“Improve aggregation.”
Silas stared.
“You planning to grow microorganisms or peanuts?”
“Both.”
He laughed again.
Clara returned to work.
Silas stayed.
That irritated her more than the laughter.
If a man wanted to mock somebody, he ought to have enough dignity to leave afterward.
The truck driver lowered the empty bed and climbed from the cab.
“Where you want the next pile?”
Clara pointed toward a flag farther down.
“Thirty yards past the marker.”
The driver nodded.
Silas called:
“You charging her to haul trash off?”
The driver looked uncomfortable.
Clara answered for him.
“The sheller charges me transportation.”
Silas whistled.
“You're paying for garbage.”
“Less than I'm paying for fertilizer.”
“You know what fertilizer does.”
“Yes.”
“That?”
Silas pointed.
“Nobody knows.”
Clara smiled slightly.
“I do.”
Silas stared.
That confidence bothered him.
He pushed away from the fence.
“First drought proves you wrong.”
Clara looked toward him.
“The drought already started.”
“Not a real one.”
Silas adjusted his hat.
“Wait until July.”
Then he walked back to his pickup.
Clara watched him leave.
The driver stepped beside her.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“That guy always cheerful?”
“He's improving.”
The driver laughed.
Clara looked over the south field.
Dry.
Pale.
Cracked.
Dead-looking.
Silas was right about one thing.
It looked ridiculous.
She hoped she was not.
The idea had started with a broken shovel.
Six months earlier, Clara had been clearing an old storage lean-to behind the barn.
Her father stored everything.
Bent bolts.
Old belts.
Chain.
Broken tools.
Buckets containing unidentified pieces of machinery.
Clara once asked why he kept so much junk.
He answered:
“Because five minutes after I throw something away, the tractor will decide it needs exactly that piece.”
She found the shovel beneath rotten feed sacks.
The wooden handle had split.
While pulling it free, she knocked over a metal box.
Inside were notebooks.
Her father’s handwriting.
Crop dates.
Fertilizer rates.
Rainfall.
Fuel costs.
Repairs.
Typical farmer records.
Then Clara found a page from 2006.
North field — peanut hull strip.
She stared.
Below it:
Spread approximately 3 inches. Mixed composted cattle manure. Water held better after June storm. Cotton roots deeper. Need repeat larger trial.
Next page:
Bank says no. Too slow. Need yield now.
Another note:
Silas says waste of time.
Clara sat on the dirt floor for nearly an hour.
Her father had tried it.
Not exactly what she was planning.
But close.
He had seen something.
Then stopped.
Debt had forced him toward immediate yield.
Immediate yield required fertilizer.
Fertilizer required money.
Money required yield.
Round and round.
Clara brought the notebooks inside.
She read every page.
Her father never mentioned the experiment again after 2007.
But he recorded soil changes.
Less crusting.
More worms.
Better moisture.
Then nothing.