The land behind the shed looked different by May. The original unloading ground had been contained and gradually reclaimed rather than left under deep piles of decomposing pulp. Mary Ann had cleared a more suitable area for planting, following the extension recommendations and keeping food crops separate from any new waste handling. The tomato rows ran straight enough that she could pass between them without brushing every leaf, with numbered stakes and a modest watering line serving each bed. The place smelled of soil rather than sour processing waste.
Frank Dillard stopped by one Saturday when he saw her working beside the shed. He climbed out of his pickup and stood at the fence, hands in his pockets, studying the rows.
"Looks like a lot of trouble for vegetables," he said.
"They usually are."
"The cannery still bringing you that junk?"
"Only what I've agreed to take. Less of it now."
"You finally charging them?"
"No."
He sighed as if the answer physically pained him. "Mary Ann, you could lease that back pasture. You could let somebody put hay on it. You could sell off a parcel and stop fighting the weeds."
She set down her hoe. "I could."
"Then why all this?"
She looked toward the young plants, each carrying a little numbered strip. "Because I want to see what they turn into."
Frank shook his head, but his tone softened. "Walter would've thought you were being stubborn."
"Walter married me. He knew I was stubborn."
That earned a laugh. Frank left without pressing the matter, and Mary Ann returned to the rows feeling oddly proud that she had not argued with him. She did not need to convince anyone yet. Her own reasons were still taking shape, and a neighbor's approval would not help the plants grow.
The early summer went more smoothly than either previous year. There were aphids on several plants, a section of irrigation line that clogged with sediment, and a morning when Gus squeezed beneath the field fence and knocked over two stakes in pursuit of a rabbit. Mary Ann handled the problems with less panic. She had begun looking at a setback as information about the next adjustment rather than proof that she should never have tried.
In June, Hollis arrived carrying an old market crate and a pocketknife. He lowered himself carefully into his camp chair and watched Mary Ann show him her healthiest plants. One group of Red One descendants stood upright with broad leaves and a decent fruit set. Little Paste was compact and productive, though several fruits were smaller than she preferred. Yellow Stripe showed more consistency in color than the previous year, and Dark Shoulder still carried some uneven fruit shapes but seemed healthier overall.
"You're narrowing it," Hollis said.
"Trying to."
"You've got fewer plants than last year."
"I only kept the lines that gave me a reason to bring them back."
He nodded toward the crate. "Then when something's ripe, don't just hand me the pretty one. Bring a good one, an average one, and the one you'd rather hide. I want to know what a buyer gets on a bad day."