When G-ma turns 80, she passes on care of her garden to Mir, with one warning. Never take money for its fruits before they're ripe. G-ma learned this in 1935 when her own father promised his crop to the bank. Locusts ate their wheat. The bank ate their land. Her family came to this city smelling of river and industry for work at the valve company that once hummed at their neighborhood's heart. Mir's mother was lost to the street when Mir was small. She and G-ma played hide and seek in the garden, an escape from their grief. They take what they grow to market, and cook and can what's left.

 

The garden is a slow-motion, chlorophyll explosion of  bushes and vines. Sun-cupped leaves and insect-jeweled flowers spills from beds that G-pa raised with stones poached from the creek in the valley below. G-ma sips tea and dispenses additional advice. Find yourself a man with a strong back. She winks. One with a fine looking backside. 

 

Mir loves working under the sky. Anything's better than her old job at the drive-thru. But it's bruising, itchy, sweaty work, her earbuds blasting rock and rap to to drown out the sing-song of nearby train wheels. Every weekend morning, as the early sun delves her narrow street with its houses gapped like lonely teeth, Mir loads G-pa's pickup, which somehow still runs though he's ten years gone. She returns in the afternoon, with a shoebox of cash. G-ma's stall is well known for her unusual varieties and high quality. They grow heirlooms that go back to G-ma's people in the old country from seed saved in tiny envelopes. There's a mottled, fawn-colored bean that tastes like sun-warmed butter. Peppers with sunset hues and sweet heat. A blue-green squash with a whale skin rind that smells of the sea. 

The owner a fancy downtown restaurant, Finn, rolls up to Mir's stall with a milk-fed smile. What happened to your grandmother? 

She's retired, Mir says. Mostly, at least. 

You the new boss then?

Mir juggles squash, which G-ma never would have allowed. 

I always hoped to establish a relationship with your grandmother. I'm crazy about your produce, he says. What would you take to establish an exclusive relationship?

Thanks says Mir. But we're a strictly first come, first served operation.

I'd make it very worth your while. No strings attached. 

Just show up early and you get your pick, she says. Early bird gets the worm, right? A squash slips her grip and shatters, spilling oval seeds. 

G-ma gets sick. Bills begin to drift on their old roll-top desk. When Finn comes again with that pearly grin, asking when her sweet, purple beans are due, and whether she'll take something to hold those sweet Hungarian peppers for him, she relents. 

What happens if something happens to my crop?

Your stuff's worth the gamble, FInn says, biting into a lemon-yellow bean. 

The back bills are paid, but pests and wilts descend on the garden. Voles tunnel under roots. Rabbits and a chubby groundhog mow crops to the ground. The beetles, aphids, and slugs are biblical, as is the blight that kills the beans for which Finn is so keen. He calls for an update. Mir doesn't answer.

She accidently answers as she's sprinting from the compost pile, fouled with what turns out to be a dead opossum, to the basement sink. She tried to poison the voles, but killed the ‘possum instead. This she realized as she dug in the compost, trying to find the source of the stink, and accidentally grabbed its limp paw.

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

They'll be ready when they're ready, she says, scrubbing with soap so caustic she hopes it will also take off her skin. Because she doesn't want the skin that has touched that dead ‘possum to ever touch any part of her body. 

What about our deal?

The deal is you get first crack at my crop. 

Just bring me what you can.

She doesn't like his tone. 

Mir salvages half-gnawed beans, pock-marked greens, scarred tomatoes. If she hadn't promised her crop to Finn, she and G-ma would eat it.  

But Finn is not impressed. He wrinkles his nose at the kitchen door.

I can't use most of this, he says, picking through her crates. I expected better. Humiliated, she watches him wheel a few crates into his kitchen, his spine visible through his tight black t-shirt.   

That weekend she takes what she can to market, but business is slow. Which is weird because, despite the poor quality of the harvest, even her regulars pass up her stall. Finally, she engages Mary, an artist who cooks legendary meals for her circle of friends.

How are you Mary? I know I've had a bad month, but what's the deal? I haven't seen half my regulars.

Mary's bright, conspiratorial eyes meet Mir's.

That chef, Finn, is spreading it around that maybe you don't have your grandma's green thumb, she says. But I don't believe the weasel. Give me a basket of beefsteak tomatoes, and a bag of kale. What happened? Looks like a doberman got hold of it. But it'll cook up just fine.

Mir fumes. She decides to pay Finn a visit. Back home, she washes up and throws on a dress. G-ma catches her digging bills out of their money jar.

Where you off to, all gussied up? 

Downtown, says Mir. 

Finn's restaurant is sleek and chill. The maitre'd gives Mir a look when she replies that no, she hasn't made a reservation. She accepts a seat at the bar. She orders a glass of Bordeaux and bruschetta starter. She recognizes the brindled skin of G-ma's tomatoes, the singular flavor of her basil. 

Mir scans the sterile room and sips. She listens to the slow, happy conversation of guests, the clink of their cutlery, the jangle of the kitchen. 

Do me a favor, she says to the tattooed bartender when asked if she wants to order a main. Would you convey my compliments to Finn? I'm one of his growers.

The bartender ducks into the kitchen's steam. Sure enough, Finn's face appears in the window. The coward sees Mir's acid smile and ducks. 

When Finn peeks again, she gives him a little finger wave. Little man, she thinks, and orders pasta primavera. She sips her wine and examines the dark crescents of soil under her nails. Her pasta arrives. Famished, she eats, savoring each forkful. Thanks, but no, she couldn't possibly eat dessert. She leaves what's left of Finn's cash under her spoon. A tip, she tells the bartender. She finishes her wine, eager for home with its sun-warmed soil. She'll trail her fingers over cooling leaves, and feel the gathering dew.