concerned citizen,” said Cora, bracing herself for the questions that would follow.
“I see,” said the voice on the other end. “I’m afraid Mr. Wolfinger is not available.”
“I have something important to speak with him about,” said Cora. “Very important.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wolfinger is not in his office at the present time. Perhaps you can call back later.”
“I must talk to him.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wolfinger is not in his office at the present time. If you wish, you may leave your name, telephone number, and the nature of the business you wish to discuss, and Mr. Wolfinger or a member of his staff will contact you as soon as his schedule allows.”
Reluctantly, Cora gave her name and, in a very general way, said something about the information she had to report. Neither elicited a response.
Outside, the thick sound of the chopper’s whirring vegetative violence ceased. Her husband drove out of the hay field, out of view. A short time later the auger could be heard running beside the bunker feeder.
Three cups of coffee later, Cora called back.
This time, a different voice answered.
“Hello, this is Cora Shotwell. Mr. Wolfinger is expecting my call.”
“One moment, please.”
“This is Mr. Wolfinger,” said a pleasant alto voice.
“I have something you will be extremely interested in,” said Cora.
“Excuse me?”
“I have something you will be interested in,” repeated Cora.
“To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Cora,” she said. “I have really important information to turn over to you.” She steadied her breathing and spoke again. “You will want to send someone immediately. It’s all here.”
“Could you tell me what this is about?”
“It concerns highly illegal actions taken by a very large milk-processing cooperative over a period of roughly six and one- half months. I have proof—all of it. I have it right here. For instance, on this May billing sheet the testing line for the ratio of butterfat and the dates are . . . ”
“Excuse me, where are you calling from?”
“The farm.”
“What farm?”
“We live in Thistlewaite County.”
“How did you come to have this information?”
“My husband and I ship to American Milk. I also work for them as an assistant bookkeeper—at their plant in Grange—and became aware of extremely illegal actions at the main office. I have records that prove everything. When will you be sending someone out?”
“Can you spell your name—last name first.”
“S-h-o-t-w-e-l-l, C-o-r-a.”
“One r?”
“Yes.”
“Your telephone number?”
She gave it.
“And address?”
After giving her address she anticipated that directions would be needed and began explaining how to reach the farm from Madison. Before even getting off the interstate, she was interrupted.
“Pardon me, but I have enough information for right now. Next week you will be notified about a time to come into the department. Thank you for contacting us.”
Cora put down the phone and tossed the papers she was holding into the box on the floor.
She felt undone, unfinished, like a room with a fresh coat of paint but no furniture. How could someone register so little interest in what she assumed would be the lifeblood of his agency?
Not wanting to remain in her tomb of arrested expectations, she drove into town to pick up her children and save them a long bus ride.
FAITH KEEPS NO TREASURE
WINIFRED SMITH OFTEN FELT SHE LIVED TOO MUCH INSIDE her own head. She thought about things longer than she should and this presented quite a problem, especially in the ministry. It made her appear out of place.
Sharing reality with others had always proved difficult for Winnie, a problem made much worse after the death of her mother. Child Services had placed her with a foster family whom she suspected would without a second thought jam her into the coal-burning furnace in their basement if her roasting would result in an additional payment from the state. She later understood this probably wasn’t true, but at the age of twelve her imagination fashioned whole garments out of the soiled cloth of her despair. Her inconsolableness over the loss of her mother gave her the demeanor of belligerence, loneliness made her seem aloof, and the perpetual fear she lived in caused others to think she might be mentally challenged.
Lying awake at night in her first foster home, she knew she had nothing. She was nobody. No future waited for her and she had no answer for the tiny yearning voice inside her that asked over and over: Am I going to be all right?
After months of listening to this, one night Winnie noticed another, deeper voice. At first she couldn’t make it out—only that it was not asking the same fearful question. This new voice was making a statement and the feeling attached to it gave her comfort, and the more comfort she felt the more clearly she could hear the voice. It was telling her something about herself. She could be somebody after all: a Christian.
But what did this mean? Other children called themselves Christian and they seemed to get this blessed identity from their parents, like being Norwegian. But Winnie’s mother and father had belonged to nothing. They had no religion.
What did it mean to have a religion, she wondered, and thought about this incessantly. Inordinately shy, she had no skills in talking to strangers, and everyone now was a stranger. There was no one to ask, and she had to figure everything out for herself.
One by one, things were revealed, and her young mind built from them a safe fortress to grow up in. Christian membership, she decided, was unlike other ways of belonging. It was a community of faith, and so long as you had faith, you belonged—a home of shared convictions. In the family of Christians, togetherness was maintained not by similar physical characteristics or spatial proximity, or even knowing each other, but through the fellowship of sharing beliefs. In the privacy of your own mind, when you thought about these special beliefs you could find safety in knowing that others shared them. Your thoughts were theirs. They conversed agreeably in exchanges of encouragement and goodwill. Sharing in these beliefs was like talking with a friend under a warm blanket, or knowing something in your heart, something good, that someone else also knew. And not just any beliefs would do—only the right ones. The wrong beliefs left you outside, alone, with no firm identity.
As she was transferred from one foster home to another, she continued to work out these beliefs that qualified her to be a true Christian. She read the Bible from beginning to end, and then started over. Slowly she began to understand what was required, and as her understanding grew her confidence in herself as an authentic person strengthened.
At fourteen, she was placed with a Christian family and experienced a cautious elation at finally arriving in her mind’s outward community; but the elation quickly faded when she attended church for the first time and was placed in a class for religious instruction. She had lived too long, it seemed, in her own fortress, and the walls had become thick.
She tried to talk to the other Sunday school students about the beliefs they shared with her, only to discover that they didn’t share them. Not only did they not share them, they had never heard of them and had no interest in learning about them. Even her teacher seemed