It was about 10:00 a.m. when Martin collected a left over caramel roll from the break room and made his way back into the Sentinel reception area. Shirley was finishing up a call from a local restaurant owner who wanted to beef up their advertising rotation in preparation for the summer traffic. She transferred the call to Ronnie Hemple, carefully took off her headset and looked up at Martin suspiciously. “Caramel rolls, Martin? What do you want?”
Martin was surprised at how transparent he was, at least to Shirley Campbell. “Wow, Shirley, can’t a guy just feel generous one morning?” he asked, laughing nervously.
“No Martin, a guy doesn’t just wake up one morning and after two years of being pretty much a snob and not having any desire to hang out with his fellow employees ever, no, he can’t just feel generous one morning without wanting something. Those boneheads in there might be fooled by your sudden generosity, but not me.”
Martin opened his mouth to reply, but closed it quickly when he realized he wasn’t going to get anything past Shirley. His mind worked quickly on a strategy, and he decided to just stick to the facts. He needed the keys to the storage locker and access to the microfiche.
“I’m working on a story about a Siren High science teacher who is retiring this spring. Human interest. Touchy feely stuff about how many lives he’s… impacted.” Martin paused, closed his eyes for a minute to gather some courage and continued, “I want to look at some old papers from when he started. See what was happening at the time he began teaching, see if he ever did anything that was covered by the Sentinel. Just research, you know, building the foundation, whatever…” Martin knew he was rambling.
Shirley squinted at him behind her granny glasses, then opened the center desk drawer, pulled out the keys to the shed and held them out for Martin to catch as she dropped them in his hand. “Sounds good, Martin. Here are the keys. Feel free to let me know when you need access to the microfiche. But just so you know? I’ll need a little more information about what you’re really up to before I hand that over.”
It was clear to Martin as he put the key into the Schlage padlock to open the metal shed in the Sentinel parking lot that no one had been in the building for years. The lock was rusty, and Martin had to work hard to turn the key to get it open. The door of the 8’ X 10’ shed creaked as he opened it and dragged it across the asphalt. Martin looked in to see stacks and stacks of old Sentinels, one placed on top of the other, all threatening to fall down at the slightest touch. Martin took a deep breath, and inhaled dust and mold that tickled his nostrils and instantly made him sneeze. “This will be murder on my allergies,” he thought.
As he looked at the stacks that hugged the perimeter of the shed, he saw an antiquated folding chair, brown metal with a ripped red vinyl seat and back, which he pulled out and set up just outside the door so he’d have a place to sit while he looked at the papers. It, too, was hard to open and unfold, and Martin wondered how long he’d be able to sit and work out in the shed with such an uncomfortable chair. He knew that there were about 2,800 newspapers out there – 53 years with 52 weeks of papers. But then he remembered he was only going to need to look at 1973 to 1980. Only about 10%. “I can do this,” he thought. “Not a big deal. I just hope someone had the good sense to keep the papers in order…”
Martin entered the shed again, reached up to the top of one stack right in the middle of the line-up and pulled down 5 papers. Mouse droppings fell on his head as the papers came down, and he shuddered in disgust. If Sharla hadn’t been in the back of his mind, he would have dropped the papers, folded up the chair, closed the squeaky door, locked the padlock and raced home quickly to take a shower and change his clothes. But she was in the back of his mind, so he didn’t stop, even though he really wanted to.
He used his forearm, covered with the sleeve of his jacket, to sweep off the dust and the remains of the mouse turds from the newsprint. Looking at the upper left corner, he saw the date – June 4, 1960. The four papers under that edition at the top of the stack were all in consecutive order, leading up to June 4. He stood on tiptoe to carefully place the papers back on their stack, and moved to the right to take down another 5 papers. The papers were from 1964, ascending in order. “Can I really be this lucky?” Martin thought to himself.
As he quickly moved over 4 stacks after replacing the 5 from 1964, Martin tripped and fell into the stacks on the right hand side of the shed. He tried to reach out to stop the cascade of falling newspapers, dust and mouse droppings, but failed miserably. He fell back onto his rear and tried to protect himself with his arms over his head, but it was hopeless. The dust surrounded him, and he was coughing uncontrollably, when he saw a pair navy blue clogs and tights under a corduroy jumper appear at the shed door. “Problems, Martin?”
Martin continued to cough and spit out dust for about 30 seconds before he could answer. “Just a little clumsy, Shirley. I was so excited to see that these old papers were in chronological order, I moved a little too quickly, tripped and …well, you can see what happened.”
“Yes, I can see what happened,” she replied, irritated. “It took me almost 2 full days to put these in order and now, I’ll have to spend another day just picking up after you.”
“No, Shirley, please, I’ll do it.” Martin spoke quickly without thinking as he picked himself up and brushed off the back of his pants. “I just got so excited about the possibility of finding out what I needed to know to nail Frank…” He stopped short and looked into Shirley’s face. “Frank who, Martin?” she asked, as she looked at him sideways through narrowed eyes. When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Frank who, Martin?”
Martin stared down at his brown suede saddle shoes and tried to form his words carefully. He knew that Shirley was Clark’s watchdog, and if he tipped his hand to her, she’d tell Clark in a heartbeat. He looked back into her face and saw that her eyes were hard and demanding an answer. “Just give her the facts,” he thought.
“Shirley, I’m working on a story about Frank Talbot. He’s the teacher who is retiring.”
“And why, exactly, do you want to nail him, Martin? Did he give you a bad grade or something?” her voice was soft but a little caustic. There was something in the look on Shirley’s face that made him wonder if she knew something about Talbot.
Martin continued to brush dust off, buying some time. “No, Shirley, he didn’t give me a bad grade. I just want to share the many aspects of his impact on the student population in Burnett County as he sails off into retirement,” he replied carefully. “I shouldn’t have used the word “nail”. It implies some wrongdoing. And I’m a member of the press, so I can’t be that judgmental. I just want to do some fact finding, that’s all.”
Shirley smirked. “Martin, do you really think you’re going to find any facts in the Sentinel?”
Upon realizing that he might have an ally, Martin asked Shirley if he could take her to lunch after she helped him restack some of the fallen newspapers. “Wow, Martin, you really are a generous guy today,” she said sarcastically, but agreed to join him for lunch at the Adventures Restaurant in Siren.
It was “South of the Border Day” for specials, so they each ordered a Northwoods of Wisconsin version of Mexican food. They traded pleasantries and small talk, but soon the conversation turned to work and the newspaper. By the time they finished lunch, Martin thought that Shirley might be as disgusted as he was with Clark’s “hands off the real news” approach to the Sentinel. “Why run a newspaper like the newletter for the Burnett County Convention and Visitors’ Bureau?” she asked him between bites of her chicken quesadilla.
As they waited for the check, Shirley took a slurp of her coffee and asked him, with her voice hard, “So Martin, what about Frank Talbot?” As the question hung in the air, he looked up at the ceiling and thought that maybe he had misjudged Shirley’s potential sympathy. “I mean it, Martin. I need to know what’s going on here if I’m going to help you.”
Martin looked down at her and saw that her face was earnest and open. “Help me?” he asked.
“Of course,” she answered him impatiently. “Look, for the past 2 years, you have come in every day. You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t mix with anyone, you just come in and in your uppity, snobbish, “too good for the rest of you” way, you go about your business and pretend you’re a ‘journalist’.” Martin could see that Shirley was on a roll, but he wasn’t going to stop her because she said that she might help him. “Today, you come in and clearly, you have uncovered something that has you so whipped up, you’re willing to hang out with us peasants to get something done that you feel needs doing. Well, it must be important, and if it is, then I think I should help you because you sure need it.”
Martin started to protest, but knew she was dead on. ““Martin, I got news for you,” she continued, almost in a frenzy. “Covering church socials and school board meetings is not journalism. If you have something that the community needs to know, then it’s your journalistic duty to tell them!”
Martin looked around the restaurant to see if anyone was paying attention as Shirley’s passion seemed to escalate. When he saw that everyone was lost in their own conversation, he responded in a whisper, “What if it costs me my job?”
“That’s where I can help,” she answered, and gave him a satisfied smile and a quick wink. “Don’t worry about it, Martin. You just let me help you, and Clark won’t know what happened. He’ll just take the kudos when it’s all over, and the dust has settled.”
As Martin and Shirley walked back to the Sentinel building, he learned quickly that it was more than just Shirley’s wardrobe that hadn’t left the 70’s. He discovered that she was a bit of a rebel, someone who was born too late to fully experience the truly turbulent times of the 60’s and was frustrated by the lack of opportunity for protest in the 70’s as the country moved into disco fever soon after she graduated from Siren High. At 18, she thought that working at a newspaper would give her the opportunity she wanted to do something with her life, to make a difference, to expose injustice, greed and depravity. But she, like Martin, found out all too quickly that the Sentinel was a mouthpiece for the vacation industry in Burnett County. And youthful ideals and passion gave way to the comfort of having a regular paycheck and middle-age complacency.
At 53, Shirley was ready to find her 18-year-old, idealistic, passionate self again, even if it meant teaming up with a snotty nerd like Martin Lundeen.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Chapter 8
When Martin got up and went to work the next morning, his mind was crowded with things he wanted to do the minute he got into his cube at the Sentinel. He didn’t even stop for breakfast with Don, not because he wasn’t hungry, but because he was anxious to get started on the action plan he concocted after leaving his mother’s house. He was going to fact-find, research and gather data on all things Frank Talbot and expose the guy for the monster he was. He was going to do everything he could to make it up to Sharla, and he was going to start today.
Martin knew that this would be no easy task. Copies of every Burnett County Sentinel published between 1928 and 1980 were stored in the small metal storage shed at the end of the building’s parking lot. Editions from 1980 to 2000 were kept on microfiche. And from 2001 on, electronic versions were filed within the paper’s computer system. Being holy week, all regular activities were suspended so there would be no assignments to Chamber of Commerce or School Board meetings. Martin’s only challenge would be to explain to Clark Grayson why he had a sudden interest in Frank Talbot and why he needed to dig into back issues of the Sentinel.
On his way to the office, Martin stopped at the Chattering Squirrel to pick up some hot caramel rolls that he knew would grease the skids in getting Clark to give up the keys to the shed and access to the microfiche machine. He even had the Connie, the young girl at the register, fill several cups of coffee to go and grabbed a handful of creamers to take with him. Clark loved his coffee tan colored with lots cream and would appreciate having the real stuff instead of the powdered version offered up at the Sentinel break room.
Martin juggled the rolls and coffee and carefully opened the glass door into the Sentinel building only to run into Sam Jackson. “Whoa, Marty, let me help you there,” Sam said brightly, trying to grab some of the items that threatened to fall out of Martin’s hands. “What do you got going there, Buddy? Are we having a party or something?”
“Thanks, Sam,” Martin answered, happy to have some help, even if it was from Sam. “Nope, just thought I bring in some treats today to help us get through the first day of a boring week.”
Sam’s lips widened into a goofy grin that showed off his yellow teeth. “Wow, that’s nice of you, Marty. I didn’t have breakfast today.”
Martin and Sam walked through the empty reception area, and Sam added, “Glad I got here early. We’d better save some goodies for Shirl.” Shirley Campbell was the face of the Burnett County Sentinel, the one who answered the phones and greeted guests. Part receptionist, part guard dog, she’d worked at the paper for 34 years, and hadn’t changed her look once during that time. The receptionist job was her first after graduating from Siren High School, and she never felt the need to move up or move on. Shirley’s husband, Greg, graduated with her the same year and worked for Jeff Howe in his construction company where he did beautiful inside finishing work on many homes and lodges built by Howe Construction in Burnett County. They never had children, and if anyone had been invited to their modest cabin on Devil’s Lake outside of Webster, they would have told you that they pretty much liked their life just the way it was.
Martin swore that the fringed suede vest Shirley sported at least once a week was probably the one she wore to the spring woodsy of her senior year in high school, the woodsy where she finally gave up her virginity to Greg. Long, gray, stringy hair, parted in the middle, granny glasses and some version of love beads were a permanent part of her daily get up. Shirley alternated between wearing the long, flowing skirts that she loved with her fringed suede vest or oversized corduroy jumpers with cotton turtlenecks, tights and Swedish clogs. It’s like she never left the 70s. Clark called her a “cracker jack” on the phone. She never missed a call or transposed numbers, and made sure anyone walking into the Sentinel Building had business there. No one was allowed in unless they had an appointment.
Martin and Sam walked into the break room, set down the coffee and rolls and within seconds, three of their fellow early risers joined them to inhale the delicious smell of fresh coffee and the sugary, doughy goodness of the pasty. Jerry Hampton, the sports writer, Einar Anderson, an assistant editor and Ronnie Hemple, in sales, were always the first three people at work each morning, just after Clark. Martin could never decide if they were really that ambitious or just anxious to get away from their wives each day.
A strange feeling of brotherhood spread among the group and as they dug in, the unusual sound of boisterous talking and laughing spread throughout the office. “What the hell is going on in there?” boomed Clark Grayson’s voice from his glass walled office in the corner. Everyone fell silent for the moment, and then burst out laughing. “Martin just stopped at the Squirrel to pick up some rolls on his way in, and…” Sam couldn’t finish his sentence before they heard Clark’s chair scrape across the hardwood floor and his heavy footsteps hurry across the room. “Cinnamon or caramel rolls?” he asked when he got to the door.
After consuming one or two rolls each and getting refills on their coffee, everyone went to their desks to start their work for the day. Clark walked with Martin to his cube and asked, “So what’s on the docket this week, Martin? You know, Holy Week is a great time to do some work you can’t get to when things are busier.” Martin couldn’t have asked for a better opening, and Clark hadn’t disappointed him in delivering the same encouragement the Monday of Holy Week for the past 2 years. “Well, I do have an idea for a spring story,” Martin began. “I was thinking about doing a feature on a teacher who is retiring this year after spending his entire career here. Someone like Frank Talbot…”
Clark squinted his eyes, looked at Martin sideways and said, “Hmmm…sort of an historical tribute? A thank you for all the years of service? A retrospective on how he has touched the youth of our community?”
Martin squashed the sick feeling in his stomach. “Yeah, something like that.”
Clark started nodding his head and said, “Good! I like it. Go for it, and keep me posted on how it develops.” He turned and walked quickly towards his office and then turned back. “Why Frank Talbot?” he asked with a curious cock to his head.
Martin took in a deep breath and replied, “Oh, I don’t know. The name just popped out at me when I was reading the school board minutes. Stories keep coming up about Mr. Talbot whenever I talk to former students. And I did have him as a science teacher myself…”
Clark nodded again, and turned and walked away again. “Yeah, that’s good, that’s good. Just have Shirley get you what you need if you need to dig into the archives,” he called over his shoulder as he went into his office and closed the door.
Martin couldn’t believe his luck and how easy it had been to access the tools that would lead to exposing Frank Talbot for who he was. Now, he just needed to navigate the waters of access with Shirley.
Martin knew that this would be no easy task. Copies of every Burnett County Sentinel published between 1928 and 1980 were stored in the small metal storage shed at the end of the building’s parking lot. Editions from 1980 to 2000 were kept on microfiche. And from 2001 on, electronic versions were filed within the paper’s computer system. Being holy week, all regular activities were suspended so there would be no assignments to Chamber of Commerce or School Board meetings. Martin’s only challenge would be to explain to Clark Grayson why he had a sudden interest in Frank Talbot and why he needed to dig into back issues of the Sentinel.
On his way to the office, Martin stopped at the Chattering Squirrel to pick up some hot caramel rolls that he knew would grease the skids in getting Clark to give up the keys to the shed and access to the microfiche machine. He even had the Connie, the young girl at the register, fill several cups of coffee to go and grabbed a handful of creamers to take with him. Clark loved his coffee tan colored with lots cream and would appreciate having the real stuff instead of the powdered version offered up at the Sentinel break room.
Martin juggled the rolls and coffee and carefully opened the glass door into the Sentinel building only to run into Sam Jackson. “Whoa, Marty, let me help you there,” Sam said brightly, trying to grab some of the items that threatened to fall out of Martin’s hands. “What do you got going there, Buddy? Are we having a party or something?”
“Thanks, Sam,” Martin answered, happy to have some help, even if it was from Sam. “Nope, just thought I bring in some treats today to help us get through the first day of a boring week.”
Sam’s lips widened into a goofy grin that showed off his yellow teeth. “Wow, that’s nice of you, Marty. I didn’t have breakfast today.”
Martin and Sam walked through the empty reception area, and Sam added, “Glad I got here early. We’d better save some goodies for Shirl.” Shirley Campbell was the face of the Burnett County Sentinel, the one who answered the phones and greeted guests. Part receptionist, part guard dog, she’d worked at the paper for 34 years, and hadn’t changed her look once during that time. The receptionist job was her first after graduating from Siren High School, and she never felt the need to move up or move on. Shirley’s husband, Greg, graduated with her the same year and worked for Jeff Howe in his construction company where he did beautiful inside finishing work on many homes and lodges built by Howe Construction in Burnett County. They never had children, and if anyone had been invited to their modest cabin on Devil’s Lake outside of Webster, they would have told you that they pretty much liked their life just the way it was.
Martin swore that the fringed suede vest Shirley sported at least once a week was probably the one she wore to the spring woodsy of her senior year in high school, the woodsy where she finally gave up her virginity to Greg. Long, gray, stringy hair, parted in the middle, granny glasses and some version of love beads were a permanent part of her daily get up. Shirley alternated between wearing the long, flowing skirts that she loved with her fringed suede vest or oversized corduroy jumpers with cotton turtlenecks, tights and Swedish clogs. It’s like she never left the 70s. Clark called her a “cracker jack” on the phone. She never missed a call or transposed numbers, and made sure anyone walking into the Sentinel Building had business there. No one was allowed in unless they had an appointment.
Martin and Sam walked into the break room, set down the coffee and rolls and within seconds, three of their fellow early risers joined them to inhale the delicious smell of fresh coffee and the sugary, doughy goodness of the pasty. Jerry Hampton, the sports writer, Einar Anderson, an assistant editor and Ronnie Hemple, in sales, were always the first three people at work each morning, just after Clark. Martin could never decide if they were really that ambitious or just anxious to get away from their wives each day.
A strange feeling of brotherhood spread among the group and as they dug in, the unusual sound of boisterous talking and laughing spread throughout the office. “What the hell is going on in there?” boomed Clark Grayson’s voice from his glass walled office in the corner. Everyone fell silent for the moment, and then burst out laughing. “Martin just stopped at the Squirrel to pick up some rolls on his way in, and…” Sam couldn’t finish his sentence before they heard Clark’s chair scrape across the hardwood floor and his heavy footsteps hurry across the room. “Cinnamon or caramel rolls?” he asked when he got to the door.
After consuming one or two rolls each and getting refills on their coffee, everyone went to their desks to start their work for the day. Clark walked with Martin to his cube and asked, “So what’s on the docket this week, Martin? You know, Holy Week is a great time to do some work you can’t get to when things are busier.” Martin couldn’t have asked for a better opening, and Clark hadn’t disappointed him in delivering the same encouragement the Monday of Holy Week for the past 2 years. “Well, I do have an idea for a spring story,” Martin began. “I was thinking about doing a feature on a teacher who is retiring this year after spending his entire career here. Someone like Frank Talbot…”
Clark squinted his eyes, looked at Martin sideways and said, “Hmmm…sort of an historical tribute? A thank you for all the years of service? A retrospective on how he has touched the youth of our community?”
Martin squashed the sick feeling in his stomach. “Yeah, something like that.”
Clark started nodding his head and said, “Good! I like it. Go for it, and keep me posted on how it develops.” He turned and walked quickly towards his office and then turned back. “Why Frank Talbot?” he asked with a curious cock to his head.
Martin took in a deep breath and replied, “Oh, I don’t know. The name just popped out at me when I was reading the school board minutes. Stories keep coming up about Mr. Talbot whenever I talk to former students. And I did have him as a science teacher myself…”
Clark nodded again, and turned and walked away again. “Yeah, that’s good, that’s good. Just have Shirley get you what you need if you need to dig into the archives,” he called over his shoulder as he went into his office and closed the door.
Martin couldn’t believe his luck and how easy it had been to access the tools that would lead to exposing Frank Talbot for who he was. Now, he just needed to navigate the waters of access with Shirley.
Chapter 7
Jean Lundeen’s house hadn’t changed at all in the three weeks since Martin had moved out and probably hadn’t changed much in the last 25 years since he was born. The tidy little one-story bungalow sat about 10 feet from Maple Street and 2 blocks from Main Street and what the residents of Siren considered “downtown”. The house was painted light yellow with green shutters, and the front featured three little window boxes under old fashioned double paned windows. The window boxes still had the dirt in them from last summer, and a few bare geranium stalks where Jean hadn’t pulled out all the dead flowers from last fall. “We’ll just take care of that in the spring,” was her favorite sentence when doing end of the season chores each year.
The front door had a faded straw hat with purple plastic flowers hanging on it – Jean’s attempt at celebrating the impending spring. She’d change the decoration on the door with the seasons – the straw hat would go out about Ash Wednesday and stay up through the summer, a goofy looking witch with dancing legs around Labor Day and a plastic Christmas wreath on November 1st. Thank God for Michael’s Craft Store in Superior, or Jean wouldn’t know what time it was.
Martin parked his 1997 Mazda in the short driveway and sat in the car for a moment, wondering what he was doing. How was his mother going to help him with this? She probably didn’t even know what was going on back then, and if she did, she’d say Sharla, being an Indian and all, probably asked for it.
Way in the back of his mind, a little voice was asking him the question, “What kind of home did you grow up in that, when your only real friend in the whole world just stopped going to school one day, you never asked yourself why.” And he was a little afraid to answer. So going to see Jean seemed like exactly what he should be doing when confronted with a situation that called into question the integrity of everyone who knew Sharla, including himself.
When Martin got to the front door of the house, he wasn’t sure if he should knock or not. He didn’t live there anymore, but he wasn’t a stranger. Just as he decided to just open the door and call to his mother, it jerked open and Jean was standing there, with a pained look on her face. “Martin, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Is everything okay at the apartment? Do you want to move back home? Your room is exactly the way you left it…”
Martin tilted his head back and looked up at the sky for a moment, and sighed as he brought his eyes back to look at his mother. “Everything is fine, Mom. I just thought I’d stop by to see how you are doing. It’s Palm Sunday. I thought I’d take you to church.”
Jean smiled, but looked at him sideways, a little skeptical. “Martin, it’s almost 11:30. Church ended an hour ago. I just got home, and I'm just frazzled. I just can’t stand all those naughty little children running around, waving those palm branches. Some year, someone’s going to lose an eye…” She opened the screen door and let Martin in. When she closed the door tightly behind him, she stopped, looked him up and down and gave him a quick, little hug. “Well, this is just a lovely surprise. Why don’t I make you some lunch?”
After days of Don’s poached eggs and toast in the morning and hamburgers and Grain Belts at night, some tuna salad or a grilled cheese sandwich sounded good to Martin. “Mom, that sounds great. What’s on the menu?”
“I made a big batch of macaroni casserole last night, so how does that sound?” Jean replied. Before Martin could reply, she continued, “And I have some leftover jello salad – it’s lime with those little marshmallows you like – and Parker House rolls.”
“Mother, it sounds like gourmet cuisine,” he said, and truly meant it. For as happy as he was to be away from the tedium and restrictions of life with his mother, Martin missed these few familiar things that defined his childhood. “I’ll set the table,” he offered and went into the tiny little kitchen in the back of the house.
Jean’s decorating skills were honed in the 60’s under her mother’s loving teaching, and came into their own in the 80’s, but hadn’t developed much past then. But Jean loved the country blues and mauves of her own home and it pleased her very much to show off her home décor to the few people that came to visit. She thought of herself as having flare, but a lot of people would say her taste was a little tacky. Something out of the Trailer Home Shopping Network. Lots of collectible dolls and figurines. Brightly colored, over-stuffed furniture that was slightly too big for the livingroom, but nice and comfortable for Jean’s ample backside. Tiffany lamps and crocheted doilies purchased at Michael’s finished the picture.
Jean bustled around her kitchen, happy to have Martin underfoot. “I am so happy to see you, Honey. What is new? How is your apartment? How is your job going?” Martin smiled a little, happy to have the familiar barrage of questions from his mother. In small doses, he found her to be almost delightful.
“Well, my job is good, and the apartment is fine,” he responded. “Sharla Whitefeather came over yesterday and helped me clean and paint it. It looks pretty good.”
Martin could feel his mother’s frown as he carefully set the table with his back to her. He didn’t know why he jumped into the subject of Sharla so quickly, but felt the opening was there. He waited for her to respond, but she didn’t. “Did you hear me, Mom? Sharla Whitefeather came over…”
“I heard you, Martin,” Jean interrupted sharply, then softened. “I’m just surprised that you spend time with her, that’s all. I can’t imagine what you’d have in common with a girl like her.”
“What do you mean, “a girl like her”?” Martin asked indignantly.
“Well, she’s a high school drop out and a…and a…native American,” replied Jean. “You’re a man with an education, some culture…” she trailed off.
The joy of predictability was overshadowed by annoyance. “Mom, let me tell you something about Sharla,” he said carefully. “She’s very smart and a lot of fun, and the only reason she dropped out of school was because some asshole teacher sexually assaulted her after school one day and made her life so miserable…”
Jean’s face turned white, and she cut him off. “Was it Frank Talbot?” she whispered. Martin looked at her hard and asked in a low growl, “You knew?”
Martin and Jean didn’t talk through lunch. They sat at the little maple dropleaf table in Jean’s kitchen and ate their macaroni hotdish and green jello salad in silence. When Martin lived at home and ate with his mother, he remained silent and Jean just chattered away, lobbing questions, opinions and petty observations his way. Today, the tension was so thick, neither Martin nor Jean dared speak, and Jean’s silence was mixed with total confusion as to why Martin was so upset and wondering what she had done wrong. The silence continued while they cleared the table and washed the dishes.
Martin plopped down on the china blue and mauve sofa, leaned back on a throw pillow and closed his eyes. “Can we talk, Martin, before you take your afternoon nap?” Jean asked quietly. Had he not been so upset, Martin probably would have fallen asleep, but today, he had a million questions for his mother and was afraid of the answers.
“Sure, Mom, let’s talk,” he answered testily.
“Martin, I know you’re upset with me, but I need you to tell me why,” Jean said. “Is it because I said what I said about Sharla? Is it something about that awful Talbot man?”
Martin sat up and stared at her for a moment. “Mom, tell me what you know about Frank Talbot.”
Jean put her hands together and sat forward on her chair. “Martin, I don’t really know that much. Just some things I heard at the beauty parlor,” she answered him quickly.
“What did you hear?” he demanded.
“Well, you know that I see Sally once a week at the Lady by Lovely Salon,” Jean started. “A few weeks ago, my friend Donna was sitting in the chair next to me. Sally’s daughter’s chair. You remember Cassie, don’t you? She was a year ahead of you in school,” Jean went on and would have continued in this vein if Martin hadn’t interrupted her. “Mom, get to Frank Talbot,” he barked at her.
Jean winced as if he hit her. “Martin, I’m trying to set this up so you understand,” she explained. “Anyway, Donna was reading the Sentinel and was reading out loud about what was happening at the high school, who was retiring…you know,” she continued. “Anyway, when Donna said Frank Talbot was retiring after 35 years, Cassie said, ‘What a perv!” Jean sat back and smiled, satisfied with her story.
Martin waited, then said, “And?” Jean looked back at him, confused. “What else?” Martin demanded.
“Well, nothing, really,” she replied. “We tried to find out what she meant, but all she’d say was the old fart liked to…hmmm…’cop a feel” I think she said. She didn’t elaborate.”
“Mom…let me elaborate for you,” Martin said, and proceeded to fill Jean in on the details.
When Martin finished his story about Frank, Sharla and what he thought was probably a cover-up, Jean’s eyes were almost as big as her faux Delft blue plates hanging on the wall behind her. She didn’t say a word for almost a full minute, and then said, “Martin, I’m so sorry.”
Martin frowned and asked, “Mom, what are you sorry about?”
“I don’t really know,” Jean replied, and shook her head. “It’s just so sad. Why didn’t anyone do anything about it? Why didn’t anyone help Sharla?”
Martin slumped back and looked up at the ceiling, studying the spider web in the corner of the crown molding. “That’s what I can’t figure out, Mom,” he sighed. “It sounds as if people knew what was going on, but just didn’t know what to do about it. And if it had been a white girl who was actually molested…or raped…” Martin trailed off and closed his eyes.
“Do you really think he raped those Indian girls, Martin?” Jean asked, her voice trembling.
“I think so, Mom, and the only reason Sharla escaped was because she dropped out,” Martin said sadly. “Mom, can you tell me anything about that time? Did I even mention Sharla dropping out or anything about weird stuff happening at school?”
Jean thought a minute and didn’t meet his eyes when she answered. “I don’t think so, Martin. You maybe acted a little moody, but you certainly never mentioned Sharla not coming to school anymore. You never talked about her at all.”
Martin’s struggled to sit upright on the sofa and waited for his mother to face him and look him in the eye. “I was as bad as everyone else. I was ashamed to call Sharla my friend, and didn’t want to care that she just disappeared one day,” he said, almost to himself. “Well, I’m never going to do that to my friend Sharla again.”
The front door had a faded straw hat with purple plastic flowers hanging on it – Jean’s attempt at celebrating the impending spring. She’d change the decoration on the door with the seasons – the straw hat would go out about Ash Wednesday and stay up through the summer, a goofy looking witch with dancing legs around Labor Day and a plastic Christmas wreath on November 1st. Thank God for Michael’s Craft Store in Superior, or Jean wouldn’t know what time it was.
Martin parked his 1997 Mazda in the short driveway and sat in the car for a moment, wondering what he was doing. How was his mother going to help him with this? She probably didn’t even know what was going on back then, and if she did, she’d say Sharla, being an Indian and all, probably asked for it.
Way in the back of his mind, a little voice was asking him the question, “What kind of home did you grow up in that, when your only real friend in the whole world just stopped going to school one day, you never asked yourself why.” And he was a little afraid to answer. So going to see Jean seemed like exactly what he should be doing when confronted with a situation that called into question the integrity of everyone who knew Sharla, including himself.
When Martin got to the front door of the house, he wasn’t sure if he should knock or not. He didn’t live there anymore, but he wasn’t a stranger. Just as he decided to just open the door and call to his mother, it jerked open and Jean was standing there, with a pained look on her face. “Martin, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Is everything okay at the apartment? Do you want to move back home? Your room is exactly the way you left it…”
Martin tilted his head back and looked up at the sky for a moment, and sighed as he brought his eyes back to look at his mother. “Everything is fine, Mom. I just thought I’d stop by to see how you are doing. It’s Palm Sunday. I thought I’d take you to church.”
Jean smiled, but looked at him sideways, a little skeptical. “Martin, it’s almost 11:30. Church ended an hour ago. I just got home, and I'm just frazzled. I just can’t stand all those naughty little children running around, waving those palm branches. Some year, someone’s going to lose an eye…” She opened the screen door and let Martin in. When she closed the door tightly behind him, she stopped, looked him up and down and gave him a quick, little hug. “Well, this is just a lovely surprise. Why don’t I make you some lunch?”
After days of Don’s poached eggs and toast in the morning and hamburgers and Grain Belts at night, some tuna salad or a grilled cheese sandwich sounded good to Martin. “Mom, that sounds great. What’s on the menu?”
“I made a big batch of macaroni casserole last night, so how does that sound?” Jean replied. Before Martin could reply, she continued, “And I have some leftover jello salad – it’s lime with those little marshmallows you like – and Parker House rolls.”
“Mother, it sounds like gourmet cuisine,” he said, and truly meant it. For as happy as he was to be away from the tedium and restrictions of life with his mother, Martin missed these few familiar things that defined his childhood. “I’ll set the table,” he offered and went into the tiny little kitchen in the back of the house.
Jean’s decorating skills were honed in the 60’s under her mother’s loving teaching, and came into their own in the 80’s, but hadn’t developed much past then. But Jean loved the country blues and mauves of her own home and it pleased her very much to show off her home décor to the few people that came to visit. She thought of herself as having flare, but a lot of people would say her taste was a little tacky. Something out of the Trailer Home Shopping Network. Lots of collectible dolls and figurines. Brightly colored, over-stuffed furniture that was slightly too big for the livingroom, but nice and comfortable for Jean’s ample backside. Tiffany lamps and crocheted doilies purchased at Michael’s finished the picture.
Jean bustled around her kitchen, happy to have Martin underfoot. “I am so happy to see you, Honey. What is new? How is your apartment? How is your job going?” Martin smiled a little, happy to have the familiar barrage of questions from his mother. In small doses, he found her to be almost delightful.
“Well, my job is good, and the apartment is fine,” he responded. “Sharla Whitefeather came over yesterday and helped me clean and paint it. It looks pretty good.”
Martin could feel his mother’s frown as he carefully set the table with his back to her. He didn’t know why he jumped into the subject of Sharla so quickly, but felt the opening was there. He waited for her to respond, but she didn’t. “Did you hear me, Mom? Sharla Whitefeather came over…”
“I heard you, Martin,” Jean interrupted sharply, then softened. “I’m just surprised that you spend time with her, that’s all. I can’t imagine what you’d have in common with a girl like her.”
“What do you mean, “a girl like her”?” Martin asked indignantly.
“Well, she’s a high school drop out and a…and a…native American,” replied Jean. “You’re a man with an education, some culture…” she trailed off.
The joy of predictability was overshadowed by annoyance. “Mom, let me tell you something about Sharla,” he said carefully. “She’s very smart and a lot of fun, and the only reason she dropped out of school was because some asshole teacher sexually assaulted her after school one day and made her life so miserable…”
Jean’s face turned white, and she cut him off. “Was it Frank Talbot?” she whispered. Martin looked at her hard and asked in a low growl, “You knew?”
Martin and Jean didn’t talk through lunch. They sat at the little maple dropleaf table in Jean’s kitchen and ate their macaroni hotdish and green jello salad in silence. When Martin lived at home and ate with his mother, he remained silent and Jean just chattered away, lobbing questions, opinions and petty observations his way. Today, the tension was so thick, neither Martin nor Jean dared speak, and Jean’s silence was mixed with total confusion as to why Martin was so upset and wondering what she had done wrong. The silence continued while they cleared the table and washed the dishes.
Martin plopped down on the china blue and mauve sofa, leaned back on a throw pillow and closed his eyes. “Can we talk, Martin, before you take your afternoon nap?” Jean asked quietly. Had he not been so upset, Martin probably would have fallen asleep, but today, he had a million questions for his mother and was afraid of the answers.
“Sure, Mom, let’s talk,” he answered testily.
“Martin, I know you’re upset with me, but I need you to tell me why,” Jean said. “Is it because I said what I said about Sharla? Is it something about that awful Talbot man?”
Martin sat up and stared at her for a moment. “Mom, tell me what you know about Frank Talbot.”
Jean put her hands together and sat forward on her chair. “Martin, I don’t really know that much. Just some things I heard at the beauty parlor,” she answered him quickly.
“What did you hear?” he demanded.
“Well, you know that I see Sally once a week at the Lady by Lovely Salon,” Jean started. “A few weeks ago, my friend Donna was sitting in the chair next to me. Sally’s daughter’s chair. You remember Cassie, don’t you? She was a year ahead of you in school,” Jean went on and would have continued in this vein if Martin hadn’t interrupted her. “Mom, get to Frank Talbot,” he barked at her.
Jean winced as if he hit her. “Martin, I’m trying to set this up so you understand,” she explained. “Anyway, Donna was reading the Sentinel and was reading out loud about what was happening at the high school, who was retiring…you know,” she continued. “Anyway, when Donna said Frank Talbot was retiring after 35 years, Cassie said, ‘What a perv!” Jean sat back and smiled, satisfied with her story.
Martin waited, then said, “And?” Jean looked back at him, confused. “What else?” Martin demanded.
“Well, nothing, really,” she replied. “We tried to find out what she meant, but all she’d say was the old fart liked to…hmmm…’cop a feel” I think she said. She didn’t elaborate.”
“Mom…let me elaborate for you,” Martin said, and proceeded to fill Jean in on the details.
When Martin finished his story about Frank, Sharla and what he thought was probably a cover-up, Jean’s eyes were almost as big as her faux Delft blue plates hanging on the wall behind her. She didn’t say a word for almost a full minute, and then said, “Martin, I’m so sorry.”
Martin frowned and asked, “Mom, what are you sorry about?”
“I don’t really know,” Jean replied, and shook her head. “It’s just so sad. Why didn’t anyone do anything about it? Why didn’t anyone help Sharla?”
Martin slumped back and looked up at the ceiling, studying the spider web in the corner of the crown molding. “That’s what I can’t figure out, Mom,” he sighed. “It sounds as if people knew what was going on, but just didn’t know what to do about it. And if it had been a white girl who was actually molested…or raped…” Martin trailed off and closed his eyes.
“Do you really think he raped those Indian girls, Martin?” Jean asked, her voice trembling.
“I think so, Mom, and the only reason Sharla escaped was because she dropped out,” Martin said sadly. “Mom, can you tell me anything about that time? Did I even mention Sharla dropping out or anything about weird stuff happening at school?”
Jean thought a minute and didn’t meet his eyes when she answered. “I don’t think so, Martin. You maybe acted a little moody, but you certainly never mentioned Sharla not coming to school anymore. You never talked about her at all.”
Martin’s struggled to sit upright on the sofa and waited for his mother to face him and look him in the eye. “I was as bad as everyone else. I was ashamed to call Sharla my friend, and didn’t want to care that she just disappeared one day,” he said, almost to himself. “Well, I’m never going to do that to my friend Sharla again.”
Chapter 6
Martin woke the next morning, more troubled and confused than when he left the bar the night before. He knew that Sharla was afraid of Frank, and he knew Don knew why, but Sharla left and the late crowd came in, and Don wasn’t available for chatter the rest of the night. So Martin decided he would get answers from Don over breakfast, no matter what.
As Martin finished dressing, he sat on the edge of his bed and closed his eyes, trying to see Frank Talbot in his mind. There was nothing particularly special about the man or the way that he looked. If anything, he was the picture of cold public education. J.C. Penney polyester sport coat, tan Docker slacks, white Munsingwear golf shirt. His full head of straight, greasy grey hair was combed flat to one side, revealing a part dotted with dandruff. His cheeks were ruddy, his lips thin and his eyeglasses were pewter wire rims that held thick lenses that made his blue eyes look small, beady and sharp. He rarely smiled, but always had a sort of self-satisfied smirk on his face. Martin shuddered at the thought of him even touching Sharla.
Martin recalled casual conversation and town gossip mentioning Talbot’s wife divorcing him in the first year of their marriage, and leaving town shortly after the divorce was final. Unlike some of the other single teachers who dated or socialized, Talbot was a loner who kept to himself and just did his job. He’d hold posts as assistant coach of this team or that or advisor to a club, but the assignment never lasted more than one year. For a variety of reasons, Frank Talbot just seemed to move around a lot within the high school extra curricular landscape.
It was relatively late in the morning when Martin made his way downstairs. Don was wiping the bar down and looked up as Martin sat down on a stool. “You’re late, Jimmy Olson. I’ve been expecting you for hours,” he said as he took his last wipe and tossed the rag in the sink.
Martin launched right in. “Okay, Don, tell me what’s going on. Why was Sharla so freaked out by that old teacher? What did he do to her that made her react…?” he suddenly knew the answer before he finished his last question. “Is he the teacher that did something that made her drop out of school?” he asked.
“You know, Martin, for an investigative journalist, you’re a little dull,” Don said as he shook his head. “Yes, he’s the bastard that sexually molested her after school one day, and ruined her life. When she reported it, no one took it seriously since ‘she was just an Indian’, so she dropped out rather than face him and everyone else in that high school hell hole, and has been working at her idiot uncle’s gas station ever since. What a waste!” Don pounded his fist on the bar for emphasis and breathed in a raspy breath. “When I saw that asshole walk in here last night, I wanted to tear his head off. Having just met that lovely girl and seen how much potential she had, all ruined not just by that horny bastard, but by the piss ant cowards in this town that pass for leaders!”
Don was on a roll, and Martin was afraid to stop him. But he had to ask, “Don, how do you know this guy? You said he hadn’t been in the bar before…”
Don snorted. “I said he hadn’t been in my bar, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him. I know him from town. And some of his friends come in here. I’ve heard them talk about how he brags about his conquests. Conquests! They’re teenage girls! Those low lifes are probably the ones who called him last night and gave him the heads up that the one that got away was sitting at the bar with you last night. And he couldn’t help himself – he had to come by and try to finish what he started.”
Martin shuddered. “Are you saying he didn’t…?” He couldn’t finish his thought, much less the sentence.
”Nope, Sharla was one of the few ones who fought back. Talbot’s preference is Indian girls who either won’t fight back or won’t be listened to if they complain. Think back, Martin. There were others besides Sharla, weren’t there? Girls who just stopped coming to school one day?” Don asked him, looking Martin squarely in the eyes.
Martin let his mind wander back 7 to 10 years ago, to high school, to Mr. Talbot, his physics teacher. Sharla’s physics teacher. Sharla got straight A’s in that class, he remembered that. She helped him after school with assignments. When she dropped out, it had a disastrous impact on his final grade for the course.
Suddenly, Martin recalled other memories, too. He remembered hearing girls talk about Talbot’s habit of putting his arm around them when they asked for help, how they smelled the coffee and cigarettes on his breathe, how it disgusted them when he “innocently” let his hand travel down from their shoulders and under their arm, next to their breasts, as he continued to explain a concept or correct their work. “The Groper” they called him. These girls, the white girls, just quit asking for help.
But the Indian girls, they were told to stay after class for extra help. Martin remembered that. He remembered how they were in school one day and gone the next. Just how Sharla was in class one day and gone the next.
Martin’s mind snapped back to the present. “Don, who did she report this to? Why didn’t anyone do anything about it? He’s retiring in 2 months, for God’s sake. He should’ve been thrown out on his ass 9 years ago, probably before that!” Martin shouted.
“Martin, calm down. Yes, he should have been thrown out,” Don agreed. “But no one had the balls to do it. I have a feeling the Siren School Board has been wrestling with what to do with Talbot for years, and they just didn’t know what to do because to take serious action, they’d have to admit they knew what has been going on for years. They’d have to admit they just turned a blind eye. Wouldn’t that look good for Burnett County’s wholesome, white bread, safe streets image? Just don’t let your daughters take physics in high school.”
“Well, this might explain what Dayton Daniels and Jeff Howe were arguing about the other night,” Martin suggested.
“You’re smarter than I thought, Jimmy Olson,” Don replied. “So now that you know, what are you going to do about it?”
Martin had seen the true underbelly of his hometown for the first time, and it made him sick to his stomach. He left Don at the bar, and his question hanging in the air, and walked out of the bar, thinking about what he was going to do about it.
Martin did the only thing he could do, the only thing he had the stomach left to do. He went to that place where, no matter how annoying, he knew exactly what he’d find and exactly what to expect. That place where, no matter how much he hated to admit it, would give him a familiar and safe haven to ponder his next steps.
He went to visit his mother.
As Martin finished dressing, he sat on the edge of his bed and closed his eyes, trying to see Frank Talbot in his mind. There was nothing particularly special about the man or the way that he looked. If anything, he was the picture of cold public education. J.C. Penney polyester sport coat, tan Docker slacks, white Munsingwear golf shirt. His full head of straight, greasy grey hair was combed flat to one side, revealing a part dotted with dandruff. His cheeks were ruddy, his lips thin and his eyeglasses were pewter wire rims that held thick lenses that made his blue eyes look small, beady and sharp. He rarely smiled, but always had a sort of self-satisfied smirk on his face. Martin shuddered at the thought of him even touching Sharla.
Martin recalled casual conversation and town gossip mentioning Talbot’s wife divorcing him in the first year of their marriage, and leaving town shortly after the divorce was final. Unlike some of the other single teachers who dated or socialized, Talbot was a loner who kept to himself and just did his job. He’d hold posts as assistant coach of this team or that or advisor to a club, but the assignment never lasted more than one year. For a variety of reasons, Frank Talbot just seemed to move around a lot within the high school extra curricular landscape.
It was relatively late in the morning when Martin made his way downstairs. Don was wiping the bar down and looked up as Martin sat down on a stool. “You’re late, Jimmy Olson. I’ve been expecting you for hours,” he said as he took his last wipe and tossed the rag in the sink.
Martin launched right in. “Okay, Don, tell me what’s going on. Why was Sharla so freaked out by that old teacher? What did he do to her that made her react…?” he suddenly knew the answer before he finished his last question. “Is he the teacher that did something that made her drop out of school?” he asked.
“You know, Martin, for an investigative journalist, you’re a little dull,” Don said as he shook his head. “Yes, he’s the bastard that sexually molested her after school one day, and ruined her life. When she reported it, no one took it seriously since ‘she was just an Indian’, so she dropped out rather than face him and everyone else in that high school hell hole, and has been working at her idiot uncle’s gas station ever since. What a waste!” Don pounded his fist on the bar for emphasis and breathed in a raspy breath. “When I saw that asshole walk in here last night, I wanted to tear his head off. Having just met that lovely girl and seen how much potential she had, all ruined not just by that horny bastard, but by the piss ant cowards in this town that pass for leaders!”
Don was on a roll, and Martin was afraid to stop him. But he had to ask, “Don, how do you know this guy? You said he hadn’t been in the bar before…”
Don snorted. “I said he hadn’t been in my bar, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him. I know him from town. And some of his friends come in here. I’ve heard them talk about how he brags about his conquests. Conquests! They’re teenage girls! Those low lifes are probably the ones who called him last night and gave him the heads up that the one that got away was sitting at the bar with you last night. And he couldn’t help himself – he had to come by and try to finish what he started.”
Martin shuddered. “Are you saying he didn’t…?” He couldn’t finish his thought, much less the sentence.
”Nope, Sharla was one of the few ones who fought back. Talbot’s preference is Indian girls who either won’t fight back or won’t be listened to if they complain. Think back, Martin. There were others besides Sharla, weren’t there? Girls who just stopped coming to school one day?” Don asked him, looking Martin squarely in the eyes.
Martin let his mind wander back 7 to 10 years ago, to high school, to Mr. Talbot, his physics teacher. Sharla’s physics teacher. Sharla got straight A’s in that class, he remembered that. She helped him after school with assignments. When she dropped out, it had a disastrous impact on his final grade for the course.
Suddenly, Martin recalled other memories, too. He remembered hearing girls talk about Talbot’s habit of putting his arm around them when they asked for help, how they smelled the coffee and cigarettes on his breathe, how it disgusted them when he “innocently” let his hand travel down from their shoulders and under their arm, next to their breasts, as he continued to explain a concept or correct their work. “The Groper” they called him. These girls, the white girls, just quit asking for help.
But the Indian girls, they were told to stay after class for extra help. Martin remembered that. He remembered how they were in school one day and gone the next. Just how Sharla was in class one day and gone the next.
Martin’s mind snapped back to the present. “Don, who did she report this to? Why didn’t anyone do anything about it? He’s retiring in 2 months, for God’s sake. He should’ve been thrown out on his ass 9 years ago, probably before that!” Martin shouted.
“Martin, calm down. Yes, he should have been thrown out,” Don agreed. “But no one had the balls to do it. I have a feeling the Siren School Board has been wrestling with what to do with Talbot for years, and they just didn’t know what to do because to take serious action, they’d have to admit they knew what has been going on for years. They’d have to admit they just turned a blind eye. Wouldn’t that look good for Burnett County’s wholesome, white bread, safe streets image? Just don’t let your daughters take physics in high school.”
“Well, this might explain what Dayton Daniels and Jeff Howe were arguing about the other night,” Martin suggested.
“You’re smarter than I thought, Jimmy Olson,” Don replied. “So now that you know, what are you going to do about it?”
Martin had seen the true underbelly of his hometown for the first time, and it made him sick to his stomach. He left Don at the bar, and his question hanging in the air, and walked out of the bar, thinking about what he was going to do about it.
Martin did the only thing he could do, the only thing he had the stomach left to do. He went to that place where, no matter how annoying, he knew exactly what he’d find and exactly what to expect. That place where, no matter how much he hated to admit it, would give him a familiar and safe haven to ponder his next steps.
He went to visit his mother.
Chapter 5
It was 8:00 that evening when Martin and Sharla had finished painting the apartment and were downstairs, sitting at the bar, anticipating Don’s burgers and Grain Belts, and toasting Martin’s new digs and the amazing transformation that had taken place in just 7 short hours. When they first came down, Martin was so exhausted and pleased, he forgot for a moment that Don Wardle would be behind the counter, ready to assume the worst about what had transpired in Apartment #2 that afternoon, winking at Martin and leering at Sharla.
But instead, Don turned to see Martin and Sharla enter, and held his arms out as if ready to embrace them both. “Why, Miss Whitefeather, what an honor to have you here at Risky Dick’s! To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said, quite genuinely, to Martin’s surprise.
Sharla beamed. “I was helping Martin fix up his apartment. Mr. Wardle, we painted the walls and cleaned the windows. It looks beautiful!” she exclaimed. Beautiful might have been stretch, but Martin had to admit the room looked 1000% better with a fresh coat of paint and light coming through the panes. “We’re going to rent a carpet cleaner tomorrow and go into Forest Lake to pick up some curtains and a new bedspread. Then you should be set, right Martin?”
Sharla’s look was satisfied and her smile wide, and Martin looked from her to Don, and saw he was totally smitten with her enthusiasm. “Miss Whitefeather, you are a ray of sunshine! What can I get you two? Dinner is on me tonight.”
Martin and Sharla were enjoying the last bites of their burgers when Don came up to them and filled each of their beer mugs with a fresh pull. “So what is going on in your world, Sharla?” Don asked politely. “And, as I’ve told Jimmy Olson here, please call me Don.”
Sharla giggled. “Jimmy Olson…that’s funny.” She paused to think for a moment. “Not much going on. The fishing opener is coming up. Uncle Bill just finished remodeling the Hole in the Wall. Other than that….” Sharla trailed off.
Don smiled and settled in, even though the place was teeming with customers who wanted to have one last big night before repenting during Holy Week. “It’s been a quiet winter, hasn’t it? Did things get settled over there at the Hole in the Wall?” he asked. Don and Sharla’s eyes met, and Martin was confused for a moment. “What are you talking about, Don?” Martin asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Sharla answered quickly for him. “Uncle Bill just found a little problem with the bookkeeping at the casino.”
Don looked amused. “A little bookkeeping problem, Sharla? $250,000 in missing funds is more than a little bookkeeping problem.”
Martin was torn between feeling sorry for Sharla’s discomfort and being curious about what appeared to be a pretty serious fiduciary oversight. “Come on, Don, leave Sharla alone. She just works for the man…” begged Martin.
Sharla shook her head. “No, Martin, it’s okay. Uncle Bill made a big mistake in hiring that non-Indian woman to do his books, and if he thought more with his head, he wouldn’t be in this mess,” she replied. “It’s the tribe’s problem, really, and Uncle Bill will just have to answer to the Chief.”
Don slapped his hand on the counter. “Sharla, you are a peach and a straight shooter!” he exclaimed. “You are welcome to be my guest here at Risky Dick’s any time. I mean it…any time.”
Sharla smiled warmly at Don, and asked, “Thank you. I appreciate that. But tell me now, why do you call this place Ricky Dick’s? Your name is Don.”
Don chuckled. “Well, Dick was my nick name in college. You probably don’t know this, but Dick is a shortened version of the German word for fat. You may have noticed that I’m not exactly svelte…” After giving his belly a loving pat, he continued, “So people called me Dick, and it stuck just long enough to name this place.”
“So what about the Risky part of the name?” Sharla asked.
Don leaned over the bar and in a stage whisper said, “Well, not to brag, but I was a bit of a ladies’ man in the old days. Let’s just say this little fat guy had a lot of fun and had a few close calls in college.” Martin looked shocked, but Sharla giggled loudly while Don laughed along with her and clapped his hands at her delight. Before she could ask for details, Don noticed some customers waving their empty beer mugs, wanting refills and hurried off to take care of them. “Isn’t he just the funniest, Martin?” Sharla asked. Martin looked at her for a moment with a mock frown, but joined her in a fit of giggles as they together and individually pictured Don as an undergraduate lothario.
It was almost 10:00 p.m. when Martin and Sharla were deciding whether to have one more beer before calling it a night. Don was cleaning up some tables, and it was the typical lull between the early and late crowds at Ricky Dick’s. Martin was telling Sharla about his upcoming assignments, and Don was just on his way over to join them when the front door to the place opened, and Frank Talbot walked in. Frank was a physics teacher at Siren High School, scheduled to retire in 60 short days after 35 years of teaching.
Sharla turned to see who was coming in, and upon seeing Frank, sat up on her bar stool and stiffened. Her face went pale, and Martin was just about to ask her what was wrong when Frank said, “Well, look who’s sittin’ here waiting just for me.”
Martin could tell Sharla’s breathing was getting shallow and fast, and she turned away from Frank and looked at Martin with panic in her eyes, hoping Frank hadn’t seen her but knowing he had. Don walked slowly toward the door and said, “What can I do for you, Frank?” Frank looked over at Don and answered, “I’m just here to have a night cap with an old friend.” He stared at Sharla as he spoke.
“Sorry Frank, we’re closing early for Lent,” Don replied. “You’d best be moving down the highway to the Yellow River Saloon for your drink.”
Frank looked menacingly at Don. “What are you saying? You don’t want my business?”
Don nodded and said, “Yes, I believe that is exactly what I’m saying. You’ve never been in here before, you won’t miss coming here in the future.”
Frank snorted and said, “You’re right, I’d never come into this dive, but tonight, I heard you had a special guest,” and he leered again at Sharla.
“Frank, no one in here wants to have a drink with you, and I want you out of my bar,” Don said quietly. “Get out before I call the sheriff.”
Frank looked from Don to Sharla and back to Don. He spat on the floor and said, “Fine. I’m outta here. I’ve heard you do a short pour anyway…” Frank tugged on the door and walked out.
By now, Sharla had begun shaking and lifted herself off the bar stool only to plop back down. “Sharla,” Martin said, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Martin, nothing,” Sharla replied. She waited nervously until she heard Frank’s truck drive off, then lifted herself off the stool again and carefully got down. “I’ll be fine. You enjoy your beautiful apartment, okay Martin?” she said and walked, visibly shaking, toward the door.
“Sharla, wait!” called Martin, but she kept walking towards the door and walked out without looking back. He and Don heard her car rev up, and they knew she was on her way up Highway 35 on her way to Danbury and home. Martin looked at Don and asked, “What just happened here?”
But instead, Don turned to see Martin and Sharla enter, and held his arms out as if ready to embrace them both. “Why, Miss Whitefeather, what an honor to have you here at Risky Dick’s! To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said, quite genuinely, to Martin’s surprise.
Sharla beamed. “I was helping Martin fix up his apartment. Mr. Wardle, we painted the walls and cleaned the windows. It looks beautiful!” she exclaimed. Beautiful might have been stretch, but Martin had to admit the room looked 1000% better with a fresh coat of paint and light coming through the panes. “We’re going to rent a carpet cleaner tomorrow and go into Forest Lake to pick up some curtains and a new bedspread. Then you should be set, right Martin?”
Sharla’s look was satisfied and her smile wide, and Martin looked from her to Don, and saw he was totally smitten with her enthusiasm. “Miss Whitefeather, you are a ray of sunshine! What can I get you two? Dinner is on me tonight.”
Martin and Sharla were enjoying the last bites of their burgers when Don came up to them and filled each of their beer mugs with a fresh pull. “So what is going on in your world, Sharla?” Don asked politely. “And, as I’ve told Jimmy Olson here, please call me Don.”
Sharla giggled. “Jimmy Olson…that’s funny.” She paused to think for a moment. “Not much going on. The fishing opener is coming up. Uncle Bill just finished remodeling the Hole in the Wall. Other than that….” Sharla trailed off.
Don smiled and settled in, even though the place was teeming with customers who wanted to have one last big night before repenting during Holy Week. “It’s been a quiet winter, hasn’t it? Did things get settled over there at the Hole in the Wall?” he asked. Don and Sharla’s eyes met, and Martin was confused for a moment. “What are you talking about, Don?” Martin asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Sharla answered quickly for him. “Uncle Bill just found a little problem with the bookkeeping at the casino.”
Don looked amused. “A little bookkeeping problem, Sharla? $250,000 in missing funds is more than a little bookkeeping problem.”
Martin was torn between feeling sorry for Sharla’s discomfort and being curious about what appeared to be a pretty serious fiduciary oversight. “Come on, Don, leave Sharla alone. She just works for the man…” begged Martin.
Sharla shook her head. “No, Martin, it’s okay. Uncle Bill made a big mistake in hiring that non-Indian woman to do his books, and if he thought more with his head, he wouldn’t be in this mess,” she replied. “It’s the tribe’s problem, really, and Uncle Bill will just have to answer to the Chief.”
Don slapped his hand on the counter. “Sharla, you are a peach and a straight shooter!” he exclaimed. “You are welcome to be my guest here at Risky Dick’s any time. I mean it…any time.”
Sharla smiled warmly at Don, and asked, “Thank you. I appreciate that. But tell me now, why do you call this place Ricky Dick’s? Your name is Don.”
Don chuckled. “Well, Dick was my nick name in college. You probably don’t know this, but Dick is a shortened version of the German word for fat. You may have noticed that I’m not exactly svelte…” After giving his belly a loving pat, he continued, “So people called me Dick, and it stuck just long enough to name this place.”
“So what about the Risky part of the name?” Sharla asked.
Don leaned over the bar and in a stage whisper said, “Well, not to brag, but I was a bit of a ladies’ man in the old days. Let’s just say this little fat guy had a lot of fun and had a few close calls in college.” Martin looked shocked, but Sharla giggled loudly while Don laughed along with her and clapped his hands at her delight. Before she could ask for details, Don noticed some customers waving their empty beer mugs, wanting refills and hurried off to take care of them. “Isn’t he just the funniest, Martin?” Sharla asked. Martin looked at her for a moment with a mock frown, but joined her in a fit of giggles as they together and individually pictured Don as an undergraduate lothario.
It was almost 10:00 p.m. when Martin and Sharla were deciding whether to have one more beer before calling it a night. Don was cleaning up some tables, and it was the typical lull between the early and late crowds at Ricky Dick’s. Martin was telling Sharla about his upcoming assignments, and Don was just on his way over to join them when the front door to the place opened, and Frank Talbot walked in. Frank was a physics teacher at Siren High School, scheduled to retire in 60 short days after 35 years of teaching.
Sharla turned to see who was coming in, and upon seeing Frank, sat up on her bar stool and stiffened. Her face went pale, and Martin was just about to ask her what was wrong when Frank said, “Well, look who’s sittin’ here waiting just for me.”
Martin could tell Sharla’s breathing was getting shallow and fast, and she turned away from Frank and looked at Martin with panic in her eyes, hoping Frank hadn’t seen her but knowing he had. Don walked slowly toward the door and said, “What can I do for you, Frank?” Frank looked over at Don and answered, “I’m just here to have a night cap with an old friend.” He stared at Sharla as he spoke.
“Sorry Frank, we’re closing early for Lent,” Don replied. “You’d best be moving down the highway to the Yellow River Saloon for your drink.”
Frank looked menacingly at Don. “What are you saying? You don’t want my business?”
Don nodded and said, “Yes, I believe that is exactly what I’m saying. You’ve never been in here before, you won’t miss coming here in the future.”
Frank snorted and said, “You’re right, I’d never come into this dive, but tonight, I heard you had a special guest,” and he leered again at Sharla.
“Frank, no one in here wants to have a drink with you, and I want you out of my bar,” Don said quietly. “Get out before I call the sheriff.”
Frank looked from Don to Sharla and back to Don. He spat on the floor and said, “Fine. I’m outta here. I’ve heard you do a short pour anyway…” Frank tugged on the door and walked out.
By now, Sharla had begun shaking and lifted herself off the bar stool only to plop back down. “Sharla,” Martin said, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Martin, nothing,” Sharla replied. She waited nervously until she heard Frank’s truck drive off, then lifted herself off the stool again and carefully got down. “I’ll be fine. You enjoy your beautiful apartment, okay Martin?” she said and walked, visibly shaking, toward the door.
“Sharla, wait!” called Martin, but she kept walking towards the door and walked out without looking back. He and Don heard her car rev up, and they knew she was on her way up Highway 35 on her way to Danbury and home. Martin looked at Don and asked, “What just happened here?”
Chapter 4
It was a chilly, but beautiful spring Saturday morning when Martin decided he would use a rare free day to finally begin fixing up his apartment. It was the day before Palm Sunday, and in the predominantly Catholic Burnett County, Martin was pleased to have a weekend, and all seven days of Holy Week, really, to make the most of the local residents need for penitence. There wasn’t a single event scheduled for the entire weekend, and most of the week (with the exception of worship service schedules at the local churches, of course), was similarly dead. But, as Clark Grayson said, “things resurrect after Easter.”
As Martin sat down for his poached eggs and toast, he decided to ask Don Wardle for a little advice he didn’t plan to take. But he wanted to prep him for the pending improvements upstairs.
“Don, where is the best place to buy home improvement items?”
Don Wardle looked at Martin with an amused look on his face. “Home improvement
items, Jimmy Olson? What the hell are you talking about? The closest Home Depot is in Forest Lake,” Don responded with his usual mock disdain.
“I know where Home Depot is, Don. I just want to know who in town stocks paint and brushes and spackle and stuff,” replied Martin.
“Well, Jimmy, you know as well as I do, that you can get paint at the hardware store in Siren, but you will pay a premium…”
Martin paused a moment and pretended to think. “What about Wild Bill’s?”
Don looked at Martin and almost laughed out loud. “About the only thing you can find at
Wild Bill’s is ammo, bait, beer. And,” he added with a smile, “Sharla Whitefeather. But something tells me you already knew that.”
Martin did know Sharla, but chose to act dumb. “Sharla Whitefeather?” he asked, very unconvincingly. Sharla Whitefeather was the niece of Wild Bill Whitefeather, the owner of the Wild Bill’s and the closest thing Martin had to a girlfriend. “Oh, yeah, Sharla. She works there, doesn’t she?”
Don gave a snort and shot Martin a look. “You, my friend, are a very bad liar. Yes, Sharla works there, and if you weren’t such a dumbass, you would have noticed those cute pins coming out from those short, short, short cut-offs.”
Martin shivered in disgust, but Don didn’t notice. It wasn’t that Martin hadn’t noticed Sharla’s legs, it was that he was disgusted knowing that Don had. “Does she have nice legs?” Martin asked. “I hadn’t noticed….”
Don snorted again. “There isn’t a man in Burnett County who hasn’t noticed, and you have, too!”
“Well…whatever. I’ll go over there and see what they have. Maybe Sharla will help me paint the apartment.”
Sharla Whitefeather was not beautiful or even pretty, but everyone in Burnett County agreed, she was the cutest girl around. She would have graduated from Siren High School with Martin if she hadn’t dropped out in her sophomore year due to some shady, unsavory, but uninvestigated situation involving a minor sexual assault by someone in authority. Sharla’s departure from the Siren educational system didn’t cause concern or alarm. She was of age and a native. Anyone from the Minnwahton Tribe who made it past the 8th grade was considered a Rhodes Scholar in Burnett County, so at 16 and almost through the 10th grade, Sharla was over-educated and on the edge of being “uppity”.
Her cuteness had more to do with her personality than her looks. She didn’t take anything from anyone, and knew more about fishing and hunting than just about everyone, including all the men who came in to Wild Bill for bait, ammo, beer or gas. She won every game of gin rummy she ever played, and knew when enough snow would fall to rev up the sleds.
And then, there were those legs that were never covered, winter, spring, summer or fall. She wore a variation of extremely short cut-offs each and every day, or at least whenever she worked the register at Wild Bill’s, which was every day of the year, it seemed. She topped off the ensemble with one of a dozen logo’d hooded sweatshirts. Her favorite was a bright red one from UW-Madison which she purchased on her only trip out of Burnett County to see the Badgers play the Gophers. She completed her look with scrunched white socks and white Adidas, which made her look athletic and ready for…anything. Her thick black hair was blunt cut to the shoulders, and her sharp brown eyes peaked out under bangs cut straight across and brushing her eyelashes.
In the eyes of half the men in Burnett County, Sharla was perfect, though they’d never admit it to each other. To Martin, she was perfect because she was the one and only person he could honestly call a friend, though no one knew of their friendship. They were in the same class in Siren Schools for 11 years, but never went to each other’s home. Sharla didn’t invite Martin over to play because she was, well, an Indian and knew better than to befriend a white person. And Martin didn’t invite Sharla over to play because his mother would have thrown a fit. “A girl?” she’d shrill. “An Indian girl!?”
So Martin and Sharla spent their entire childhood liking each other and feeling comfortable talking on the playground or the cafeteria at school, but their friendship never made it beyond that. And when Sharla dropped out in 10th grade, Martin did what everyone did – ignored her absence and prepared for college. When he returned from Milwaukee after college graduation, they reconnected one day when Martin stopped for gas at Wild Bill’s and stopped in his tracks at the door when he saw Sharla at the register. He made a point of filling his tank at Wild Bill’s every week from that point on, even though Bill Whitefeather made a point of charging exactly 10 cents more per gallon than any other gas station in Burnett County.
Martin topped off his gas tank, and walked into Wild Bill’s to pay up and see if Sharla could spare a few hours to help him fix up his apartment. The place was empty – no customers, no Sharla. He went over to the counter to wait, and suddenly, Sharla popped up from behind.
“Hey, Martin!” she said, saying the T in his name with a sharp emphasis, just the way she always did. “What’s up?”
Martin jumped a little, and blushed at being surprised. “What were you doing back there?”
Sharla giggled. “Oh, Martin, I’m sorry. I was just straightening out the extra ciggie boxes. What can I do for you?”
Martin wanted to be careful. He didn’t want to be too pushy in asking for help. “I need to pay for my gas, and then, I need to know if you guys sell any paint and brushes. I’m working on my new apartment today.”
Sharla frowned a little underneath her bangs. “Paint? Brushes? Martin, we don’t sell any of that stuff.”
“Really? Not anything? Wow, I thought for sure you’d have some of the basics. You should talk to your uncle about this,” Martin said. “Hmmm…I suppose I should go back to Siren and go to the Ace Hardware then.”
Sharla scrunched her nose. “Well, wait a minute here. I think Uncle Bill has some left over paint from when we painted the storeroom last month. It’s probably just white, but might do the trick. How much do you think you need?”
Before he could answer, Sharla had jumped out from behind the counter and was moving toward the storeroom. “I don’t know, maybe a gallon? It’s not a very big apartment…” called Martin as he watched those legs take her past a small collection of soup and other canned goods that hunters and fisherman might pick up for a trip.
Sharla’s muffled voice came from the back, “Good news! I have a gallon and a half, it’s sky blue, and it’s all yours! And Uncle Bill remembered to clean up his roller and brushes. Woohoo!” Martin smiled – Sharla could get excited about the silliest things. She came out from the store room with a paint can in each hand, and the brushes and rollers under her arm. “Only one thing needed, Martin. You’ll have to go to Ace Hardware and get a roller pan.”
“Not a problem. Sharla, you are the best! Will your uncle mind you giving this to me?” Martin asked.
Sharla rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t even remember it’s back there. And if he says anything, I’ll tell him I just took it to the recycling center to make some room for the new fishing rods that just came in last week.” Sharla bent over to get a bag from under the counter and started putting the brushes into one. “Martin, do you need some help? Little Bill is coming in today, and Uncle Bill said I could take off if I wanted to,” Sharla said.
Martin marveled at his good luck. Free supplies and an almost immediate offer of help from Sharla. “Well, that would be great! Why don’t you come over to Risky Dick’s when you get off from work, and come up to Apartment #2? In the meantime, I’ll go over to Ace.”
Martin was out the door and driving down Highway 35 before it hit him that he had just arranged for Sharla Whitefeather to come over to his apartment – his apartment! - and help him paint. In his 20 x 20 dark, crappy apartment. Alone. With the bed in the middle. Martin didn’t know what panicked him more – the totally depressed and dingy look of the place, or that he was thinking about being alone with Sharla in the apartment. Either way, he knew his sweaty hands would be dropping one of those paint brushes at least a dozen times before the project was finished.
As Martin sat down for his poached eggs and toast, he decided to ask Don Wardle for a little advice he didn’t plan to take. But he wanted to prep him for the pending improvements upstairs.
“Don, where is the best place to buy home improvement items?”
Don Wardle looked at Martin with an amused look on his face. “Home improvement
items, Jimmy Olson? What the hell are you talking about? The closest Home Depot is in Forest Lake,” Don responded with his usual mock disdain.
“I know where Home Depot is, Don. I just want to know who in town stocks paint and brushes and spackle and stuff,” replied Martin.
“Well, Jimmy, you know as well as I do, that you can get paint at the hardware store in Siren, but you will pay a premium…”
Martin paused a moment and pretended to think. “What about Wild Bill’s?”
Don looked at Martin and almost laughed out loud. “About the only thing you can find at
Wild Bill’s is ammo, bait, beer. And,” he added with a smile, “Sharla Whitefeather. But something tells me you already knew that.”
Martin did know Sharla, but chose to act dumb. “Sharla Whitefeather?” he asked, very unconvincingly. Sharla Whitefeather was the niece of Wild Bill Whitefeather, the owner of the Wild Bill’s and the closest thing Martin had to a girlfriend. “Oh, yeah, Sharla. She works there, doesn’t she?”
Don gave a snort and shot Martin a look. “You, my friend, are a very bad liar. Yes, Sharla works there, and if you weren’t such a dumbass, you would have noticed those cute pins coming out from those short, short, short cut-offs.”
Martin shivered in disgust, but Don didn’t notice. It wasn’t that Martin hadn’t noticed Sharla’s legs, it was that he was disgusted knowing that Don had. “Does she have nice legs?” Martin asked. “I hadn’t noticed….”
Don snorted again. “There isn’t a man in Burnett County who hasn’t noticed, and you have, too!”
“Well…whatever. I’ll go over there and see what they have. Maybe Sharla will help me paint the apartment.”
Sharla Whitefeather was not beautiful or even pretty, but everyone in Burnett County agreed, she was the cutest girl around. She would have graduated from Siren High School with Martin if she hadn’t dropped out in her sophomore year due to some shady, unsavory, but uninvestigated situation involving a minor sexual assault by someone in authority. Sharla’s departure from the Siren educational system didn’t cause concern or alarm. She was of age and a native. Anyone from the Minnwahton Tribe who made it past the 8th grade was considered a Rhodes Scholar in Burnett County, so at 16 and almost through the 10th grade, Sharla was over-educated and on the edge of being “uppity”.
Her cuteness had more to do with her personality than her looks. She didn’t take anything from anyone, and knew more about fishing and hunting than just about everyone, including all the men who came in to Wild Bill for bait, ammo, beer or gas. She won every game of gin rummy she ever played, and knew when enough snow would fall to rev up the sleds.
And then, there were those legs that were never covered, winter, spring, summer or fall. She wore a variation of extremely short cut-offs each and every day, or at least whenever she worked the register at Wild Bill’s, which was every day of the year, it seemed. She topped off the ensemble with one of a dozen logo’d hooded sweatshirts. Her favorite was a bright red one from UW-Madison which she purchased on her only trip out of Burnett County to see the Badgers play the Gophers. She completed her look with scrunched white socks and white Adidas, which made her look athletic and ready for…anything. Her thick black hair was blunt cut to the shoulders, and her sharp brown eyes peaked out under bangs cut straight across and brushing her eyelashes.
In the eyes of half the men in Burnett County, Sharla was perfect, though they’d never admit it to each other. To Martin, she was perfect because she was the one and only person he could honestly call a friend, though no one knew of their friendship. They were in the same class in Siren Schools for 11 years, but never went to each other’s home. Sharla didn’t invite Martin over to play because she was, well, an Indian and knew better than to befriend a white person. And Martin didn’t invite Sharla over to play because his mother would have thrown a fit. “A girl?” she’d shrill. “An Indian girl!?”
So Martin and Sharla spent their entire childhood liking each other and feeling comfortable talking on the playground or the cafeteria at school, but their friendship never made it beyond that. And when Sharla dropped out in 10th grade, Martin did what everyone did – ignored her absence and prepared for college. When he returned from Milwaukee after college graduation, they reconnected one day when Martin stopped for gas at Wild Bill’s and stopped in his tracks at the door when he saw Sharla at the register. He made a point of filling his tank at Wild Bill’s every week from that point on, even though Bill Whitefeather made a point of charging exactly 10 cents more per gallon than any other gas station in Burnett County.
Martin topped off his gas tank, and walked into Wild Bill’s to pay up and see if Sharla could spare a few hours to help him fix up his apartment. The place was empty – no customers, no Sharla. He went over to the counter to wait, and suddenly, Sharla popped up from behind.
“Hey, Martin!” she said, saying the T in his name with a sharp emphasis, just the way she always did. “What’s up?”
Martin jumped a little, and blushed at being surprised. “What were you doing back there?”
Sharla giggled. “Oh, Martin, I’m sorry. I was just straightening out the extra ciggie boxes. What can I do for you?”
Martin wanted to be careful. He didn’t want to be too pushy in asking for help. “I need to pay for my gas, and then, I need to know if you guys sell any paint and brushes. I’m working on my new apartment today.”
Sharla frowned a little underneath her bangs. “Paint? Brushes? Martin, we don’t sell any of that stuff.”
“Really? Not anything? Wow, I thought for sure you’d have some of the basics. You should talk to your uncle about this,” Martin said. “Hmmm…I suppose I should go back to Siren and go to the Ace Hardware then.”
Sharla scrunched her nose. “Well, wait a minute here. I think Uncle Bill has some left over paint from when we painted the storeroom last month. It’s probably just white, but might do the trick. How much do you think you need?”
Before he could answer, Sharla had jumped out from behind the counter and was moving toward the storeroom. “I don’t know, maybe a gallon? It’s not a very big apartment…” called Martin as he watched those legs take her past a small collection of soup and other canned goods that hunters and fisherman might pick up for a trip.
Sharla’s muffled voice came from the back, “Good news! I have a gallon and a half, it’s sky blue, and it’s all yours! And Uncle Bill remembered to clean up his roller and brushes. Woohoo!” Martin smiled – Sharla could get excited about the silliest things. She came out from the store room with a paint can in each hand, and the brushes and rollers under her arm. “Only one thing needed, Martin. You’ll have to go to Ace Hardware and get a roller pan.”
“Not a problem. Sharla, you are the best! Will your uncle mind you giving this to me?” Martin asked.
Sharla rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t even remember it’s back there. And if he says anything, I’ll tell him I just took it to the recycling center to make some room for the new fishing rods that just came in last week.” Sharla bent over to get a bag from under the counter and started putting the brushes into one. “Martin, do you need some help? Little Bill is coming in today, and Uncle Bill said I could take off if I wanted to,” Sharla said.
Martin marveled at his good luck. Free supplies and an almost immediate offer of help from Sharla. “Well, that would be great! Why don’t you come over to Risky Dick’s when you get off from work, and come up to Apartment #2? In the meantime, I’ll go over to Ace.”
Martin was out the door and driving down Highway 35 before it hit him that he had just arranged for Sharla Whitefeather to come over to his apartment – his apartment! - and help him paint. In his 20 x 20 dark, crappy apartment. Alone. With the bed in the middle. Martin didn’t know what panicked him more – the totally depressed and dingy look of the place, or that he was thinking about being alone with Sharla in the apartment. Either way, he knew his sweaty hands would be dropping one of those paint brushes at least a dozen times before the project was finished.
Chapter 3
Martin woke the next morning, troubled by Don’s question. What could Dayton Daniels and Jeff Howe have been arguing about in a back booth at Risky Dick’s? That they were there at all was curious, but arguing, about anything, was incredible. Dayton and Jeff had been best friends all their lives and didn’t disagree about anything. Not one thing. Anyone in Burnett County who knew them (and everyone did) would say they were like brothers. Closer than brothers. And no one had ever heard so much as one angry word between them.
Martin mentally considered the two men as he ate his poached eggs and toast down at Risky Dick’s before going in to work. Dayton and Jeff were the closest thing to A-listers Burnett County had. Both handsome and powerful, each with a beautiful and accomplished wife and two smart and lovely daughters. They had both been born at the Burnett County Medical Center in 1963, and met in Kindergarten. They were inseparable throughout their school years and spent much of their time attending Siren High School winning trophies and making headlines for breaking county sports records.
Academics were the only thing that separated the two boys. Dayton consistently made straight A’s, Jeff straight C’s. Jeff’s mother claimed he was more street smart than book smart, but the truth was, Jeff just didn’t try very hard. He always attended class, but his attention was never on the teacher. Jeff had friends to talk to, dates to make, stories to tell. He held court as much as anything. And Dayton often studied for the both of them, making sure that notes were taken and concepts learned, mostly to make sure he made his own marks, but also to pass on the necessary information to his best friend so that he could do well enough to pass his courses and continue to play sports, serving as captain of all of Siren High School’s teams in their senior year.
Upon graduation, Dayton went on to college in Madison, even though he could have easily just slid into a position in his father’s plumbing business. Dayton wanted a business degree to accompany his technical skills, knowing he would someday take over that family business. Jeff, on the other hand, stayed in Siren, started a construction business, leveraging his high school athletic reputation and winning personality. His success was evident immediately, and when Dayton came home from Madison, degree in hand, the two of them set up a collaborative business venture that became involved in just about every major building project in Burnett County. Howe Construction and Daniels Plumbing were listed on building permit after building permit, and the two men spent the next twenty years becoming more successful and richer than either of them had ever imagined they’d be when they fished together as young boys on Johnson Lake or hunted together on the vacant property off County Road C in Danbury. And more powerful. And more entwined with each other’s lives.
Martin thought about the last time he saw Dayton and Jeff together. It had been at the last Siren School Board meeting. Jeff was chair of the school board, Dayton, vice chair. As Martin recollected the meeting, he remembered the proceedings were uneventful, bordering on boring, just like Clark Grayson liked things. Dayton and Jeff were professional, but friendly, showing their typical confidence and community leadership. The meeting ended within the one hour of time allotted, and Martin overheard the two of them making plans to have dinner together the following evening.
When Martin got to his cubicle at the Sentinel that morning, he dug out the agenda from the last school board meeting and quickly glanced at it. He looked at the date on the document and realized it was last week Monday, the night before Dayton and Jeff met for dinner, which must have been at Risky Dick’s. The site of their rare argument.
Martin let his eyes travel over the agenda. Spring athletic schedule. Prom update. Graduation plans. Budget planning for the next school years. Impending retirements. Nothing looked suspicious, and Martin let the piece of paper slide into the garbage can by his desk.
“Don’s imagining things,” Martin said to himself. “What could those two possibly have to argue about?”
Martin mentally considered the two men as he ate his poached eggs and toast down at Risky Dick’s before going in to work. Dayton and Jeff were the closest thing to A-listers Burnett County had. Both handsome and powerful, each with a beautiful and accomplished wife and two smart and lovely daughters. They had both been born at the Burnett County Medical Center in 1963, and met in Kindergarten. They were inseparable throughout their school years and spent much of their time attending Siren High School winning trophies and making headlines for breaking county sports records.
Academics were the only thing that separated the two boys. Dayton consistently made straight A’s, Jeff straight C’s. Jeff’s mother claimed he was more street smart than book smart, but the truth was, Jeff just didn’t try very hard. He always attended class, but his attention was never on the teacher. Jeff had friends to talk to, dates to make, stories to tell. He held court as much as anything. And Dayton often studied for the both of them, making sure that notes were taken and concepts learned, mostly to make sure he made his own marks, but also to pass on the necessary information to his best friend so that he could do well enough to pass his courses and continue to play sports, serving as captain of all of Siren High School’s teams in their senior year.
Upon graduation, Dayton went on to college in Madison, even though he could have easily just slid into a position in his father’s plumbing business. Dayton wanted a business degree to accompany his technical skills, knowing he would someday take over that family business. Jeff, on the other hand, stayed in Siren, started a construction business, leveraging his high school athletic reputation and winning personality. His success was evident immediately, and when Dayton came home from Madison, degree in hand, the two of them set up a collaborative business venture that became involved in just about every major building project in Burnett County. Howe Construction and Daniels Plumbing were listed on building permit after building permit, and the two men spent the next twenty years becoming more successful and richer than either of them had ever imagined they’d be when they fished together as young boys on Johnson Lake or hunted together on the vacant property off County Road C in Danbury. And more powerful. And more entwined with each other’s lives.
Martin thought about the last time he saw Dayton and Jeff together. It had been at the last Siren School Board meeting. Jeff was chair of the school board, Dayton, vice chair. As Martin recollected the meeting, he remembered the proceedings were uneventful, bordering on boring, just like Clark Grayson liked things. Dayton and Jeff were professional, but friendly, showing their typical confidence and community leadership. The meeting ended within the one hour of time allotted, and Martin overheard the two of them making plans to have dinner together the following evening.
When Martin got to his cubicle at the Sentinel that morning, he dug out the agenda from the last school board meeting and quickly glanced at it. He looked at the date on the document and realized it was last week Monday, the night before Dayton and Jeff met for dinner, which must have been at Risky Dick’s. The site of their rare argument.
Martin let his eyes travel over the agenda. Spring athletic schedule. Prom update. Graduation plans. Budget planning for the next school years. Impending retirements. Nothing looked suspicious, and Martin let the piece of paper slide into the garbage can by his desk.
“Don’s imagining things,” Martin said to himself. “What could those two possibly have to argue about?”
Chapter 2
Martin’s assignment as a weekly columnist as well as a by-lined writer two years after being hired brought about several positive changes in his life. First and foremost, he was making a little more money, so he could afford to move into his own apartment. Martin found the perfect, and cheap, place over a tavern called Risky Dick’s, a watering hole halfway between Webster and Siren, and about 20 miles away from his mother. While Martin appreciated Jean Lundeen’s taking him in after college, her constant meddling in his life drove him crazy and he needed to get a place of his own.
When the bartender and building owner at Risky Dick’s showed him the apartment, it was at dusk and the room with a microwave and mini fridge on one end, a sink, toilet and shower stall behind a partition in the corner, and a ratty looking twin mattress on metal springs in the middle didn’t look all that bad. But when Martin moved in, it was at 8:00 a.m. in the morning and what sunshine came through the grimy windows showed every stain on the carpet and watermark on the wallpaper. But he moved in anyway. The location above Risky Dick’s was perfect – Martin’s mother would never set foot anywhere near the dingy, rundown bar/restaurant on State Highway 35. Probably never.
Moving into the bleak little apartment over the less than respectable bar wouldn’t be half as difficult for Martin as telling Jean he was leaving the nest for good. Martin took his mother to the Chattering Squirrel for breakfast, hoping to soften the blow with “piping hot coffee and the best cinnamon rolls in Burnett County!”
It didn’t work.
“Martin, how can you move out on your own?” Jean demanded, her mouth filled with half chewed cinnamon dough. “You’re just a boy. Whatever you can afford on your salary can’t be anyplace safe or comfortable. Why are you doing this? What have I done?” And she broke down into loud, theatrical sobs, nearly choking on her food.
Martin focused his attention on the half eaten cinnamon roll in front of his mother, conscious of the fact that the 8 other customers in the Chattering Squirrel were all looking at their table, waiting for Martin’s answers to his mother’s questions. “Mother,” he said calmly and quietly, “I am 25 years old. I’m an adult. I should have my own apartment.”
Jean stopped crying, dabbed her eyes with her napkin and, in a stage whisper, replied, “But what about your…problem? What if you have another breakdown? You need me to take care of you.”
Martin lifted his head, looked up at the ceiling for a moment and returned his gaze to the face of his 55 year old mother. He squinted as he tried to remember her when she was 15 years younger, not so haggard looking, not so needy. Before his father just disappeared into the north woods one night, “off to bag a buck”, never to return. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to respond, stopped to think for a moment, and then said, “Mom, I’ll never forget how much you helped me after I came back from Marquette. But I didn’t have a breakdown. I don’t have a problem. I just decided I couldn’t live in a big city. But that doesn’t mean that I want to live with my mommy forever.” He smiled at her and looked at her sideways. “Come on, Mother, I’ll only be just outside of Siren. You can come and visit me any time you want.”
Jean looked back at him and took a sip of her coffee. “So where did you find an apartment? The Yellow River Apartments? Mrs. Larson’s boarding house?”
This was the question Martin was dreading, and he phrased his answer carefully. “It’s one of two apartments above a restaurant between Siren and Webster. It will be great, Mom. I can grab my meals downstairs if I don’t feel like cooking or if I’m working on a deadline.”
“A restaurant?” she asked. “What restaurant is between Webster and Siren?”
Martin thought for one moment about playing dumb, but thought better of it. After 25 years, his mother could read him like a book. “Risky Dick’s.” And he waited for the explosion he was sure was coming.
“Hmmm…Risky Dick’s? Never heard of it.” And she dug back into the rest of her cinnamon roll.
Martin was confused for a minute, but then embraced his luck and thought to himself, “Why would she know about a dark, ugly rat trap of a bar, patronized by toothless backwoods hunters and couples engaged in illicit affairs?” And he happily, and with a great sense of momentary relief, went back to enjoying his own cinnamon roll.
“You can take me there for dinner after I see your new apartment…”
Jean’s anticipated reaction aside, Martin’s choice for an apartment couldn’t have been better. The room itself wasn’t the draw. There was barely 400 square feet of space, and everything in the apartment was produced sometime in the 1970s. Which is not to say Martin wouldn’t try to make it comfortable. He was, after all, a man of somewhat refined tastes.
The evening after he moved in his belongings, Martin went down to the bar for a beer and a bite to eat. Don Wardle, the bartender and owner of building, greeted him from behind the kitchen pass-through with what would become his trademark welcome: “Hey, Jimmy Olson, what breaking story have you uncovered for the good citizens of Burnett County?”
Had Hollywood been looking for the perfect person to play the tough talking bartender in a movie about a seedy bar, Don would have come straight out of central casting. Short and squat, barely 5’6” tall, 250 pounds, forearms like tree trunks, stubby little fingers, thin gray wisps of hair combed over a massive shiny dome, Don didn’t so much walk behind the bar as waddle. His face was perpetually dewy, and the sweat marks under his gray Risky Dick’s t-shirt were ever present. The bar cloth he tucked into the front of his Wrangler blue jeans served as an apron. No regular apron would have fit around his girth. As usual, Don’s breathing was labored and raspy as he came behind the bar from the kitchen and asked Martin, “What’ll ya’ have, kid?”
“Just a bottle of Heineken and a burger, Mr. Wardle,” answered Martin. Don looked at Martin and said with an exasperated tone, “We don’t have Heineken, kid. None of that fancy, European shit, just good old American beer on tap – Bud, Grain Belt and Miller. And you can call me Don.”
Martin was going to chide the proprietor for his limited choices, but thought better of it. “Okay, give me a Grain Belt. Say, um Don, can I ask you a few things about the apartment?”
Don gave him a sideways glance as he pulled the beer. “What kind of things?”
“Well, first of all, the carpet is filthy and the walls need painting badly,” answered Martin. “And the sink in the bathroom leaks. And the apartment door lock is broken.”
There was a 30-second silence before Don answered. “What the hell do you think $75 a week buys, my friend? A designer condo in downtown Milwaukee? Feel free to seek out other living arrangements, Jimmy Olson. I don’t need your constant complaining about that apartment.”
The look of panic on Martin’s face made Don give a loud, raspy laugh. “Martin, relax. I’m kidding…sort of. I’ll fix the sink and the lock. But the carpet, paint? Don’t think so. Feel free to do whatever you’d like to the place. At your own expense, of course. “
Martin thought a minute, nodded and said, “Thanks, Don. I’ll run color by you if you want.” Don shook his head. “No need. Just make sure you use a drop cloth.” And he laughed as he went to the other end of the bar to take another order.
It took Don about 20 minutes to make his way back to Martin. “So, Jimmy Olson, how are things going for you over at the Sentinel?”
Martin looked into Don’s face and saw a genuine interest he hadn’t seen before. It made him want to trust the man. And it was the first time anyone had really asked. “Well, to be honest, I’m frustrated. Clark Grayson’s philosophy is to keep the news light. Don’t dig too deep, don’t offend anyone, keep the advertisers happy. And if I find out anything that is controversial or explosive, I should just…ignore it.”
Don closed his eyes and shook his head. “Grayson is an idiot, a money-grubbing idiot. I’m sure he’d say there is nothing controversial or explosive going on in Burnett County, so it’s no big deal. We’re just a serene, peaceful vacationland.”
Martin sat up on his stool. “That’s exactly what he said.”
“Well, Clark Grayson is wrong,” Don responded. “If there was nothing going on in this sleepy little county, why would there be a need for a Risky Dick’s?”
Martin leaned his body over the bar, and pushed his empty beer mug into Don’s hand. “What are you saying?” Martin asked. As Don refilled the mug from the beer tap, he replied, “What I’m saying is that things aren’t quite as serene and peaceful around Burnett County as Clark would like us all to believe. A lot happens that nobody sees, and when people need to talk about their business, they usually come here because, well, it’s a place where private, underground things can be discussed…privately.”
Martin looked skeptical. “Oh come on, you’re kidding me. What are you talking about, illicit affairs? Extortion? Murder plots? Conspiracies? Drug deals? If that’s the case, all this activity is being done by toothless backwoodsmen or unhappy husbands getting away from their wives for a couple of hours in the evening.”
“You think so, Martin?” asked Don with one eyebrow raised. “Then why were Dayton Daniels and Jeff Howe in here just last week Tuesday, sitting in the back corner booth, sucking back brew and looking all agitated and, well…pissed off? Things got pretty heated, and it didn’t sound like they were talking about the latest school board meeting.”
When the bartender and building owner at Risky Dick’s showed him the apartment, it was at dusk and the room with a microwave and mini fridge on one end, a sink, toilet and shower stall behind a partition in the corner, and a ratty looking twin mattress on metal springs in the middle didn’t look all that bad. But when Martin moved in, it was at 8:00 a.m. in the morning and what sunshine came through the grimy windows showed every stain on the carpet and watermark on the wallpaper. But he moved in anyway. The location above Risky Dick’s was perfect – Martin’s mother would never set foot anywhere near the dingy, rundown bar/restaurant on State Highway 35. Probably never.
Moving into the bleak little apartment over the less than respectable bar wouldn’t be half as difficult for Martin as telling Jean he was leaving the nest for good. Martin took his mother to the Chattering Squirrel for breakfast, hoping to soften the blow with “piping hot coffee and the best cinnamon rolls in Burnett County!”
It didn’t work.
“Martin, how can you move out on your own?” Jean demanded, her mouth filled with half chewed cinnamon dough. “You’re just a boy. Whatever you can afford on your salary can’t be anyplace safe or comfortable. Why are you doing this? What have I done?” And she broke down into loud, theatrical sobs, nearly choking on her food.
Martin focused his attention on the half eaten cinnamon roll in front of his mother, conscious of the fact that the 8 other customers in the Chattering Squirrel were all looking at their table, waiting for Martin’s answers to his mother’s questions. “Mother,” he said calmly and quietly, “I am 25 years old. I’m an adult. I should have my own apartment.”
Jean stopped crying, dabbed her eyes with her napkin and, in a stage whisper, replied, “But what about your…problem? What if you have another breakdown? You need me to take care of you.”
Martin lifted his head, looked up at the ceiling for a moment and returned his gaze to the face of his 55 year old mother. He squinted as he tried to remember her when she was 15 years younger, not so haggard looking, not so needy. Before his father just disappeared into the north woods one night, “off to bag a buck”, never to return. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to respond, stopped to think for a moment, and then said, “Mom, I’ll never forget how much you helped me after I came back from Marquette. But I didn’t have a breakdown. I don’t have a problem. I just decided I couldn’t live in a big city. But that doesn’t mean that I want to live with my mommy forever.” He smiled at her and looked at her sideways. “Come on, Mother, I’ll only be just outside of Siren. You can come and visit me any time you want.”
Jean looked back at him and took a sip of her coffee. “So where did you find an apartment? The Yellow River Apartments? Mrs. Larson’s boarding house?”
This was the question Martin was dreading, and he phrased his answer carefully. “It’s one of two apartments above a restaurant between Siren and Webster. It will be great, Mom. I can grab my meals downstairs if I don’t feel like cooking or if I’m working on a deadline.”
“A restaurant?” she asked. “What restaurant is between Webster and Siren?”
Martin thought for one moment about playing dumb, but thought better of it. After 25 years, his mother could read him like a book. “Risky Dick’s.” And he waited for the explosion he was sure was coming.
“Hmmm…Risky Dick’s? Never heard of it.” And she dug back into the rest of her cinnamon roll.
Martin was confused for a minute, but then embraced his luck and thought to himself, “Why would she know about a dark, ugly rat trap of a bar, patronized by toothless backwoods hunters and couples engaged in illicit affairs?” And he happily, and with a great sense of momentary relief, went back to enjoying his own cinnamon roll.
“You can take me there for dinner after I see your new apartment…”
Jean’s anticipated reaction aside, Martin’s choice for an apartment couldn’t have been better. The room itself wasn’t the draw. There was barely 400 square feet of space, and everything in the apartment was produced sometime in the 1970s. Which is not to say Martin wouldn’t try to make it comfortable. He was, after all, a man of somewhat refined tastes.
The evening after he moved in his belongings, Martin went down to the bar for a beer and a bite to eat. Don Wardle, the bartender and owner of building, greeted him from behind the kitchen pass-through with what would become his trademark welcome: “Hey, Jimmy Olson, what breaking story have you uncovered for the good citizens of Burnett County?”
Had Hollywood been looking for the perfect person to play the tough talking bartender in a movie about a seedy bar, Don would have come straight out of central casting. Short and squat, barely 5’6” tall, 250 pounds, forearms like tree trunks, stubby little fingers, thin gray wisps of hair combed over a massive shiny dome, Don didn’t so much walk behind the bar as waddle. His face was perpetually dewy, and the sweat marks under his gray Risky Dick’s t-shirt were ever present. The bar cloth he tucked into the front of his Wrangler blue jeans served as an apron. No regular apron would have fit around his girth. As usual, Don’s breathing was labored and raspy as he came behind the bar from the kitchen and asked Martin, “What’ll ya’ have, kid?”
“Just a bottle of Heineken and a burger, Mr. Wardle,” answered Martin. Don looked at Martin and said with an exasperated tone, “We don’t have Heineken, kid. None of that fancy, European shit, just good old American beer on tap – Bud, Grain Belt and Miller. And you can call me Don.”
Martin was going to chide the proprietor for his limited choices, but thought better of it. “Okay, give me a Grain Belt. Say, um Don, can I ask you a few things about the apartment?”
Don gave him a sideways glance as he pulled the beer. “What kind of things?”
“Well, first of all, the carpet is filthy and the walls need painting badly,” answered Martin. “And the sink in the bathroom leaks. And the apartment door lock is broken.”
There was a 30-second silence before Don answered. “What the hell do you think $75 a week buys, my friend? A designer condo in downtown Milwaukee? Feel free to seek out other living arrangements, Jimmy Olson. I don’t need your constant complaining about that apartment.”
The look of panic on Martin’s face made Don give a loud, raspy laugh. “Martin, relax. I’m kidding…sort of. I’ll fix the sink and the lock. But the carpet, paint? Don’t think so. Feel free to do whatever you’d like to the place. At your own expense, of course. “
Martin thought a minute, nodded and said, “Thanks, Don. I’ll run color by you if you want.” Don shook his head. “No need. Just make sure you use a drop cloth.” And he laughed as he went to the other end of the bar to take another order.
It took Don about 20 minutes to make his way back to Martin. “So, Jimmy Olson, how are things going for you over at the Sentinel?”
Martin looked into Don’s face and saw a genuine interest he hadn’t seen before. It made him want to trust the man. And it was the first time anyone had really asked. “Well, to be honest, I’m frustrated. Clark Grayson’s philosophy is to keep the news light. Don’t dig too deep, don’t offend anyone, keep the advertisers happy. And if I find out anything that is controversial or explosive, I should just…ignore it.”
Don closed his eyes and shook his head. “Grayson is an idiot, a money-grubbing idiot. I’m sure he’d say there is nothing controversial or explosive going on in Burnett County, so it’s no big deal. We’re just a serene, peaceful vacationland.”
Martin sat up on his stool. “That’s exactly what he said.”
“Well, Clark Grayson is wrong,” Don responded. “If there was nothing going on in this sleepy little county, why would there be a need for a Risky Dick’s?”
Martin leaned his body over the bar, and pushed his empty beer mug into Don’s hand. “What are you saying?” Martin asked. As Don refilled the mug from the beer tap, he replied, “What I’m saying is that things aren’t quite as serene and peaceful around Burnett County as Clark would like us all to believe. A lot happens that nobody sees, and when people need to talk about their business, they usually come here because, well, it’s a place where private, underground things can be discussed…privately.”
Martin looked skeptical. “Oh come on, you’re kidding me. What are you talking about, illicit affairs? Extortion? Murder plots? Conspiracies? Drug deals? If that’s the case, all this activity is being done by toothless backwoodsmen or unhappy husbands getting away from their wives for a couple of hours in the evening.”
“You think so, Martin?” asked Don with one eyebrow raised. “Then why were Dayton Daniels and Jeff Howe in here just last week Tuesday, sitting in the back corner booth, sucking back brew and looking all agitated and, well…pissed off? Things got pretty heated, and it didn’t sound like they were talking about the latest school board meeting.”
Chapter 1
Martin Lundeen placed his fingers carefully over the top of the cubicle partition and peaked over, as directed by the staff photographer, Sam Jackson. Placing his nose on the partition edge between his fingers, Martin said, “How long is it going to take for you to snap this lame photo?” Sam grunted and replied, “As long as it takes to make you look somewhat interesting to our cultivated readers.”
Martin sighed. The last indignity in a long line of indignities at the Burnett County Sentinel. Low rung assignments – Chamber meetings, church socials, celebrations of the anniversaries of local businesses, anything dull, mundane, small town – that had been Martin’s beat for the two years he’d been working at the Sentinel. Clark Grayson, the editor, promised him that getting his own weekly column, “Quips from the Cubicle”, would vault his career at the newspaper and get him assigned to stories that were a little more…relevant.
“Perk up, Marty,” chirped Sam. “When I get done creating the perfect picture, you’ll not only be the most famous newspaper man in Burnett County, you’ll have women crawling all over ya.”
“That’s Martin, not Marty,” he replied, “and I’m not sure there are any woman in Burnett County I’d want crawling all over me.”
“That’s your problem, Marty,” said Sam. “You’re way too picky.”
“If I was all that picky, I wouldn’t be working here,” muttered Martin. “And I sure wouldn’t be living in Burnett County.”
Martin was frowning when Sam finally snapped “the perfect picture”. And that was the picture that accompanied his weekly column beginning the following week.
Had Martin Lundeen lived anywhere else than Burnett County, he would blend into the woodwork. He was average in every aspect of his appearance - 5’10” tall, slight build, pasty white complexion, mousy brown hair, dull gray eyes and gold wire-rimmed glasses that sat slightly crooked on his nose. You couldn’t say he was good looking, but he wasn’t bad looking either. The only thing about his appearance that generated comment was that although he was 25 years of age, he looked like one of the newspaper’s high school interns. That, and the fact that he dressed like someone out of an Agatha Christy mystery. He liked to dress in ill-fitting tweed jackets with patches on the elbows, bowties, twill Dockers and saddle shoes. Had there been a decent smoke shop anywhere in the vicinity, he would have picked up a pipe and smoked it on a regular basis.
Martin’s wardrobe was just one reason why he was considered peculiar, oddly cultured and a little snooty by the fellow residents of Burnett County. He grew up in Burnett County, Siren, to be specific, and graduated from the Siren High School in a class of 27. Upon graduation, Martin made a point of telling anyone who would listen that after going to Marquette University, he was going to be a journalist at a big newspaper in a big city. Martin was sure that a Pulitzer Prize was in his future, and used the summer before going to college to be the kind of jerk that Burnett County people loved to hate.
But Martin didn’t know that he would develop a psychosis while at Marquette that rendered him unable to function at full capacity while living in any city with a population of over 2,000 people. The booming metropolis of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, overwhelmed Martin, and immediately after receiving his degree in journalism, he moved back to Siren, moved back into his old bedroom in his mother’s home and finessed a job at the Sentinel by telling Clark Grayson that he had totally misjudged the opportunities available in Burnett County and nothing would bring him more joy or make him feel more honored than to cover the important news in the north woods of the Wisconsin vacationland.
When Clark hired Martin, he let him know he’d make him pay a bit for his youthful arrogance and disrespect by being assigned stories that lacked interest and controversy, stories that would help him cut his journalistic teeth. On Martin’s first official day, Clark started his orientation speech with “Martin, the important thing at the Sentinel is to report the news in Burnett County without offending anyone. This isn’t a big city - there are no scandals, no serious crime, no reason to ruffle feathers. Our job is to add to the overall ambience of north woods relaxation and fun.”
At first Martin thought Clark was kidding and started to smile, but Clark continued, “I’m serious, Martin. Any person in Burnett County who might be doing anything that isn’t exactly above board is probably an advertiser, and we can’t afford to offend a single advertiser. Keep your eyes focused on the obvious facts and don’t dig too deep. There’s nothing to find anyway – you know that. Burnett County is one big snooze fest. So go out and cover tonight’s Siren School Board meeting.”
Clark turned and walked out of Martin’s cubicle, leaving Martin to pick up his jaw from the dirty brown carpet on floor. He looked at the school board agenda that Clark handed him before leaving and scanned it for anything that might pass for a juicy debate on local education. Clark was right – a total snooze fest.
Martin sighed. The last indignity in a long line of indignities at the Burnett County Sentinel. Low rung assignments – Chamber meetings, church socials, celebrations of the anniversaries of local businesses, anything dull, mundane, small town – that had been Martin’s beat for the two years he’d been working at the Sentinel. Clark Grayson, the editor, promised him that getting his own weekly column, “Quips from the Cubicle”, would vault his career at the newspaper and get him assigned to stories that were a little more…relevant.
“Perk up, Marty,” chirped Sam. “When I get done creating the perfect picture, you’ll not only be the most famous newspaper man in Burnett County, you’ll have women crawling all over ya.”
“That’s Martin, not Marty,” he replied, “and I’m not sure there are any woman in Burnett County I’d want crawling all over me.”
“That’s your problem, Marty,” said Sam. “You’re way too picky.”
“If I was all that picky, I wouldn’t be working here,” muttered Martin. “And I sure wouldn’t be living in Burnett County.”
Martin was frowning when Sam finally snapped “the perfect picture”. And that was the picture that accompanied his weekly column beginning the following week.
Had Martin Lundeen lived anywhere else than Burnett County, he would blend into the woodwork. He was average in every aspect of his appearance - 5’10” tall, slight build, pasty white complexion, mousy brown hair, dull gray eyes and gold wire-rimmed glasses that sat slightly crooked on his nose. You couldn’t say he was good looking, but he wasn’t bad looking either. The only thing about his appearance that generated comment was that although he was 25 years of age, he looked like one of the newspaper’s high school interns. That, and the fact that he dressed like someone out of an Agatha Christy mystery. He liked to dress in ill-fitting tweed jackets with patches on the elbows, bowties, twill Dockers and saddle shoes. Had there been a decent smoke shop anywhere in the vicinity, he would have picked up a pipe and smoked it on a regular basis.
Martin’s wardrobe was just one reason why he was considered peculiar, oddly cultured and a little snooty by the fellow residents of Burnett County. He grew up in Burnett County, Siren, to be specific, and graduated from the Siren High School in a class of 27. Upon graduation, Martin made a point of telling anyone who would listen that after going to Marquette University, he was going to be a journalist at a big newspaper in a big city. Martin was sure that a Pulitzer Prize was in his future, and used the summer before going to college to be the kind of jerk that Burnett County people loved to hate.
But Martin didn’t know that he would develop a psychosis while at Marquette that rendered him unable to function at full capacity while living in any city with a population of over 2,000 people. The booming metropolis of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, overwhelmed Martin, and immediately after receiving his degree in journalism, he moved back to Siren, moved back into his old bedroom in his mother’s home and finessed a job at the Sentinel by telling Clark Grayson that he had totally misjudged the opportunities available in Burnett County and nothing would bring him more joy or make him feel more honored than to cover the important news in the north woods of the Wisconsin vacationland.
When Clark hired Martin, he let him know he’d make him pay a bit for his youthful arrogance and disrespect by being assigned stories that lacked interest and controversy, stories that would help him cut his journalistic teeth. On Martin’s first official day, Clark started his orientation speech with “Martin, the important thing at the Sentinel is to report the news in Burnett County without offending anyone. This isn’t a big city - there are no scandals, no serious crime, no reason to ruffle feathers. Our job is to add to the overall ambience of north woods relaxation and fun.”
At first Martin thought Clark was kidding and started to smile, but Clark continued, “I’m serious, Martin. Any person in Burnett County who might be doing anything that isn’t exactly above board is probably an advertiser, and we can’t afford to offend a single advertiser. Keep your eyes focused on the obvious facts and don’t dig too deep. There’s nothing to find anyway – you know that. Burnett County is one big snooze fest. So go out and cover tonight’s Siren School Board meeting.”
Clark turned and walked out of Martin’s cubicle, leaving Martin to pick up his jaw from the dirty brown carpet on floor. He looked at the school board agenda that Clark handed him before leaving and scanned it for anything that might pass for a juicy debate on local education. Clark was right – a total snooze fest.
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