“That wasn’t my question.”
She stared at the telephone mounted on the kitchen wall.
The phrasing sounded like Evelyn.
“I have enough.”
“Enough isn’t always the same as enough.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“How are the sticks?”
She almost smiled.
“Still sticks.”
“All right.”
Another pause.
“Your aunt says you can stay with her in town if the house sells.”
“I know.”
“You wouldn’t be homeless.”
“I know.”
“I’m trying to make sure you understand that.”
“I understand.”
He exhaled.
“I don’t want this place making you think you have no choice.”
Clara looked through the kitchen window toward the low fields hidden behind rain.
“I do have a choice, Pa.”
“That’s what worries me.”
He hung up after telling her to call if she needed anything.
Clara stood with one hand on the receiver long after the line went silent.
The bank deadline remained.
Walter Henderson returned the following Tuesday as promised.
The road was muddy enough that his sedan nearly stuck beside the barn. He stepped out in polished shoes and immediately regretted it. Clara watched from the porch as he tried to avoid puddles and failed.
He carried the same leather portfolio.
“I’m here to inspect the property,” he said.
“You’re welcome to inspect.”
“Your father mentioned you’ve undertaken some planting.”
“My father talks too much.”
Henderson almost smiled.
He walked through the farmhouse first, making notes about roof condition, plaster cracks, and the age of the plumbing. Clara followed in silence. His observations felt invasive, but she understood he was doing exactly what his position required.
At the back door, he looked toward the bottomland.
“That’s where they are?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard quite a bit.”
“I imagine you have.”
He did not laugh.
That surprised her.
They walked to the field edge.
Brown water stretched almost to the fence. The cuttings barely showed.
Henderson stood beneath his umbrella and stared.
“What are they?”
“Willow, I think.”
“You think?”
“Mr. Vance says white willow.”
“Is there a market for white willow?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyebrows rose.
Clara added, “There wasn’t a market for this field before either.”
Henderson looked at her, then back at the water.
“Miss Jennings, I need you to understand something. Banks do not foreclose because they enjoy taking farms. Farms are difficult assets. Selling them takes time.
Empty houses deteriorate. Land markets shift. But the bank also has depositors and obligations. We cannot simply forgive debt because a property has sentimental value.”
“I never asked you to.”
“What are you asking?”