“It seemed that just as people grew into a false assurance, believed for instance that their prayers worked and that evil was kept at bay, or thoughtlessly celebrated the quiet of their community with a street dance, a parade, or any kind of energetic complacence, something happened. Someone turned up dead. A child smothered in a load of grain. There was a pregnant woman, then one day she wasn’t pregnant anymore. People knew she killed her baby but there was no proof. A young man, perhaps drunk, was shot and killed in a jealous fit. There was a vicious rape, and the girl was sent to the mental unit while the man walked the streets. Then the man disappeared. A bank robbery. Car wreck. A boy chopped to pieces in a threshing accident. The children’s favorite schoolteacher blew his head off. Once again the town would be reminded that even though it was populated by an army of decent people, even though a majority counted themselves pious churchgoers, even though Argus prided itself on civic participation, it was not immune. Strub’s Funerary stood flourishing, a testament to the fact that death liked Argus just as much as anywhere else. And evil, though it was not condoned by the city council, flourished nonetheless, here and there, in surprising and secret pockets.”
—The Master Butchers Singing Club, Louise Erdrich
