“Too many empty fields, overabundance of crops, erosion, soil problems. Take your pick. This farm became part of the program before World War Two.”
“And your dad’s place?”
“More recently but yes. His father was a farmer. Mine was an eldest son who wanted no more to do with it than any of his siblings. Instead of selling the place, they put it in the program, planted trees, and watched them grow.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“Or boring,” she said.
“Potato, po-ta-toe,” he repeated.
She laughed, just as the hostess appeared with menus. “Follow me.”
The woman seated them at a cozy table for two just past a shadowed staircase. The restaurant had attempted to keep the feel of a farmhouse—with open doorways into several smaller rooms. The main room—living, sitting?—was now the reception/bar area. Antique furniture decorated the corners, tin pots and farm implements hung on the walls. Here and there Bobby caught a glimpse of a modern convenience—a Bunn coffee maker tucked behind an antique folding screen, electrical outlets painted the same color as the rough-hewn walls. Somewhere out of sight, a grill hissed.
Bobby opened the menu. Steaks. Pork chops. Chicken. A Thore burger, which was a half-pound ground chuck, stuffed with jalape?os, topped with ham and bleu cheese. His chest hurt just reading about it.
“Every appetizer is deep-fried,” he observed.
“What isn’t better when deep-fried?”
“I’m sure there’s something.”
“Don’t tell it to the Wisconsin State Fair. They pride themselves on deep-frying everything. Wait!” She reached over and pointed to the fourth item in the appetizer section. “This isn’t deep-fried.”
“The cheese and sausage plate?”
“I’m sure they could deep-fry that if you’d like.”
He took a big gulp of his drink. At home he might have ordered shrimp. They had shrimp here.
But it was deep-fried.
“What are you going to order?” he asked.
“Fish fry.” He winced. She tapped his menu. “Broiled perch.”
He perked up. “Is there catfish?”
“I’m sure there’s a catfish somewhere, but not here. Walleye pike, perch, bluegill.”
He squinted at the menu again. “What is lefse?”
“Norwegian tortilla.”
“You’re making that up.”
She lifted her hand as if she were in court. “I swear.”
Bobby felt as if he’d stepped into a jumbled fairy-tale land. Raye resembled Snow White. They’d gone into the woods like Hansel and Gretel. Was the wolf he kept hearing in the distance someone’s grandmother?
“Would you like another old-fashioned?” Their waitress had appeared. She was blond. Big shock.
Something tumbled down the stairs on the other side of the wall their table was tucked against. Raye frowned. The waitress did too. Several customers glanced that way, but no one seemed overly concerned.
Bobby waited for a worker to come around the corner, but none did. Maybe it had just been a box set too close to the top of the steps that had eventually teetered free and fallen down.
But if that were the case, where was the box?
Chapter 8
We ordered—perch for me, pike for him. Lefse for me, rye bread for him. Potato pancakes for both. I had more wine. Bobby ordered coffee.
He pretended he hadn’t heard the thumps on the stairs, which continued across the ceiling and sounded like footsteps. I guess if one didn’t know the history of the place, one might conclude that real people were up there.
Sometimes they were. The restaurant kept dry goods on that floor—paper towels, napkins, things that didn’t need refrigeration and were not subject to rodent infestation. An employee might be sent to get them. Always a new employee. Because it usually only took them one trip to decide never to go up there again.
“This place was a stop on the Underground Railroad,” I said.
“Really?”
He offered me first dibs on the relish tray—olives, coleslaw, cottage cheese, pickles—I declined.
“There’s a story on the back of the menu.”
He glanced up in the middle of scooping a smorgasbord onto his plate. “You tell me.”
“Slaves on their way to Canada stopped here. Probably one of the last stops, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“How close we are to Canada.”
“We’re close?”
“Three hundred and fifty miles, give or take.”
“Still a pretty long walk.”
“They didn’t walk much. Kind of obvious.”
“In what way?”
“Not a lot of black people in the Big Woods even now. Then, there were none. Why do you think people are staring at you?”
He glanced around. Several people quickly looked at their plates. “I’m not that black.”
“Up here there aren’t levels of different. There’s just different. You’ve noticed the abundance of blond?”
He nodded.