“Life is rude that way. It keeps putting July after June whether you’re ready or not.”
The bank problem had not disappeared.
It had only become less simple.
Walter Henderson postponed formal foreclosure action while he reviewed the property again. He would not say the willows were the reason. He said only that the bank preferred not to dispose of property during unusually wet conditions because appraisals could be distorted.
Clara understood the favor hidden inside the language.
She also understood it was temporary.
She still needed money.
The young willows were not a crop she could harvest. They did not produce grain. They did not produce fruit. Their value existed in what they might become, and a bank could not put might into its ledger.
Clara continued working at the dime store.
She sold eggs from the remaining hens. She weeded Mrs. Phelps’s vegetable rows in exchange for milk. She repaired a torn screen door for the pastor’s wife because Ben had taught her basic carpentry when she was twelve.
She also began selling bundles of herbs from Evelyn’s garden.
Rosemary, mint, thyme, sage.
Women who had mocked Evelyn’s “old country nonsense” bought her herbs after she died because death made eccentricity respectable.
Clara found this irritating but useful.
By June, she had reduced part of the overdue amount.
Not enough.
But some.
Ben finally returned on a Sunday evening.
Clara saw his truck from the kitchen window and braced herself.
He parked beside the barn and sat behind the wheel for almost a minute before getting out.
When he reached the porch, he looked thinner.
“Coffee?” Clara asked.
“Please.”
They sat at the kitchen table.
For a while neither mentioned the field.
Ben asked about the roof. Clara asked about the grain elevator. He told her farmers were delaying purchases because planting had been late. She told him one hen had stopped laying.
Finally he set down his cup.
“I drove past yesterday.”
“I know.”
“You saw me?”
“Blue truck going ten miles an hour.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“They’re green.”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Most.”
“How?”
“I’m still finding out.”
Ben looked toward the back window.
“I thought they were dead.”
“So did everyone.”
“I thought you were hurting because your grandmother died. I thought you were grabbing onto the last thing she gave you because letting go felt like losing her twice.”
Clara’s throat tightened.
“Maybe I was.”
“And maybe you were right anyway.”
She looked at him.
He gave a humorless smile.
“That’s difficult for a father to admit.”
“You could practice.”
He laughed once.
Then his expression changed.
“I need to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For making what I wanted for you sound like the only intelligent life you could choose.”
Clara stared at her coffee.
“I still want to teach.”
“I know.”