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The moderately-aged green minivan pulled up to the dilapidated farmhouse. The fading colors on both were given an additional washing by the early summer sun. The sales agent was waiting on the porch. From the way she rose from the swinging bench she had been there awhile, although her smile was still mostly fresh.

“Got lost, did you?” she asked, her professional smile merely a smidge different from the one locals reserved for tourists.
The young couple walking up the dirt driveway certainly looked like tourists; the husband in his ‘so worn it’s vintage’ plaid shirt and the wife with her knit hat and large glasses. Both were slight and slender; the type to subsist on coffee and cigarettes rather than food.
Michael Bouchard grinned, “That’s some drive! I can’t believe how those fields stretch! This is going to be perfect!”

Estelle smiled, a touch less warm. The sales agent noticed but counted on Michael’s oblivious enthusiasm to carry the day.
“This house is rather an heirloom of the area, as I mentioned on the phone. It’s been maintained….”

“Hey, let’s just go in and check it out, ok? Pictures and words and all that. Come on, Estelle.” Michael tugged insistently on his wife’s arm who, like a mother with a toddler, allowed herself to be pulled forward. The agent barely unlocked the door in time.
The house was maintained in the way that meant it was functional rather than pretty. The cream-colored paint was starting to peel and the wooden windowsills showed inclement signs of splintering. The porch was creaky and the interior, though well-lit and open, was sparse.
Estelle coughed hesitantly. “How come it’s for sale? Since it’s such an heirloom?”

“The couple who built the house had only one child, and she’s relocated out of state. She loves the house and area but can’t move back due to work. She’d be very happy for it to go to a couple who would love and tend it as her parents did.” The tour of the inside was already almost over. They continued out the back door to the large open yard.

It was ghastly by city standards. No lush verdant awaiting manicured toes – this was a field mowed over and still full of sticks and stubble. Estelle half-expected to see chickens or cows meandering around the corner.

What she saw instead caught her breath. This…this alone made it all worthwhile.
“Where did THOSE come from?”
“They’re a tradition in these parts. Nearly every family has a sunflower garden. They’re reputed to be good luck. If nothing else they’re pretty.”

As was hoped by the agent and expected by Michael, the paperwork was completed nearly immediately. It wasn’t as if the remote house had any other choices. Within the week most of their belongings had been transferred from apartment to farmhouse, and Michael had taken care of setting up internet so that business could be attended.

It kept him so busy that he had little time for his wife or for the maintenance of their new property. Estelle did not mind. It meant so much less time listening to him drone on, less time wasted on boxes and questions….More time outside in the sunflower garden.
They were such peaceful flowers. Tall. Elegant. Towering beauties. Nothing like the puny violets in a window-box or the miniscule terrariums she once loved. She could, and realized she soon would, spend hours in the middle of the sunflowers, letting their stalks and petals hide her from everyone and everywhere else.

Michael wanted her to be a quintessential farmwife. Whatever that meant in his mind. There was something to do with housework, something else to do with cooking, eventually something to do with children….Estelle had a rough approximation of how the first two were to be managed in this new environment. The third was going to wait.

Although…maybe not as long as she had first thought. The farmhouse was lonely. It was quiet and the wind whispered dark things when Estelle turned her back. The house creaked and moaned displeasure at the faux-farm couple, transplanted miles from where they belonged.
“House looks great, hon! This! This is how people are supposed to live! I mean, really live! I work, come home, there you are and…” Michael stopped and inhaled deeply, “Dinner is ready and waiting! How fifties’ can you get?”
“Once I learn to make pot roast instead of heating store-bought pizza, the final touch will be complete.” Estelle winked at him.
“Nah, we need to get you one of those kitschy dresses and aprons, too. Maybe a dog.” Michael shed his coat on the floor. Estelle winced and picked it up. By the time she turned around he was already hovering around the table.
“I’m allergic,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I’m allergic to dogs. Remember?”
“Oh. I thought that was a joke because you secretly didn’t like them or something.”

Maybe there was a reason starter-marriages only lasted a year or so. Estelle sat down and decided to remember the events for her memoirs. Michael reached for a second slice of pizza.
“Downside of this house are those weird drafts. Gotta see about getting those fixed.”
“That’s up to you, dear.” Estelle smiled. When he looked confused she elaborated, “Housework is for women. House maintenance is for men. I keep it clean. You keep it functional.”
“Right,’’ Michael drawled. “I’ll get on it.”
They knew he would do no such thing. It was part of the game.

The next morning Estelle was out in the garden, listening to the sunflowers. She could almost understand their vague whispering. Well, almost to the point of gathering the gist. It was as if she had been reading in a foreign language and now suddenly had to listen to its native speaker. The words would come. They would translate. It would only take a bit of time.
With budding awareness, Estelle realized she might never have the time again. Her period was late.

On this note the first month came to an end.

Estelle began leaving the house more frequently, using a bike procured by means and location unknown. The small general store allowed plenty of opportunity for meeting and mixing with the local women. They did not consider their clothing to be kitschy, their lives to be ironic, or their days to lack purpose. These women stood tall as sunflowers; a bit drooped with the burden of daily life and raising children but on the whole sturdy and serene.

Estelle did not feel herself to be a sunflower. Not yet. Her transplant was not quite complete and her soil was lacking something vital. She made her small purchases and left. It was not the right time to mingle.

“What’s wrong?” Michael’s thumping around the house and petulant growling had finally gotten on Estelle’s nerves to where she could actually ask. There would be no telling him anything yet, not like this.
“Bills! This blasted, stupid farm and it’ goddamn bills! Useless! We’re hemorrhaging money just by living.”
“You said it would be expensive. We’d figured on it.” Estelle put the plates on the table. A single sunflower blossom floated in a bowl between them.
“Not THIS fucking expensive! Oh, let’s get a dainty little toy farm. Let’s play country. Christ, what was I thinking? Nothing works right out here. Only thing we’ve got growing are weeds like those blasted things you’re so fucking fond of.” Michael flicked his finger against the bowl. He winced even as the water splashed onto the tablecloth.
“My sunflowers are not weeds, Michael. They’re,”
“Ornamental. We have no room for ornamental anymore. We’re cutting back. Bare-bones everything. We’ll have a functional garden with vegetables. At least we have the luck that it’s not too late for planting. We can still get potatoes and carrots and that sort of thing. I’ll get the stuff for you tomorrow.”
“Michael…”
“Thank god it’s just the two of us. Can you imagine if….Anyway. That reminds me,” he rummaged in the grocery bag left idly on the chair and tossed her a small box. “Sorry it took so long. Life, you know? Better late than never as the saying goes.”
“Michael, I…”
“Just leave me alone! You think it’s easy? All you do is putter around the house like a pretty little housewife, while I’m out doing real work to make real money! This whole thing was a bloody stupid idea and now we’re stuck with it! Just do your part for once. Make some dinner that isn’t burnt or half-raw. Defrost a pizza if you have to.” He stormed outside, slamming the door as he went.

Alone, in the kitchen, holding a box of excess condoms, Estelle asked, “Where is the garden supposed to go?”
The garden hid Estelle all the next day. From the time the green van began the daily retreat until it grumbled its way home, Estelle surrounded herself with sunflowers. They gave her ideas. Ideas better than cleaning house and wasting food trying to teach herself how to cook.
She sketched. She doodled. She designed.
At dinner they sat in silence. Judgmental on his part. Thoughtful on hers.
In the morning she biked into town and bought jewel-tone colors of yarn and shiny brown buttons. Sequestered in the sunflowers she worked.
In this pattern, broken only by sulking and screaming and occasional trips to town, the second month ended.

Then the bills came due.

“The fuck is this? Estelle! What the fuck is this?”
“What, Michael?”
“This!” He waved the paper like a king with a stamped writ of execution. It was a print-out of charges to their shared banking account. “What the hell are all these charges to the fucking craft store?”
“I’ve been making things.”
“Making..? Damn it, Estelle, we agreed to cut costs! If you’ve got time to ‘make things’ then you’ve got time to be useful! You could learn to cook or something. You could work in the garden, take care of the vegetables. God knows they need it. More than your sunflowers.”
“The garden is fine. I’ve been making stuff to sell. There’s a bazaar at the end of the summer as a community fundraiser. I’m signed up,”

Michael groaned. “With what ungodly size entrance fee? And who’d want whatever crap you make anyway?”
“They’re pretty. Look.” Estelle disappeared into a side room and came back with arms overflowing. Crocheted sunflowers everywhere; on headbands, as bracelets, as keychains, pillows, kitchen towels…. “The people here like sunflowers, Michael. They’re good luck. The other ladies in town like my work. I’ve sold a few already and that’s how I paid the entrance fee. The rest will sell even better and then that’ll help take care of us.”
“Maybe it’ll be grocery money at least. Especially if we start cutting down a bit. Maybe you could go on one of those diets you used to love.”

“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You always said they made you feel great, all cleansed and everything. It wouldn’t do you any harm to be honest and….” That’s when it hit him. “Seriously? A baby? Now, of all times? What’d you do that for?”
“I hardly did it by myself. And you were the one who took so long getting the condoms and birth control and called me selfish for ‘holding out’ when we didn’t have them.”
“Don’t blame this on me!”
“I KNOW I could’ve been stronger. I KNOW I could’ve kept refusing; to risk a baby, to moving out here. Part of this is my fault and I know it but back off and don’t insult me anymore! This was your idea to start with and I’ve had enough with your whining,”

He slapped her.

The sound of skin on skin was the only real sound in the room. They stared at each other, both in shock.

Michael looked away. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he muttered. He made their eyes meet again. “Not like that. Not while I’m in charge.” He suddenly grabbed the keys to the van and left. The door bounced but did not fully close. After the red lights of the van disappeared Estelle bolted to the sunflowers, hand on stomach and heaving all the way. It was in the garden that the bile spewed out, and she prayed that the stomach acid wouldn’t be damaging. The sunflowers rustled as if assuring her that it would all be fine. They were too strong to be damaged so easily.

The next few days were terse. Estelle and Michael barely spoke to each other. They worked separately. Slept separately. Michael no longer talked about Estelle’s cooking; he bought take-out for one. Estelle no longer waited for Michael to leave before immersing herself in the sunflowers. They were her balm. Her good fortune. Their whisperings relaxed and inspired her more than her husband ever had.

They co-existed for the rest of the summer.

The week before the bazaar, Michael brought Estelle a bouquet of roses.
“I’m….sorry. For everything. For getting on your case about money, and especially for… I was stressed. But you’ve been working hard too. This bazaar, it’s…it’s actually a good idea. You’ve made some pretty stuff. You’re more a part of this community than I am, even.” He offered her the roses.

She took them, smelled them, smiled. That night they had red roses between their plates rather than a sturdy blooming sunflower. Estelle did not mind the change. It was peaceful. And the roses would wither in a week or so anyway. Things, while not quite good again, were at least on the mend.
The night before the bazaar, Michael mentioned It.
“We can’t keep it, you know,” he said.
“Her. You’re saying we can’t keep her. But we can.”

“No, we can’t. It’s illogical. Look at the math.” Here he pulled out papers and papers with all sorts of numbers on them. Some were printed, some were handwritten and all were very discouraging.
“These are the expenses. This is the income. See the problem? We can maybe squeak by as we are, but not with a baby. The hospital expenses alone….”

“We’re on the upswing, though! We can make it work! I’ve got the bazaars, this one and the ones coming up. We can cut some of these expenses even more – look, your commuting to town so often. If you got a bike too and then took a bus for when you had to get to the city, we wouldn’t even need the van. We could get at least a few hundred for it.”
“Or we could pay a single amount and not have to worry about any of this. You’re barely three months along. There’s time.”
“No.”

“It’ll starve! We’ll starve with it! We’ll lose the house!”
“I’d rather lose the house than the baby!”
“How can you be so selfish?”
“How can you?”

Michael went back to sleeping on the couch.

Estelle did not bother keeping quiet as she loaded up the next morning and took the van to town. She saw Michael in the rearview mirror. He stood solidly. Stubbornly. She turned her eyes back to the road.

Dusk was on its way when Estelle pulled into the long driveway. It was the work of moments to unload the van. Scarce anything was left. It had been a good, long, lucky day. Sunflowers left and right, and favored by all who saw them.

She dropped her purse on the chair and called out, “Michael? I’m home. The bazaar was wonderful. I sold almost everything. I’ve got enough we could….Michael? Are you outside?”

Maybe he was in the vegetable garden again. Trying to figure out what she was doing wrong with his precious carrots. Let him. She had good news to share. She headed toward the back door.
Sunflower petals left and right, a pile ready for mulching.
“Michael.” It was an accusation.

“Estelle.” Confirmation, though lacking in guilt. “Turns out this spot is the only fertile part on the whole blasted place. Did you notice how the sunflowers thrived when nothing else did? So I figured, take out the sunflowers and make room for something useful. I transplanted some of the vegetables and potatoes. Figure next year we could do corn or something.”

“How….”

“Used this.” He held up a machete. “Same one you used to gather blossoms for the table. We’ll have plenty of those for a little while!” He grinned. “Don’t worry. When they die I’ll get you some roses or something. You still like roses. Anyway, gotta finish moving this stuff. Here, you can use this one for the dinner table tonight.” A large sunflower blossom, large enough to be a pillow, flew to her.

She caught it. Michael smirked and turned away, flinging the machete down carelessly.
The blow to the back of his head was as careful as it was spontaneous. Estelle straddled his back. With one hand she lifted his head by his mangy hair and with the second slid the sunflower under his face. Then she lowered his head and pressed down.

He struggled a bit at first. It got a little tricky, holding on and keeping his face down. But she managed, especially when she figured out the trick of dropping her elbow onto the back of his head. A few times of that and it didn’t matter if his face slipped away from the sunflower. Quick matter to put it back, easy-peasy.
When that part was finished, Estelle picked up the machete and proceeded to the second part. She left some for the vegetable garden. Maybe it would work for them too. Poor things couldn’t help being in the wrong soil.

She repaired the damage to the sunflower garden as best she could. A few might yet be salvageable. It would take time and care, though. Plenty of time and care. And luck.
Estelle sat down to rest. “Don’t worry, baby,” she said, hand on stomach. “We can do it. You and me. We’re lucky. We can bloom anywhere.”