“What?”
“I need it in writing.”
The workers became louder.
Ray slapped the doorway.
Tom pointed at Clara.
“She thinks she's buying mineral rights.”
Earl laughed.
“What do you expect to do with my garbage, Clara?”
She looked at the pile.
“I don't know yet.”
“Then why paperwork?”
“Because if I figure it out, I don't want you remembering the husks are valuable.”
That quieted them for half a second.
Then Earl laughed harder.
“Fair.”
He walked into the office.
Returned with a receipt pad.
He wrote:
CORN HUSKS — FREE, UNLIMITED PICKUP.
Then beneath:
NO GUARANTEE OF QUANTITY OR QUALITY.
Signed:
EARL HASKINS
He tore off the sheet.
Handed it to Clara.
“There.”
She took it.
“Thank you.”
Earl pointed toward the pile.
“Take every last husk, sweetheart. Saves me the trouble of burning the junk.”
Clara folded the receipt.
Put it inside her shirt pocket.
“Good.”
Ray called:
“What happens when you're a millionaire?”
Clara grabbed her gloves.
“I'll charge you for autographs.”
The men laughed.
Clara started loading.
The first truckload took nearly an hour.
She used a pitchfork.
Tarp.
Rope.
The workers watched intermittently.
Earl returned twice.
Each time amused.
By the time Clara finished, sweat ran down her back.
The truck suspension sat frighteningly low.
Earl looked at it.
“You planning to make one trip or destroy the truck permanently?”
“Both.”
She tightened the final rope.
Then drove home.
That was the load Margaret now stared at.
Clara unloaded into the machine shed.
The husks were dry enough.
Mostly.
She spread them in a thin layer.
Removed obvious contaminants.
Corn cob pieces.
Stalk fragments.
Plastic.
Twine.
Then she retrieved Daniel’s old notebook.
His first experiment used a rented shredder.
Clara did not want to rent anything.
Rent meant money.
They owned an old hammer mill.
Not intended for this.
It had not run in six years.
She dragged it from the back of the shed.
Mice had occupied the belt housing.
One bearing was seized.
The motor wiring looked like a fire waiting for permission.
Clara stared.
“Great.”
Her uncle Sam arrived after dinner.
Margaret had called him.
Clara knew immediately because Sam never voluntarily visited after sunset unless food or machinery trouble was involved.
He entered the shed.
Saw the hammer mill.
Then saw the husks.
“Your mother said you were building something stupid.”
“Mom doesn't understand innovation.”
“She said exactly that you'd say that.”
Sam crouched near the mill.
“What are we doing?”
Clara handed him Daniel’s notebook.
He read.
Slowly.
Sam was Daniel’s younger brother.
Fifty-one.
Mechanic.
Smaller farm of his own.
He finished.
Looked at the pile.
“Danny tried this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last winter.”
Sam turned another page.
“Never told me.”
“He didn't have time.”
The sentence changed the room.
Sam closed the notebook.
“All right.”
He looked at the hammer mill.
“This thing needs bearings.”
“I know.”
“Belt.”
“Yes.”
“Motor might kill us.”