Sometime in the night the wind had backed to the west. Not strong as yet but Albert felt the promise of it. Who knows what may be carried on the wind. Maybe the smell of the St. Croix River running free. Maybe flour from the Minneapolis mills. It was possible. Winds from the north, he was certain, carried the hint of frost and he knew what was north anyway, miles of what he had all around him—endless acres of tamarack swamps, oak stands, sugar maple groves and pine plantations. Lakes and ponds without number. Christ knows he’d sunk his shoes into enough of those.
Albert realized he was procrastinating. The barn wouldn’t get whitewashed by itself. Besides, the equipment was rented. Better put it to work. This wind would do the drying just fine.
Two hours earlier Elizabeth had volunteered to finish the milking so he could go get the sprayer. Heavy rains from two days before were keeping everyone out of the fields, yet when Albert had phoned Candace Veer she had said that the sprayer and compressor were available. State Dairy inspectors said that a Grade A barn must be whitewashed once a year. There it was. Might as well be today.
Albert uncoiled spray hoses from the trailer, all the while trying to recall how Otis Veer used to do this. The man was dead now, but he used to shoot every barn around. Painted houses and the outside of barns too. Like Albert he was a man of the overalls wearing generation and like Albert was a veteran of the war. But while Albert was lean and stayed that way, big Otis was a barrel shaped, cigar smoking fellow with a crew cut so he looked exactly like what he’d been—a Marine sergeant. He could tarp off equipment, shoot the barn and be cleared off before evening milking. He just required that the spider webs be swept from the overheads before he came. Albert wasn’t sure if it was because the sweeping took too much time, or maybe Otie was afraid of spiders. He hadn’t thought of that before, but, hey, it could be possible. It reminded Albert that he’d forgotten to sweep the overheads here first.
So he went to the house to borrow a house broom. The wide, woodenheaded broom he used in the barn would never fit between overhead beams. Might as well admit he’d have to buy Elizabeth a new house broom. This one’d be jammed with webs, spiders and hay stems.
Sweeping took an hour and a half and by the time Albert had swept to the south end he had an ache between his shoulder blades. Neck, too, from looking up all the time. He’d seen rolls of canvas in the trailer and he used them to cover the stainless steel piping of the milking system. Also over the air compressor, the electrical box and the radio. A cardboard box of whitewash covered socks left him at a loss. They were huge—at least size twelve—but what for?
Candace Veer had included bags of whitewash so Albert broke one open into the hopper. He added water and stirred it in. “Like milk,” she’d said. Then he checked the oil in the engine—an old habit and worth a brownie point somewhere—and started the pump motor. It ran at high idle and Albert went into the barn to try the gun. It was one of those old, fixed spray pattern guns and this one had seen a lot of use. Tape held the hoses together and a bent nail replaced a bolt. But it spat once then sent a white cloud of whitewash toward the wall. As he continued to hold the trigger the mist got heavier until he could hear a wet spatter over the sound of air. The wall went stark white and he knew it was just fine. He stood square and practiced his arm motion, trying to keep the gun square to the surface sprayed, keeping a steady distance off.
A door slammed and Elizabeth came into the barn. Albert turned to see her approach.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s very white,” she answered, and he could see that she was holding back.
“What is it?” “Come on, now what?”
“You.” She was laughing now. “You look as if you’ve been rolled in flour.”
Albert could see white boots, white pants cuffs, and felt stickiness at his eyelashes. When he touched his face the fingertips had the same white as the back of his hand.
Elizabeth put an arm around his waist and he put one across her shoulders. “I imagine,” he said, “that I look like an older man.”
“Yes. Especially the brows. Never thought I’d see those go white.” She paused and a more serious note came into her voice. “Albert, you need to wear a respirator. Some kind of mask.”
He knew she was right, her concern understandable. Especially, considering. “Ah, Elizabeth...” he began.
“I wish you would wear one,” she insisted, “ After all, it killed Otis Veers, didn’t it?”
“No, that was old age, “ Albert joked.
“Nonsense, he was your age.”
“My point exactly. You should be kinder to an old man.”
She slapped lightly at his shoulder and left. Albert stopped spraying to locate the respirator he used when spraying pesticide. Overkill, probably, but so what. He wriggled his shoulders once, twice, and began to spray.
The motion was a repetitive one, back and forth. To spray the overhead was to cock the elbow and sweep the same way. It was a motion that led easily to daydream.
Albert thought of Ann. Goddamnit, still a fool. It had been a few years now. He shouldget it from his mind. He knew he shouldn’t, but he was thinking of the odd way things happen and then all at once it was like a door opened to a forgotten room and the images came to him.
University Auditorium had been taken over on that week in April by a host of implement dealers, equipment manufacturers and businessmen who paid to set up booths and displays. An entire milking parlor was set up, with milk being pumped through Plexiglas piping from the full-size mock up of a Guernsey to the tiny bulk tank. The sound of the milking machine was a comfort to Albert. He’d driven from the farm here, talked into it by the Farmer’s Co-op, North District. The Co-op wanted Albert as a member and he suspected their sending him to this Exposition—paying his admittance— was a way to get him on board.
It was eight-thirty when Albert was in the Exhibition, though it was not due open until nine. Albert had walked past the doorman, impatient at the slow start of things. His program had a talk by the Milk Marketing Board slated for ten and Albert wanted to look things over before the talks began.
Ford had six tractors in the building and Albert paused at the shiny blue machines. International was in the next booth over, then White. Red, white and blue, thought Albert.
Fair enough. Beyond the White tractors was another blue tractor alone and Albert read “Leyland” on the hood. British made. Low in profile and wide like the Ford. No one was near so Albert climbed on up. Nice, wide seat. Soft. Wide fenders too, and room for his long legs. A lever by the wheel had a decal of a turtle and one of a rabbit. He wondered what the hell that was supposed to be. There seemed to be one hydraulic lever too many. Peculiar. But when Albert climbed down and looked at the front-end loader set up nearby he saw that the loader had a hydraulic ram at the bucket. Now that made sense. Tip it under pressure instead of the International spring-loaded dump. Made the whole thing closer to a bulldozer blade than just a scoop loader. You could likely change the angle of the bucket, or use it to lift with. Damn good idea. Albert picked up a catalog and a free pen from the display, where he noted that the nearest dealer was at least two counties from home.
He walked past a display of vitamin supplements, food additives. Artificial Insemination filled one corner of the hall and he paused to look at photos of cows. Show photographs. But beneath the photos were production numbers for the animals. Big cows. Big production, too, especially the butterfat when you consider that these are Holsteins. He tried to estimate the size of the animals in comparison to the man in the photos holding the halter. Eighteen hundred pounds, maybe. He doubted that that such an animal would fit in the stalls of his own barn.
He walked past the insurance tables, the University tables, the University Extension. Several booths advertised bedding mats for stalls and one had a display of cloth aprons to protect udders on low slung animals.
The milking machines area was more interesting as he was drawn to a stainless steel and Plexiglas array of milkers, pipelines and milking parlors. These were all the rage for the big farms, with big open pens for the cows and a small area reserved for milking—a parlor. More exercise for the cows than a stall set-up, that was for sure, but also less individual attention to each animal. Easier to overlook sorefoot, or one off her feed. Besides, his barn was in no way set up for big open pens. It was, Albert decided, a set up for the big fellows, like the huge herds in California.
He did pause to look at how small the milking machines had become. No big metal bucket to heft around, or that awkward wrist carries. He lifted one of the parlor assemblies from a hook, mentally weighing it against the milking machine he had at home. It was, he saw, the plastic parts that made it so much lighter, so more compact as they replaced stainless steel parts.
Then a person was standing at his elbow and he assumed it was someone with the milking machine maker. He probably wasn’t supposed to touch the thing.
“Very light, “ Albert said, trying to be complimentary.
“Yes,” the woman responded, “looks like it is high density plastic.”
“Not nylon?”
“Maybe, but high density plastics hold up to machining better.”
Albert looked at the petite, dark haired woman. She wore a dark blue jacket with matching slacks. Pantsuit, a corner of Albert’s mind said. Over a creamy blouse with embroidery at the collar.
“You’re an engineer?” he asked.
Her laughter came easily. “No, marketing with a background in wine.” She looked down at herself, set hands along her hip and asked, “Do I look like an engineer?”
Albert felt the beginning of color come to his face. “No, on second sight you could only be a trucker. Nothing but.”
Now she lifted a foot, with its open toed shoe and two-inch heel. “Varoom. You saw through me.” She put a hand on his arm and Albert was amazed at her easy manner. “And you then. Why don’t I think you’re a seed grower?”
He knew at once that she was referring to his jacket, a gift from the Pioneer Seed Company.
“I’m a dairyman,” he said, “with a background in survival.” He could not but notice the whiteness of her teeth. And the smile lines around her brown eyes. Dimples? “I was about to get a cup of coffee,” he said, “Want one?”
She looked around the room for a moment as if weighing the crowd. Still mostly empty.
“Okay,” she said.
They found a cart by the south exit. Albert paid for to coffees and paused to add cream tohis. “Got to support the dairy industry,” he said. For some reason he was glad to see that she took sugar. They sat at a small table. When seated the difference in their heights was not so obvious—those long bones of his.
“Your hands,” she said, and touched the back of the one that almost hid the coffee cup.
Without thinking, he turned his palm up, saying, “my father’s hands,” as if that explained it. “He called them ax handle hands from years of swinging an ax. My fingers have gone flat, like his.” He paused and cupped the coffee again. “In wine, then. You grow grapes?”
She blinked and then caught his question. “The family business. And the making of wine.”
“I’ve got the notion you don’t grow grapes here. You are from California, maybe?”
“St. Helena, California. In Napa Valley. And you?”
“Bout six hours north of here. What brings a wine maker to a dairy exposition?”
“I’m here,” she said, “to push frozen yogurt. Ever had some?”
“Yogurt, yes. But not frozen.”
“It’s a healthier ice cream, really. Less fat.”
“I’d imagine that fruit flavors sell best. Strawberry maybe, or raspberry.”
“The favorite yogurt, both frozen and fresh.” She paused. “You’ve never tried it, yet guess which would sell best. So just who are you, so-called farmer?”
He smiled. “Albert Nicklin. And...”
“Ann Girardetto.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Ann. You shouldn’t underestimate us old farmers. But why are you marketing yogurt? You said your family was in wine.”
“Diversification. My father would agree with you, by the way, but my brothers are looking for a diversified investment.”
“Wise enough,” he agreed. “A big family, then?”
“Three boys, two girls.”
“All in the family business?” At her nod he continued, “You’re lucky. Great to work with family.”
“Are you from a big family?”
“Pretty big, I guess.” He paused. “I worked growing up with my father.”
“Did he look like you?”
Albert smiled at the memory. “Only in build. Mother could not tell us apart in the distance. But he was more Scotch in looks—red haired and blue-eyed, but my height.”
“You’re Scotch are you?” she asked.
“Stubbornly, yes.”
“Hah. The Scotch have nothing on us Sicilians for stubborn. We invented the word.”
Albert could only smile and shake his head. A lovely woman. The coffee was gone and he knew that ten o’clock was approaching. “Ann,” he said, “I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you for joining me for coffee.”
“Thank you. Yes. I should go back to my booth.”
“Are you going to attend any of the conferences?” he asked.
“One on trends for dairy products at eleven.”
“I’ll likely see you there.”
“That would be nice.” By now they were walking back among the booths and tables.
“Thank you for the coffee,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
“See you.” He didn’t turn to watch her go. Not for three heartbeats at least. Then he saw her figure disappear into the milling crowd. Albert Nicklin felt foolish. What was he doing? Christ, you're a married man. Not some swoony teen.
At the ten o’clock conference Albert was astounded at the amount of money that was slated for promoting milk and milk consumption. But he was also impressed by the clever ad campaign that would begin in a few months. Might even be worth it. Part of his brain was trying to calculate how many cents per hundredweight of milk that he was producing with his herd would be going to such a campaign. Thankfully, the majority of the money came from the creameries. Should be, given how little they paid the farmer. Chris Girard’s words would return at a time like this. “When the farmer is doing good,” he was oft to say, “then the whole country does good.” That made sense to Albert and to men of his generation. But what does the farmer have to do with the price of TV advertising or the amount of milk that people will drink? He had read somewhere that kids in cities didn’t know milk came from cows. Incredible.
Later he found Ann at the frozen yogurt booth, surrounded by men. No surprise there. A young woman was scooping frozen yogurt into small paper cups and holding them out. Albert took one. The taste was of tangy fruit and smoothly cool, though not as creamy as ice cream. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ann break from the conversation she was in.
“Do you like it?” she asked him.
Albert saw a flicker of envy in the face of the man she had been talking to. It was a wicked delight.
“Yes, it’s very good.”
“Good. I’m glad you like it. Say, it’s nearly eleven, isn’t it?” She had a hand on his arm.
“Yup. Ten minutes to. Maybe I’ll sit in on your conference.”
“Let’s go then.”
They sat on folding chairs near the back. Soon a professor was introduced and he began to show slides as he spoke seriously about the trends in diet, in dairy consumption, and in the types of dairy products per household consumer. Albert was amused at the mention of hard cheeses and soft cheeses. What a “secondary enhanced cheese product” was, he had no idea. Pie chart and bar charts and Albert lost any lingering sense of interest. The alternating dark and light served to make him notice Ann’s blouse. The gold bracelets at her wrist. How her shoulder brushed against his arm. He found a pen and began to doodle on the back of the program.
Ann reached over, then leaned across to look at the paper. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Livestock barn I’m going to build.”
“You’re so pragmatic.”
“No, I am so bored.”
“Me, too.”
“So let’s leave.”
“Should we?”
“Absolutely.” He slid to the left and she followed, the two of them stepping past a few chairs, over a few feet and then out the exit, laughing.
“Oh that was bad,” she said.
“Awful.”Again, he felt light, and uncontrollably carefree.
“Truly awful.” A pause. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Then out the door and into the cool fresh air. She took him arm and they walked. Albert was looking for green and soon found a small park. The sidewalk led them around a pond and into a copse of trees. He reached up to pull a branch lower. Buds were just showing green, that vibrant tender green of first leaves.
“Cottonwood,” he said.
She was against his side and she turner her face to him. He circled his arms around her
and she continued to look into his face. Then she put her face to his chest and he held her close. The sounds of the city—traffic’s steady rumble, the distant horns, and the collected murmur of the capitol—was all around him as he tried to recognize the scent of her hair.
Then she was leaning back in his arms and he looked into her eyes. Brown eyes. His fingertips brushed her cheek and he knew that he wanted kiss her. Wanted, but should not. His lips pursed unconsciously.
Her memory was unwelcome, truthfully, as it was wrapped in guilt. It was a failure he could share with no one. If he ever puffed himself up over some trivial accomplishment, there was this memory to bring him down. A grown man who cheated on his wife.
Bastard.