Chapter 1 - The Scotcheroo Collapse
The Labor Day open house tent smelled like deep-fried cheese curds, powdered sugar, and sweet kettle corn. Underneath the striped canvas, thirty local dairy farmers and plant workers were milling around with paper cups of punch.
Mom stood with her arms rigidly holding three heavy glass baking pans wrapped in aluminum foil. The smell of peanut butter, melted butterscotch, and chocolate drifted from the corners of the foil. Her smile was frozen, plastered onto her face like cheap paint on an old fence post.
"What do you mean, you fired him?" Dad’s voice was loud enough to cut through the bluegrass band playing near the loading docks. He took a heavy step toward Ernie Plouts, his knuckles white around the handles of Mom's canvas tote bag. "Donnie drives out of the driveway at six-thirty every single morning wearing his Mill Creek safety vest! He brings home a paycheck every two weeks!"
Ernie tossed another fresh yellow cheese curd into his mouth and chewed slowly. At sixty-two, with forty years in dairy processing, nothing in Marathon County could rattle him. He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin tucked into the pocket of his short-sleeve button-down shirt.
"Chuck, I don't give a damn where your boy drives at six-thirty in the morning," Ernie said, his voice flat as a frozen marsh. "What I know is that Donnie hasn't badged past my front gate since eight-fifteen on the morning of June second. That was the day Rosie handed him his final paperwork, walked him to his truck, and took his security pass."
Mom’s eyes darted frantically between Ernie and me. Her gaze snagged on my crisp blue polo shirt. Embroidered over my left breast pocket, in neat gold thread, were the words: MILL CREEK CHEESE — JAKE CARTER, MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR.
"Jake..." Mom whispered, her voice cracking right down the center. "Why does your shirt say supervisor? Donnie told us... Donnie said you walked out in a huff because you couldn't handle second shift. He said Ernie realized his true potential and bumped him up to run the whole maintenance crew."
"Mom," I said gently, stepping out from behind the registration table. "Donnie doesn't even own a crescent wrench. You know he doesn't know the difference between a pneumatic air valve and a garden hose."
Dad’s face turned the shade of a boiled beet. He pointed a thick, trembling index finger straight at my nose, just like he had done across the birthday table three months earlier. "Don't you dare stand there and slander your older brother! He got you this job! He vouched for you! He gave up his five-hundred-dollar bonus to buy that smoker we all eat from! If he's having problems here, it’s because you set him up just like you did with Swede Nyberg!"
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Rosie, who had been sitting quietly with her registration clipboard, slowly stood up. She reached into a manila folder on the table and pulled out two crisp, laminated sheets of paper.
"Chuck," Rosie said, her Midwestern politeness sharp enough to split firewood. "I think you need to look at these dates before you say another word in front of this entire company."
