“It means you can.”
“That isn’t the same.”
Margaret agreed with Clara.
“Tell him.”
Howard said:
“Legally, talk to counsel.”
Helen said:
“I treat cows.”
Useful.
Clara visited her attorney.
The attorney read the receipt.
“Terrible contract.”
“For me?”
“For everyone.”
Clara waited.
“Unlimited how long?”
“Doesn't say.”
“Quality unspecified.”
“Yes.”
“Quantity unspecified.”
“Yes.”
“Termination?”
“No.”
“Commercial resale?”
“No restriction.”
“So?”
“So it’s ambiguous enough to generate arguments.”
Clara sighed.
“Can I keep taking husks?”
“Probably until properly terminated, subject to good-faith interpretation.”
“Commercially?”
“No prohibition.”
“Should I tell him?”
The attorney smiled.
“That is business advice, not legal advice.”
“I hate professionals.”
“Billable feeling.”
Clara decided to tell Earl.
But the universe got there first.
The cooperative sent a flatbed to Bennett Farm for the first commercial pickup.
Driver took the wrong road.
Instead of turning at the Bennett farm, he continued nine miles to Driftless County Feed & Grain because someone had entered the raw-material source address into routing notes.
The truck arrived at the mill loaded with finished husk bales already collected from Clara’s small warehouse.
Earl saw it.
So did Ray.
Tom.
Paul.
The same men who had laughed.
Clara learned when her phone rang.
Earl.
“Get down here.”
His voice was not friendly.
She drove.
When Clara arrived, the commercial flatbed sat beside the grain mill.
Finished bales stacked in neat rows.
Printed labels:
BENNETT FIELD BEDDING
Clara had finally chosen a name.
She parked.
Earl stood beside one bale.
The workers behind him.
No laughter.
That was almost worse.
Earl pointed.
“This yours?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“You know what it is.”
“Tell me.”
“Processed corn-husk bedding.”
He stared.
“For cattle.”
“Yes.”
“You're selling it.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Clara did not answer.
Earl stepped closer.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
His face reddened.
“You've been taking material off my property for free and selling it.”
“You gave it to me.”
“I gave you garbage.”
“Yes.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
Clara looked around.
“It becomes mine after you give it away.”
Ray tried not to smile.
Earl noticed.
“Not funny.”
Ray looked away.
Earl grabbed a shipping envelope attached to one pallet.
Before Clara could stop him, he pulled out the visible copy of the purchase order.
Not the entire contract.
Enough.
Estimated delivery quantities.
Unit price.
He read.
His expression changed.
He calculated silently.
Then again.
He looked at Clara.
“This is real?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
The workers moved closer.
Tom whistled.
Earl read again.
“You need this much?”