Things that could be written down.
The agent waited.
Clara finally said, “Then maybe I get another year.”
That afternoon she drove fourteen miles to the produce market.
The old Chevrolet rattled above fifty.
The passenger mirror shook so badly that everything behind her became a blur.
At the market, two employees already had boxes waiting.
One of them, a college kid named Ben, held his nose theatrically.
“Premium merchandise today.”
Clara looked inside.
Split watermelons.
Bruised peaches.
Cabbage.
Soft zucchini.
A crate of carrots too twisted and cracked for the shelves.
“You charging extra?”
“Only if you eat it.”
She lifted one box.
Fermented melon juice ran onto her glove.
“Luxury.”
Ben helped load the truck.
“You really put all this in your field?”
“Not all.”
“What happens to the plastic?”
“I pull it.”
“The stickers?”
“Pull them.”
“Rubber bands?”
“Pull them.”
He looked at the amount of waste.
“That has to take forever.”
“It does.”
“Why?”
Clara shoved another crate into place.
“Because plastic doesn’t turn into soil because I’m tired.”
Ben nodded as if that made complete sense.
The market manager came through the rear door.
“Clara.”
She looked over.
He handed her a paper.
“What’s this?”
“Weight estimates from the last month.”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“You said you were keeping records.”
“I am.”
“Figured you might want ours.”
She studied the sheet.
Loads by date.
Approximate weight.
Produce category.
The manager shrugged.
“If somebody complains, I’d rather be able to show what left here.”
Clara looked at him.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Your truck leaks tomato juice in my lot.”
She smiled.
“I’ll bring a broom.”
“Bring a new truck.”
“Broom’s cheaper.”
He laughed.
On the drive home, dark clouds gathered in the west.
Clara watched them through the cracked windshield.
Rain had become something she monitored with an attention bordering on obsession.
Every forecast.
Every shift in pressure.
Every cloud line.
Daniel had been the same.
As a child, Clara thought farmers spent half their lives looking at the sky.
As an adult, she understood why.
Rain was never simply rain.
Rain on newly planted ground meant one thing.
Rain during harvest meant another.
A half inch slowly over six hours could save a field.
Two inches in fifteen minutes could take it apart.
When she reached the farm, wind moved hard across the wheat stubble.
She unloaded only half the truck before the first drops came.
They were large.
Warm.
Widely spaced.
Clara stood beside the Chevrolet and watched them darken the dust.
Then the sky opened.
Rain hammered the metal roof of the truck.
Clara ran to the porch.
She did not go inside.
She stood beneath the eave watching water cross the yard.
For twenty minutes, rain fell hard.
The gutters overflowed.
The ditch along the road filled.
When it slowed, Clara pulled on Daniel’s old coat and walked toward the eastern field.
Water moved between the untreated rows.
Brown streams.
Thin but visible.
On the treated ground, the straw flattened.