Chapter 15 - The Porch in May
The tomatoes were planted by Friday afternoon—twelve rows of Early Girls and Big Boys set into the dark, turned earth of the garden behind the garage, each one marked with a small wooden stake my father had whittled out of scrap pine from his workbench.
I sat on the wooden bench by the back door, watching Lily sleep in her carrier while the warm breeze carried the smell of damp soil and green tomato vines across the yard.
My father was cleaning his trowel with a stiff-bristled brush, the rhythmic scrritch-scrritch of the metal scraping against the wood echoing softly against the brick wall of the house.
My mother came out of the kitchen carrying a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses, the ice cubes clinking against the glass with a clear, sharp sound that didn't sound anything like the winter.
She set the tray down on the old iron table between us, poured a glass, and handed it to my father without a word. Then she poured a second one and set it on the bench beside my knee.
"The rain’s coming tonight," she said, looking up at the western sky where a long, thin bank of gray clouds was piling up behind the ridge. "The hydrangeas will need tying up before dark."
"I’ll do it after I finish the fence," my father said, wiping his hands on his flannel rag.
"You’ll do it before sunset, Arthur, or the wind will snap every stem off at the ground."
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My father didn't argue. He just took a sip of his tea, looked down at Lily sleeping peacefully in the shade of the porch roof, and let out a long, slow breath that smelled of tobacco and cedar.
I picked up my glass of tea, the cold condensation wetting my fingers, and looked out across the garden toward the white picket fence where the green shoots were already climbing toward the sun. The house behind us was quiet, the heavy oak door standing wide open to let the spring air drift through the hall, carrying the smell of damp earth, roasted garlic, and old wood into every room.
