey, and ran off.
Frank Hetter scowled. “Hey!”
The casks kept coming, and the more casks that spurted whiskey, the more men showed up, whooping and laughing as they scrambled to fill whatever they could: buckets, glass bottles, mugs, even their caps. Amidst the cheering and hollering, seagulls hovered, calling, as if anticipating there would be handouts for them, too.
Suddenly, a gunshot went off.
Everyone froze, looking around for what had happened, for who was shot.
“That’s your warning!” Sheriff Vandyke shouted, holding a pistol high. He had everyone’s attention and shot once more. “Next person who fills a bucket or anything with booze is getting the next bullet in his leg!”
A general air of grumbling erupted, and one by one, the locals backed away, long-faced, buckets and cups in hand. Then a white-haired, bowlegged man—Mr. Dressler—in patched and oversize trousers and jacket, hobbled slowly past Vandyke to a splintered casket. He got on his hands and knees and lowered his head to a puddle of whiskey.
For a moment, the air was quiet.
Owen held his breath. Don’t shoot. God, don’t shoot.
Sheriff Vandyke pointed his gun at Mr. Dressler.
In horror, Owen watched as men exchanged glances, wondering just what the sheriff would do.
Frank Hetter’s usually pale complexion turned red as a sunburn. Caught between locals and the federal law, he’d grown up here and was allegedly childhood friends with Harvey Pengler. But the Eighteenth Amendment had put a wedge between Frank and many of the locals. He walked over to the sheriff and mumbled something into his ear.
A brittleness hung in the air.
Like a dog, Mr. Dressler continued to lap, slurping loudly. Then he rose, hands to his knees, and slowly straightened his back. He smiled from his unshaven face and let out a belly laugh. “Didn’t say anything about cooling a terrible thirst!”
When a federal agent held up a hand to Sheriff Vandyke, clearly meaning to hold off, the sheriff lowered his pistol, turned, and walked back to the cargo beside the train. Frank Hetter nodded to himself and moved on to the next cask with his ax.
Exhaling with relief, Owen started off toward his truck.
“Hey, Ow-en Jen-sen!” called a man with an oversize bowler hat nearly covering his eyes. He was wobbling along, with two amber-filled glass bottles, one in each hand. “Good thing for you! A guy . . . can’t count on tr-trains anymore! Need your rigs for bootlegging, I tell you! How else we gonna get decent booze past these knuckleheads?”
“Whiskey Sixes!” The drunk was following him, as if they were good friends. He must be someone on Pengler’s payroll whose mouth grew too big when drinking.
Owen wanted to disappear, to avoid any association with the man, and strode quickly to the creamery truck. But the whole way, he felt the eyes of every federal agent, customs employee, and county law enforcement drilling into his backbone.
He started up the motor, then U-turned away from the tracks, where the train stood idling. The pile of roofing shingles beside the tracks told the story. Someone had tried to hide casks of whiskey beneath stacks of shingles.
Owen steered the truck east and made a long loop home. Prohibition was meant to save families and society from the evils of alcohol, but it seemed to have created a whole new set of problems. With a long history of alcohol being legal, and the ease in brewing it, making it illegal was like holding back the ocean. It seemed absurd to outlaw it. Added to that, there was a general wink and a nod toward moonshining and drinking. County commissioners handing out licenses left and right for “soda fountains” that everyone knew were fronts. Moreover, there were an infinite number of “small cookers” in the county. Everyone had a friend or relative making a little extra cash operating a backwoods still. Owen knew of one farmer unable to sell his last year’s potato crop; with plenty of mouths to feed, the farmer turned his surplus of potatoes into booze. And a good amount of cash. Who could blame him?
Yet now that alcohol was illegal, you had folks whose job it was to enforce federal laws. Men like Frank Hetter and Sheriff Vandyke took their jobs seriously.
Everything about Prohibition seemed unworkable, yet it had turned into a game of cops and robbers—with real bullets.
Folks say, “March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb.”
Sometimes it works that way.
Other times it ambles in soft and sweet, and goes out with the ferocity of a roaring beast.
You just never know.
14
THE SUN LOOMED OVER THE STILL-FROZEN LAKE. ON THE edge of Sand Bay, bonfires roared, and vendors sold mugs of hot coffee; people ate sausages roasted over fires, sandwiches of smoked trout, and cookies. An Ojibwa woman dropped balls of dough into a sizzling cast-iron skillet. Another woman sold fry bread to a gathering line of customers.
It was a good day for a horse race.
A good day for selling a Studey.
Windows rolled down on his shiny, burgundy Studebaker, Owen breathed in the moist air, full of promise. One Ear’s bout of colic had disappeared in twenty-four hours, and Jerry had gone back to riding him and getting ready for the race. Now their plan was to draw as little attention as possible: put down as much money as they could come up with, bet high, and keep a low profile until the start of the race.
Folks poured in on horseback, riding in sleighs and Model T trucks, and on “jokers” or tractors. The horse-and-sleigh races and the one-mile horse race drew local families with kids—bundled up in boots, scarves, mittens, wool caps, and jackets—and nearly as many out-of-towners, who arrived on the passenger train in Ranier, turned out in full-length furs, muffs, and fancy hats and scarves. But the sun beamed down on everyone just the same, creating a shimmer of moisture—as well as anticipation and hope—in the air above the gathering.
Owen parked halfway between the shore and the racetrack, just so folks would stream past, take a look, maybe ask questions. His hopes rose when he spotted E. W. Ennis and his wife. Though the Ennises usually rode around in the latest vehicles, today they were walking away from their horse-drawn sleigh and driver. They strolled toward him—toward his Studebaker. Not only was he a towering man of six and a half feet, but Ennis carried himself like the wealthy industrialist he was: shoulders back, head high, and with a broad smile, as if he owned the county and its destiny. If anyone could affor
d a top-of-the-line model today, it was Mr. Ennis.
Owen cleared his throat. His palms sweated inside his leather driving gloves. He put his head out the window. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Ennis! Fine day for horse races, isn’t it?”
“Couldn’t be finer,” Mr. Ennis said.
His wife, Owen noticed, walked a half step behind her husband. Her gaze was everywhere but on the Studebaker. Her name was Katherine, and their white double-decker houseboat was named after her.
E. W. Ennis paused beside the Studey and ran his hand along the front fender, as if caressing it. If anyone might plunk down money, it was Ennis. Here was the man who had started as a bookkeeper for a lumber firm in St. Paul and rose to become a wealthy industrialist. Here was the legend who only twenty years earlier, along with his head timber cruiser (hired to scout virgin forests for logging), had strapped on snowshoes and tramped two hundred miles of northern Minnesota forests until they reached the Canadian border and the thundering waterfalls, with all its promise of powering a first-rate paper mill.
Ennis gave the left fender three solid pats and nodded to himself.
Owen held his breath. This could be it.
Then E. W. Ennis walked up to Owen’s open window. “Owen, glad to see you took the risk—started your own business. Tell you what. I’ll buy this very Studebaker today, if you’re willing to sell it to me.”
“Willing to sell it to you? Why of course!” Owen said, trying to contain his enthusiasm to something business-like. He put his hand on the door handle, ready to step out and visit with Ennis, man to man, but Ennis leaned down and pressed his bulk against the car door. He gazed into Owen’s window.
“Wholesale,” Ennis said under his breath.
Wholesale? Owen ran a retail business. You buy inventory at wholesale, mark it up to retail price, and hope to make a profit. He wasn’t running a charity. Why was Ennis being such an ass? Owen soared and crashed all in a second. “I don’t get it. You want it at cost?”
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