The Heirloom

The heirloom just never took. Some fruit grew, but not much and it never seemed right. Even a healthy heirloom tomato, no matter the variety, needs a motherly or maybe an artist’s eye to appreciate: They fold on themselves, their skin is mottled, they grow obese on one vine and cylindrical on another, some carry parasitic twins. Mine just split, from the beginning, at the top, leaving deep, woody gashes in the meat, which was rock-hard. I waited and waited for the blackish-green (the black was in the variety) to turn a black-topped red. Even worse, only five tomatoes grew.

Ten feet away, a roma plant patiently fought its partly-shady upbringing, showing regular signs of growth that only the fall could stop. Next to it, in the sun, a sweet million cherry tomato plant produced fruit faster than Krystal and I could eat. The other plants in our makeshift garden, which was Krystal’s evil plan and my task, all thrived under my novice care. Sure, like the roma, half the tomatillos will probably die with the first frost, but who knew the plant needs a mate to get knocked up? Not us, until halfway through July. Now, dozens of green Chinese lanterns hang from the two plants. The Anaheim chili bush won’t stop, and even the late-coming bell pepper plant performed. The herbs – basil, oregano, thyme, sage, rosemary, chives, mint, my babies – have saved me so much money. But the heirloom never thrived.

Every morning this summer, I would walk down the creaking wooden stairs from our second floor apartment to the back space, a gravel square surrounded by flower beds we share with the other tenants and the restaurant below. When I went out, I usually had just come from my computer. I usually had just checked if editors had responded to my pitches or requests to visit. Rarely. And before I headed out back, I deleted the e-mail my calendar sent me saying, You have no events scheduled for today. Watering the plants, as much as I complained to Krystal, gave me a twenty minute rest after confronting my empty e-mail and before beginning the work to send another round of never-to-be-answered letters. Watering was a chore that became something like meditation. I could see progress in the world and taste it sometimes.

Then I would come to the last plant in the line. If the heirloom never grew at all it wouldn’t have been a tragedy. But it had hope. The thing sprang up fast, overtaking its wire cage and sprouting dozens of yellow flowers, then it slackened and the flowers wilted greyly. The fruit came and bent the limbs. As I tried to tie one up, to keep it from snapping as it lolled heavily over the cage, it ripped. I worked to fix it, but the more I tried the worse it got until the tomato, the best of the bunch, fell and cracked on the dirt.

I didn’t even want to eat the tomatoes. I hate raw tomatoes. I would never cherish fresh slices of the heirloom or stack them, simply, with my basil, fresh mozzarella, and olive oil. At best, the heirlooms would become a spaghetti sauce or salsa. Still, I wanted them to flourish. I wanted them to prove I could make something flourish. I wanted a big basketful I could take to all the magazines I wanted to write for and splatter their windows until they noticed me.

All of the tomatoes are gone now. Some went into the trash and some rolled behind the surrounding bushes, too far away to bother retrieving. The other plants are winding down. The sweet million is wilted but looks more like a winning marathoner than a sad old man. The herbs are retreating into hibernation. I don’t have that twenty minutes to burn these cold mornings. I check my e-mails, swallow the frustration, and hope I learn how to nourish these fragile things by summer.