The Dealer's Envelope Brought Our Failed Sunflowers Back To Life

I was counting sunflower seedlings when my wife called to ask about a blue envelope.

"Did something come to the house?" Sabine asked.

"A seed catalog. The water bill."

"Anything from North Coulee?"

I lifted the tray lid. Warm, damp air touched my face.

"Not that I saw."

"Good. It would just be another notice about that failed variety."

She hung up before I could ask why a failure still needed so much mail.

I was a seed-germination analyst at a private testing lab in Minot, North Dakota. I worked with damp paper, counted roots, and helped decide whether a bag of seed could make the crop its label promised.

At the lab, I was Etienne Baptiste, the man who saved every batch sheet. I had been married to Sabine Morel for twenty-eight years.

At fifty-nine, I was a broad-shouldered Haitian American man with dark brown skin, a close gray beard, and a pale scar across my left eyebrow.

Under my breath, I counted in French.

"Dix-sept. Dix-huit. Dix-neuf."

I had done that since my father taught me to count beans on our kitchen table. Numbers stayed put when I gave them that small, steady voice.

At home, Sabine said the voice made me sound like a man asking seeds for permission.

The blue envelope was on my desk when I got back from the warm room.

"Dealer dropped it off," my coworker said. "Said he met you at a field day."

Inside was a photograph of a sunflower head as wide as a dinner plate. Below it, in thick black print, were two words.

Prairie Lantern.

Our variety.

The sales sheet called it a dependable choice for short northern seasons. Someone had written a note across the bottom.

Thanks for breeding something that stands after a September wind.

I sat down.

Three years earlier, Sabine had told me the licensee had dropped Prairie Lantern.

"Poor orders," she had said. "We got our little advance. That's all."

That advance had been $12,000. We had used it for a furnace and a cracked driveway.

I had believed her.

We had bred the variety over twelve summers, on rented plots outside town. I kept the seed records and made the crosses. Sabine tracked field costs, found growers, and pushed us to keep trying after two bad seasons.

She deserved her place on the breeder agreement. So did I.

I put the sales sheet in my lunch bag.

At home, the kitchen smelled of lemon cleaner and roast chicken. Sabine had set two plates exactly opposite each other.

Sabine was a slim Haitian American woman of fifty-five with smooth brown skin, a sharp chin, and black hair swept into a neat silver-clipped knot.

Her blouse had no creases. The table held no crumbs.

"A dealer brought this to work," I said.

I placed the photograph between the plates.

She looked at it without touching it.

"Old stock. They use old pictures."

"It says new orders for spring."

"Etienne, people print things. It doesn't mean they sell them."

She carried the chicken to the table.

"Did North Coulee send you anything?"

"Why would they? I handle that."

That was true of our checking account, insurance, taxes, and most bills. Sabine liked one person to keep the books. I liked coming home without more numbers to sort.

But seed records were different.

After dinner, I went downstairs and opened the metal cabinet beside my winter boots.

"What are you hunting?" she called.

"Our agreement."

Her steps stopped at the top of the stairs.

"You won't understand that without help."

I pulled out a red folder. Inside were our signed agreement, my notes from the signing, and the original payment schedule.

The royalty was $8 per qualified unit sold, less returns. Reports were due each quarter. Either named breeder could request them directly.

Section eleven said neither breeder could assign a royalty interest without the other's written approval. North Coulee also had to accept the assignment in writing.

I had asked for that sentence.

Our first draft had allowed either of us to redirect the whole payment. I had worried about illness, death, or a rushed business deal. The company had agreed to change it.

Sabine had called me slow that day.

"All this fuss over a crop that might never sell."

Now she stood behind my chair.

"You leave every bill to me," she said. "Don't suddenly pretend you run a business."

"I want the reports."

"There aren't any worth reading."

I sent a short email from my own account to the licensing address in the agreement. I attached the page naming me and asked for all reports since launch.

Then I counted the stair treads under my breath as I went up to bed.

At seven the next morning, my phone rang beside my coffee.

"Mr. Baptiste? This is Anika Bhandari at North Coulee. Before I send anything, I need to ask about the company that receives your royalties."