When G-ma turns 80, she passes care of the garden to Mir, with a warning. Never take money for its fruits before they're ripe. In 1935, G-ma's father promised his crop to the bank. Locusts ate their wheat. The bank ate their land. They came then to this smoggy river city for work at the valve company that once hummed at the neighborhood's heart. Mir's parents died young. She grew up playing hide-and-seek in the garden from G-ma and from grief. They eat, preserve, and take to market what they grow.

 

Mir loves working under the sky, loves the chlorophyll and pollen of sun-cupped leaves and blossoms nodding under bees. G-pa raised these beds with stones dragged from a creek on the valley floor. Perched on those stones, G-ma sips her tea and dispenses advice. Find yourself a man with a strong back. She winks. Preferably one with a fine looking backside. 

 

Even in drizzle or humid heat, it's better than her old job at the drive-thru. This itchy, backbreaking work doesn't pay half as well, but she'll take the whisper of leaves and the crunch of soil over orders and machines. Train wheels sing across the valley. Weekends, as the early sun delves their skinny street with houses gapped like neglected teeth, she loads G-pa's pickup, which still runs though he's ten years gone. G-ma's market stall is known for her unusual varieties. In a tall, wooden library catalog she saves heirloom seeds that go back to their people in the old country. A mottled, fawn bean hints of honey butter. Brilliant peppers burn with sugary fire. There's a whale skinned squash that smells faintly of some distant sea. 

 

The chef from this fancy downtown restaurant, Finn, rolls up to Mir's stall. He flashes a milk-fed smile and asks what happened to her grandmother.

 

Retired, Mir says. Mostly, at least. 

 

You the new boss then?

 

Mir shrugs. She idly tosses a squash, which G-ma never would have allowed. 

 

I'm crazy about your produce. Will those purple beans she grew be coming soon?

 

When they're good and ready. A few weeks maybe.

 

He pulls out his wallet. What would you take to give me first pick of your crop?

We're a strictly first come, first served operation, Mir says. Early bird gets the worm, right? The squash slips her grip and spills oval seeds at her feet.

G-ma gets sick. Bills pile on their roll-top desk. When Finn comes again with that pearly grin, Mir decides to accept his advance. 

 

What if something happens to my crop?

 

Finn's teeth crack a lemon-yellow bean. What could happen? You'll take a check, right?

With the back bills paid, pests and wilts descend on the garden. Voles burrow into roots. Rabbits and a fat groundhog mow through her greens. Mir battles aphids, beetles, slugs, and a blight that spreads through the beans for which Finn's so keen. He calls for an update. Mir doesn't pick up.

 

She accidently answers as she furiously scrubs her nails at the basement sink. While turning her compost pile, she grabbed what turned out to be a possum that up and died in her small hill of vegetable decay.

 

You said those beans would be ready this week, Finn says.

 

They'll be ready when they're ready, she says, scrubbing with caustic soap she hopes will take off several layers of skin. Because she doesn't want the skin that touched that possum ever to touch another part of her body.

 

What about our deal?

 

The deal is, you get first crack at my crop. 

 

Just bring me what you can.

 

Mir doesn't like his tone. 

 

She salvages gnawed beans, pocked greens, scarred tomatoes. If she hadn't promised them to Finn, she and G-ma would eat it all.

 

Finn wrinkles his nose over the crates she brings to his kitchen door. 

 

I can't use most of this, he says, picking through it. I expected better.

 

Humiliated, she watches him wheel a few crates into the kitchen, his knotty spine visible through a tight black t-shirt.

 

The next weekend she takes what she can to market, but business is slow. Which is weird. Sure her harvest is poor, but even the chattier regulars skip her stall. Finally, she engages Mary, who cooks legendary meals for her circle of artist friends.

 

What's up, Mary? I know I've had a bad month, but I haven't seen half my people.

 

Mary's conspiratorial eyes meet Mir's.

 

That chef is spreading it around maybe you don't have your grandma's mojo, she says. But I don't believe the weasel. Give me a bag of kale and a dozen or so tomatoes. What happened? Looks like someone used them for target practice. But they'll cook up just fine.

 

Mir fumes. Driving home, crates knock about the truck's bed as she takes turns too fast. She throws on an old dress of her mother's. G-ma catches her digging bills out of their money jar.

 

Where you off to, all gussied up? 

 

Dinner, says Mir.

 

In the sleek, climate-controlled restaurant, Finn's maître d' eyes her faded yellow sundress when she replies that no, she doesn't have a reservation. She accepts a seat at the bar. She orders a glass of Bordeaux and bruschetta starter. On the platter she finds the purple brindle of G-ma's tomatoes, her basil's subtle licorice.

 

Mir scans the sterile room and sips. Guests murmur. Cutlery clinks. 

 

Do me a favor, she says to the bartender. Let Finn know I'm here.

 

The bartender ducks into the kitchen. Finn's face appears in the steamy window. He spots Mir's acid smile and ducks.

 

Finn's kind of busy, the bartender says. He said to offer you a complimentary dessert.

When Finn peeks again, she gives him a finger wave.

 

Little man, she thinks. Her pasta primavera arrives. In each perfect piece she tastes those subtle flavors G-ma tended across generations. She declines dessert. She puts what's left of Finn's money under her plate.

 

The service here is exemplary, she tells the bartender.

 

With the last of the wine on her tongue she goes, eager for the prismatic spray of water through warm leaves. She pulls her hose around unruly beds. Water mists over those fossil-studded stones, like the ruins of some lost civilization.

 

Mir dreams of seeds unsown.