Just sticks.
The rational thing would have been to ignore them.
Instead, Clara placed them in the galvanized livestock trough behind the barn.
Filled it with rainwater.
Put a brick over the bundle to keep the cut ends submerged.
Three days later, she carried them into the flood.
That was what the men saw.
What they did not see was the fear beneath her stubbornness.
Each night after planting, Clara calculated the bank balance.
She sold Evelyn’s sewing machine.
Then felt so guilty she almost bought it back.
She sold two old kerosene lamps.
A spare bed frame.
A walnut dresser from the upstairs guest room.
She refused to sell Evelyn’s recipe box.
The farm needed immediate repairs too.
The porch foundation had shifted.
The barn roof leaked.
The well pump had become unreliable.
Clara patched what she could.
Mrs. Phelps, her nearest neighbor, brought eggs.
Clara protested.
Mrs. Phelps ignored her.
“You can pay me by fixing my chicken-yard gate.”
She said.
So Clara fixed the gate.
The bank visit came in April.
Walter Henderson arrived in a black Chevrolet.
He was not related to any Henderson in Noah's town or any other story; in Mercer County, Henderson was simply a common name and Walter carried it with the gravity of a man who believed compound interest was one of God’s natural laws.
He wore a dark suit despite the mud.
Tom Blackwell arrived ten minutes later without being invited.
That told Clara more than either man intended.
Walter stepped onto the porch.
“Miss Jennings.”
“Mr. Henderson.”
“My condolences regarding Evelyn.”
“Thank you.”
“Fine woman.”
“So everyone says after somebody dies.”
Walter hesitated.
Clara opened the door.
They sat at Evelyn’s kitchen table.
Tom remained standing near the window.
Walter opened his portfolio.
“The note is delinquent.”
“I know.”
“The bank has some flexibility.”
“How much?”
“That depends on whether we see a realistic path to repayment.”
Clara folded her hands.
“I’m working on one.”
Tom looked toward the field.
“With sticks?”
Clara ignored him.
Walter said:
“Mr. Blackwell has expressed interest in purchasing the bottom acreage.”
“Of course he has.”
Tom smiled.
“It connects two pieces I already own.”
“That’s all.”
“How much?”
Clara asked.
Tom named a number.
It would pay the mortgage.
Taxes.
Leave enough for Clara to afford one year of college.
It was not insulting.
That made it more dangerous.
Clara looked at the offer.
A train ticket.
Tuition.
Room rent.
Clean hands.
Dry shoes.
No bank.
No mud.
All she had to do was sign.
Then she remembered Evelyn’s line.
Do not sell the land in summer.
Wait until autumn.
It was not summer yet.
But Clara understood the spirit.
Wait.
“I need time.”
She said.
Walter closed the folder.
“You have until the payment deadline.”
Tom frowned.
“Clara.”
“This offer may not remain.”
“I understand.”
“You’re gambling your future on willow brush.”
“I understand that too.”
After they left, Clara sat at the kitchen table until sunset.
She almost changed her mind three times.
Then she walked to the field.
The water was receding.
Most cuttings remained gray.