9 min read · 1,624 words
The coffee in my mug tasted like dirt because I’d left it on the ledge by the entrance while I looked at the new garden. Rhonda had pulled out the flowers and planted lettuce and beans in their place. I was annoyed before I even knew how much work she’d done.
I live in an old brick apartment building in a South Carolina textile town. There are twelve units, a little patch of dirt by the front steps, and a residents’ board that mostly deals with trash pickup and the laundry room. For years, Rhonda kept that patch full of flowers. I thought of it as part of the building, the way I thought of the swept steps and the lights that came on at dusk.
I didn’t think of it as Rhonda’s work.
I was carrying my mail when I saw the bare spots between the rows of green. A few flowers still stood near the edge, but most of them were gone. I could smell damp soil and that sharp, green smell from the lettuce. I went upstairs and told myself I was being practical. The entrance looked less polished. Visitors would see vegetables instead of flowers. It seemed like a fair thing to bring up.
So I went back down.
“Rhonda, what happened to the flowers?”
She had a garden glove tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. She looked at the dirt, then at me.
“I got tired of watering them by myself.”
That should have been enough. It wasn’t. I said I didn’t know the flowers took that much work, and she said I had walked past her with a hose in her hand every Saturday all summer. I remembered seeing her. I just hadn’t put the pieces together in a way that made me responsible for anything.
I told her the new garden made the entrance look unfinished. She said the flowers had been her hobby, but that didn’t mean she had to keep doing it for everybody. Then she picked up a small plastic plant tag and pushed it into the dirt beside the lettuce.
I went upstairs feeling put out. It’s embarrassing to admit that. I could’ve said, “You’re right, I’ll help.” Instead, I worried about what the entrance looked like.
That afternoon, I saw Rhonda carrying a watering can past the mailboxes. I could’ve taken it from her. I didn’t. I was still telling myself she could have asked for help, as if asking were the price of my noticing.
At the next residents’ meeting, I brought up the garden. I said we could make it a shared project, maybe put in a few flowers around the outside and keep the vegetables in the middle. I thought that sounded generous. Rhonda sat across from me with her hands folded on the table. The plastic tablecloth had a sticky spot by my elbow, and I remember rubbing at it with my thumb while I talked.
One of the other residents said it sounded nice. Another asked if there was enough room for everybody to grow something. I was pleased. I figured I’d fixed the problem. I even offered to make a schedule for watering, which I admit felt good to say in front of everyone.
Then Rhonda asked what I thought should happen when the first harvest was ready.
I said we could divide it up among the residents. That seemed obvious to me. I’d been picturing a few bags of beans on people’s doorsteps, maybe a shared meal in the courtyard. I said it would be nice for the whole building to enjoy something we’d grown together.
Rhonda didn’t answer right away.
She said she’d planted the garden because she wanted food she could share with people who needed it. She’d already talked to the church pantry down the road. They could take whatever we didn’t use. That was the first I’d heard about a pantry. I felt my face get hot, though I can’t say I was surprised. Somehow I had already decided the harvest belonged to us.
I said the people in the building could use fresh food, too. It came out like a point in my favor. Rhonda nodded and said they could. She didn’t tell me I was selfish. She didn’t need to.
The meeting got quiet in that uncomfortable way where everybody looks at the paper in front of them. I tried to fill it. I said I wasn’t against donating, but we should agree on things as a group. I was proud of that sentence for about two seconds. Then I heard how it sounded: I wanted a vote on the food Rhonda had planted because I’d finally decided to help.
One neighbor, Ms. Treadwell, said she couldn’t eat beans anymore because of a medication she took. Another resident asked if we could set aside some lettuce for the older folks who didn’t drive. A man from the second floor said he’d take a watering day, but he didn’t want to be put in charge of anything.
The conversation moved on without me. Not quickly, exactly. Just without waiting for my approval.
The group agreed that residents could take what they needed, and Rhonda could bring the rest to the pantry. We’d make a sign-up sheet for watering and picking. I was asked to bring a bucket of water on Wednesdays. Nobody made a speech about what I’d done wrong. That almost made it worse, because I couldn’t argue with anybody.
After the meeting, I caught Rhonda by the door. I told her I was sorry. I said I’d treated the flowers like a service she owed the building, and I’d acted as if changing them required my permission.
She said, “I’m glad you understand.”
I wanted her to say it was all right. She didn’t.
I started taking my Wednesday turn. The first week, I watered too much and left the soil muddy. Rhonda showed me how to check it with my finger. I didn’t love being corrected, which is another thing I should probably admit. She was patient anyway.
For a while, it felt good. I liked having a job there. I learned that the lettuce had to be picked before it got bitter, and that the beans came in faster than I expected. When I saw the first yellow flowers on the bean plants, I felt proud, even though Rhonda had done most of the work getting them there.
Then the first harvest came.
There were enough beans for two small bowls and a few heads of lettuce. I brought a grocery bag down, planning to take some upstairs and leave the rest for the pantry. I had made a little list in my head of who might want what. Ms. Treadwell. The couple in 3B. Maybe me.
Rhonda was already there, sorting the greens into paper bags. The church pantry had called that morning. They had a family coming in who needed fresh food, and Rhonda said she’d told them we had some.
I said the residents should get first choice. I heard myself, and still said it.
Rhonda put the lettuce down. “We agreed on the plan.”
I said I thought we’d agreed that residents could take what they needed. She said yes, and the people who needed it had already asked. She wasn’t angry. That was somehow harder. She just kept packing.
I stood there holding my empty grocery bag, feeling foolish and defensive at the same time. I wanted to say I had helped. I’d watered. I’d gone to the meeting. I’d apologized. I knew how bad it sounded even as I formed the words.
So I said nothing.
The pantry volunteer came by around six. I helped Rhonda carry the bags to the car. There were only four, not some huge donation that would feed the whole town. Still, watching them leave felt different from handing out vegetables to the people I already knew. It made the garden feel less like a nice building project and more like what Rhonda had wanted from the start.
I kept my Wednesday watering shift. I also started taking one Saturday a month. Rhonda didn’t ask me to, and she didn’t thank me in a way that made me feel forgiven. We just worked next to each other. Sometimes we talked about the plants. Sometimes we didn’t.
By the next summer, a few flowers had come back along the border. We planted them together, after asking the residents what they wanted. Rhonda still grew lettuce and beans in the middle. The entrance didn’t look as tidy as it used to, but nobody seemed bothered by that anymore.
When I came down one Saturday, there was a small paper bag on the ledge with my name written on it. Inside were two tomatoes from a resident’s pot on her balcony. I almost thought it was from Rhonda, but it wasn’t. I had helped water those too, once, when she was sick.
I took the bag upstairs. I didn’t mistake it for payment. I just put it on the counter and left the garden gloves by the door for Wednesday.