“Why?”
“Because being scared and looking scared are different jobs.”
The girl thought.
Then she pointed toward the jar in the photograph.
“What was in that?”
“Seed.”
“That’s all?”
“Mostly.”
“What did people think?”
“That she was doing something strange.”
“Was she?”
He smiled.
“Probably.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“Everybody says probably in this family.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because certainty caused enough trouble.”
They left the museum.
Drove to Whitfield Farms.
The farmhouse had been renovated.
The old shed remained.
Corn grew north.
Soybeans east.
A mixed garden near the road.
The original curved ridges were gone, redesigned many times.
Nothing looked exactly like 1956.
That pleased the Farmer Son.
His mother would have hated turning the farm into a monument.
His great-granddaughter walked beside him.
“What would she plant here now?”
she asked.
He looked toward the soil.
“I don’t know.”
“But you knew her.”
“Yes.”
“Then how can you not know?”
The Farmer Son smiled.
“Because she would look first.”
They walked farther.
At the boundary fence, an old wooden post remained.
Not original.
Replaced twice.
Family tradition insisted it marked the spot where the County Inspector had kicked the ridge.
The great-granddaughter touched it.
“Is this where she slapped the paper?”
“Close.”
“Did she really say his grandfather stole the method?”
“No.”
“What did she say?”
The Farmer Son remembered exactly.
“Your grandfather documented it.”
“That’s less dramatic.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“She showed him the signature.”
The girl smiled.
“That part’s good.”
They reached the garden.
The Farmer Son lowered himself carefully onto a bench.
His great-granddaughter picked a bean.
“Can I eat this?”
“Wash it.”
She wiped it on her shirt.
He stared.
“That is not washing.”
She ate it anyway.
He thought of his mother.
She would have approved and disapproved simultaneously.
The girl asked, “Was the inspector bad?”
The Farmer Son looked toward the county road.
“No.”
“He tried to destroy your field.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“He was wrong.”
“Bad wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that bad?”
The Farmer Son considered.
“He had power while he was wrong.”
“That’s worse.”
“Yes.”
The girl waited.
“But?”
He smiled.
“You already know there’s a but.”
“This family has too many.”
He laughed.
“But when proof showed he was wrong, eventually he told the truth even when it embarrassed him.”
The girl looked unconvinced.
“Does that make it okay?”
“No.”