The Tomato Song

By S.E. Slaughter

I blinked, realizing I’d been watering the same tomato plant for the last five minutes. I released the handle on the hose and the force of the water stopping made my hand jolt. The tomato drooped and water puddled around the bottom. A ripple of panic rolled through me. My eyes drifted over the remains of the garden; peppers, cucumbers and a large, leggy zucchini plant, all brown, brittle and very dead. They were long past saving. But not this tomato plant. This tomato plant would live.  

Eli loved to garden. He used to tell me it was all in the song. A good song was important, he’d say, for the plants to be happy. I once asked him what song could make a plant happy. His response: That’s between me and the fruit.

I could see him as clearly as if he were in front of me. The threads of his favorite T-shirt wearing so thin, his belly threatened to burst through. His hips swaying to a tune of his making as he gave me a half-hidden grin under his ridiculous mustache. 

The ache of loss surfaced along with the vision of Eli. A tear ripped through my soul when he died seven weeks ago. I’ve gotten better at pretending I can make it through my day without being swallowed by the gaping hole.

Splat!! Cold mud splattered across my shins, and I jumped, stumbling back a step. Confusion jumbled my thoughts until I spotted a black and white ball nestled in the puddle where Eli’s last tomato plant stood seconds ago.

“No!” I breathed and fell to my knees, tossing the ball aside. The flattened plant swam in the mud. I wiped away tears as the pounding of two pairs of kid feet approached behind me.

“Sorry, Ms. Opal.” One of the boys, the older of the two, panted as he came to a stop beside me. “I kicked it too hard. I didn’t think it’d go over the fence.”

I was only half listening, still squatting by the pancaked tomato plant.

“What’s wrong with her?” The little one with a blue shirt and too big baseball cap whispered to his brother.

“Shhhh!” the older boy demanded. He stooped slowly, as if afraid of spooking a wild animal, plucking the soccer ball out of the weeds where it’d rolled after I threw it from the puddle.

The two backed away and I briefly wondered how I must look to the youngsters. An old woman with wild grey hair. I wore one of Eli’s old T-shirts and no bra. To say nothing of the fact that I was hovering over a squashed tomato plant in what was otherwise a wasteland. Crazy.     That’s how I looked.  

It was stupid really. Stupid that I was lying in bed at three in the afternoon the next day, still wearing the same ratty clothes. I’d allowed myself to dip into a dark pool of depression as if Eli died all over again. And all because of a tomato plant. 

I had just rolled onto my left side, away from the clock, when I heard the doorbell. I opened one eye just enough to see the shadow of Eli lying in his old spot, head propped on his hand, his elbow buried in the pillow. A tsk tsk look stretched across his face, and his smiling eyes teasing me.

I slumped onto my back and stared at the ceiling fan going round and round. Maybe they’ll go away. I heard a tussle and the murmuring of young voices from the front porch below my bedroom window. They’ve come back to gloat. A mixture of curiosity and irritation pushed me to my feet. I shuffled down the stairs to the front door, looking even more like a mess than I had the previous day. When I opened the door, I caught a glimpse of the older boy. What was his name? He glanced over his shoulder, his hands stuffed in his pockets, right before he disappeared behind the trees separating his family’s yard from mine. 

The seedling, nestled in the dirty welcome mat, was so small and fragile I almost didn’t notice it. I picked it up, cradling it in my hands, and brought it inside, closing the door with a bare foot. 

In the kitchen, after pouring a glass of water, I sat at the table and laid my head on my arms, staring at the tiny seedling. How the hell am I going to keep this thing alive? I tipped my glass towards the small black plastic pot, then thought better of it when an image of the last tomato plant flashed in my mind. I twisted my mouth, setting the glass down. Sun was what this fledgling needed. I swept it up and took it outside to the back deck.

Truth be told, I forgot about the thing. Whether it was my need to surface from the waters of despair or simply because it slipped my hazy brain, I’m not sure. But nonetheless, I put that seedling on my back porch to bake in the sun and didn’t think of it again for days. When the image floated through my mind, I was standing in the produce section of the local grocery store, picking out a ripe tomato no less. I dropped the fruit and raced from the store, abandoning my shopping cart.

I imagined it dried and shriveled, resembling all the other unfortunate plants in what was left of the garden. This had been a second chance. A live link to Eli… that I had forgotten. I raced around the back of the house and bounded up the steps. Where was it? I searched the railing, the ground below, even under the deck. 

Furrowing my brow, I crossed my arms over my chest. Well, it had to be somewhere! A strange thought occurred to me, and I rose to my tip toes, peering over the railing to see the garden. A flash of bright green drew my eyes. I descended the steps and rounded the corner of the deck. Ha! I have finally lost it!  I planted it.

I might have convinced myself of this easily enough had it not been for the small shoe print left in the damp mound around the tomato. A shoe print not belonging to me. I swallowed the lump in my throat. Why that little rascal! How dare he come onto my property without permission. Sneaky devil!

My clenched fists rested on my hips, as I surveyed the small plant. It appeared to be thriving. Perhaps it’d even grown. Vibrant green leaves quivered in the sunlight, smiling up at the clear blue sky as if it were dancing to a silent beat. Watching this, I felt the same energy flowing through me. The Tomato Song! Chills skittered up my spine like a herd of mice. This must be what Eli felt when he stood on freshly turned earth and dug his fingers into the soil.

The thought of him evoked his likeness. He squatted near me, his dark eyes twinkling with delight either at my sudden clarity or the irony of the situation. Maybe both. Pain shot through my veins, and I reached to touch him.

Eli’s gaze shifted to a spot behind me. Instinctively, I turned and let out a surprised hoot when I saw a four foot nothing boy standing there, digging his toe in my lawn.

We stood for a time in silence. I glanced over my shoulder hoping Eli would still be there, but the tomato plant danced alone. 

Turning back to the boy, I stepped forward. “What do you have to say about all this?” My hand swept through the air, encompassing the work he’d done.

“Seemed a shame to just let it die,” he stammered, meeting my glare. “So..” He buried his hands in his pockets and let the words fall.

“So, you thought it appropriate to come on my porch and plant it in my garden.” My fists found themselves back on the shelf of my hips.

“Yep.” He grinned, squinting in the sunlight creeping over my shoulder.

“You’re trespassing.”

His brown eyes widened.

“What’s your name?” I narrowed my eyes, attempting an intimidating grimace. It had little effect.

“Jack.” He smiled, stepping forward. “We met before. Back last summer when…” Jack closed his mouth.

Back when Eli was alive. I finished his sentence in my mind and tilted my head back so I could look down my nose at him.

“How old are you, Jack?”

“Eight and a half.”

He shrugged, stepping around me into the garden space.  

Now it was my turn to gape, my mouth working without forming words. A bubble of rage rose, and I inhaled, ready to tell the little bugger to get off my property. The reprimand stuck in my throat when Jack began to hum. I blew out my grand puff of air and watched him for a moment.  He seemed unaware of my observations as he danced around, yanking up the dead plants and overgrown weeds, singing a tune.

“You can come and garden,” I said through clenched teeth. “That’s it.” I turned on my heel and made for the back door, certain Jack hadn’t heard a word I’d said.

The next morning, I stood gazing at nothing out the kitchen window, when a streak of brilliant red drew my attention. Plucking my coffee off the counter, I stepped outside and approached the deck railing.  Below, the yard sprawled in front of me.  To the left, the garden ran along the fence separating my yard from Jack’s.

He squatted next to the tomato plant. He wore a red jersey and pale blue shorts, already sporting a smear of dirt across the leg. Next to his right foot, four seedling tomatoes, each in their own flimsy black plastic container, sat awaiting planting.

“Hey Ms. Opal!” He waved.

“Mmph.” I grunted, turning from the yard.

It was mid-June, which meant Jack had the opportunity to play in the dirt every day. For the next several mornings, before the blaring sun drove anyone with good sense indoors, Jack arrived. From my limited vantage point, I watched as he pulled, plucked, and dug. Some mornings he danced. Not the easy sway of Eli, but the ratta-tat-tat of something more upbeat. It was a rapid shuffle of the feet or a lob of the head from one side to the other.  More than once, I surprised myself with a smile.

One cool morning, I wandered out on the porch. I hate to admit it, but I marveled at the boy’s progress. The space looked like a garden instead of a vegetable graveyard. Small rows of peppers, cucumbers, and even a summer-squash filled the space. The tomato plant had grown and at least one little yellow flower could be seen. I walked down the steps and around the corner of the porch, approaching the plot. Jack knelt near one of the cucumber plants, testing the string in which a fragile vine hung.

“Where did you learn to do all this?” I asked. 

“My grandpa. I helped him a lot.” He smiled, glancing up at me. 

“Where’s your grandpa now?”

“He died.” Jack’s eyes dropped and he turned back to the cucumber, his little shoulders cinching right up to his ears.

“I’m sorry.” I squeezed my lips together, trying not to let them tremble. 

“Tomatoes were his favorite. He said he liked the smell.”

I caught the scent of the warm, soft leaves and smiled. 

“I’m real sorry I squished your tomato plant.”

“Well, I guess you made up for it.” I chuckled. 

Jack nodded and moved to work on the last weed-infested corner of the garden. He dug his hands into the web of tangled brown overgrowth. No sooner had he started, did the little fella squeal and leap back. He nearly crushed the cucumber plant he’d been working on. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked, taking a step closer. 

“Snake!”

Curious, I peered over his shoulder. Sure enough, a bright green snake slithered through the weeds. No doubt Jack gave her quite a fright. I reached around him and picked her up. No more than ten inches long and about as round as my pinky, it slithered through my fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Jack scurried away, still on his knees. 

“It’s only a little garter snake,” I said. 

“Mom said snakes are bad.” 

“Well, I suspect your mom just wanted to protect you from the poisonous ones. In fact, my mama told me snakes are lucky.” 

“Lucky?” Jack stood, dirt sticking to his knees.

“Yep.” Stooping, I let her slink back into the protection of the leaves. “She always said when you see a snake, it’s time…” I inhaled sharply, “…time to begin again. Time to shed the old skin.”  The lump in my throat was back.

Jack lifted to his toes, watching the snake’s green tail disappear before returning to the cucumbers. A wave of dizziness crashed over me. My mouth went dry and Eli’s tomato song echoed in my mind. After a moment, my vision cleared, and my fingers and toes stopped tingling. Feeling the earth beneath my flimsy flip flops, I squatted and began to tend the last corner of the garden, humming a tune.

Eli’s likeness did not appear to me again. I see him from time to time when he visits my dreams though.  Jack and I found solace working side by side the remainder of the summer, our heads down and our fingers in the dirt.  He arrived every morning until returning to school in September. Jack did not come back the next summer or the next. I suspect hanging with an old lady just isn’t cool once you reach the age of nine and a half. I see him now and then in the neighborhood, riding bikes or clowning around with a friend. He always waves, but never speaks. It’s just as well. I prefer my solitude.

I still have a garden, but it’s nothing like the one Jack and I created and certainly nothing as spectacular as the ones Eli maintained through the years. I always plant tomatoes and I never forget to sing them a tune of my own making.

S. E. Laughter (like daughter with an “L”) is a writer, mother, wife and lover of words. She writes anything that catches her fancy, but is drawn to thrillers with a supernatural twist. Her work has appeared in Short Fiction Break Magazine and Streetlight Magazine. She lives in Richmond with her husband and critters, both human and fury.