Not remotely.
Mariabel asked:
“What can we do?”
“Challenge the rule.”
“How long?”
“Months.”
“My carrots don't have months.”
Evelyn nodded.
“Then solve the business problem first.”
Mariabel frowned.
“How?”
“You keep trying to use the same road he controls.”
“What road?”
“Haulers.”
“Cannery relationships.”
“County processors.”
Evelyn pushed the letter aside.
“Find another road.”
Mariabel drove home thinking about that sentence.
Another road.
The answer came from Harlon.
He owned an old livestock truck.
Ugly.
Slow.
But his.
Mariabel asked:
“How much?”
“For what?”
“The truck.”
“You can't afford it.”
“Lease.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you're going to destroy it with vegetables.”
“Harlon.”
“No.”
“Twenty dollars a week.”
He laughed.
“Thirty.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Fuel yours.”
“Yes.”
“Repairs?”
Mariabel hesitated.
“Shared.”
“No.”
“Then twenty-three.”
Harlon stared.
“You bargain with your own family like a horse trader.”
“You started at thirty.”
“Fine.”
They shook hands.
Mariabel drove her own loads.
She applied for certification properly.
Documented every inspection.
Cleaned equipment obsessively.
Merl’s barrier became expensive.
Not fatal.
Then more farmers called.
Not because they loved Mariabel.
Because she paid.
Economics creates courage where principle sometimes struggles.
By 1973, Thorson Agricultural Salvage bought more than three hundred tons of rejected produce annually.
Mariabel hired two men seasonally.
Converted an old machine shed into sorting space.
Installed a washer.
Bought a used root cutter.
Her farm mortgage remained.
Her tractor still leaked oil.
But she was no longer terrified of Howard Breslin’s folded hands.
Then came the phone call that finally explained everything.
Frank Delaney called from Prairie Valley.
“Mariabel.”
“Yes.”
“You know Northern Nutritional?”
“No.”
“Chicago company.”
“What?”
“Dehydrated food ingredients.”
“All right.”
“They're looking for carrot suppliers.”
“Good for them.”
Frank laughed.
“They asked about you.”
Mariabel sat straighter.
“Why?”
“They've been buying carrot meal through brokers.”
“Which brokers?”
Silence.
Mariabel knew.
“Blackwood.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“Frank.”
“I shouldn't tell you.”
“How much?”
He sighed.
“Last contract I heard was twenty-six dollars a ton equivalent raw product.”
Mariabel stopped breathing for a second.
“Twenty-six?”
“Approximately.”
She looked toward the green notebook.
Merl’s brother had been buying rejected carrots for almost nothing.
Maybe charging farmers hauling.
Then reselling into a dehydration chain worth considerably more.
Merl had not merely believed the carrots had value.