24

ANA’S PAPER

The children watched the old man hobble away, despair settling in like an old cat.

“What are we gonna do now? There aren’t any gardens here,” Dante said.

“Do you think there are gardens anywhere?” Clare asked. “I’ve always heard rumors that rich people eat better food than everyone else. After we learned about real food, I thought that’s what it must be. But where do they get it? Do they grow it themselves?”

Dante shook his head and shrugged. How would he know?

Finally he asked, “What do you think about that guy, Gruff?”

“Strange,” Clare answered.

“But sorta nice,” Dante said. “He could have asked us a bunch more questions.”

Clare agreed. She thought about the fleeting look in his eyes at the word garden. She remembered his face when he saw their backpacks and his offer to help; the way he said your family.

“Where will we sleep tonight?” Dante asked. Lately all he did was ask hard questions.

Clare’s hand was in her pocket. She was fingering a tiny square of folded paper.

“I think it’s time we call on Ana,” she said.

“What do you mean? We haven’t even talked to Mama or Lily yet.”

Clare pulled the square from her pocket. “Dante, Ana gave me and Lily some information. One of the things she gave us was a list of Seed Savers. She made us promise to keep two copies in different locations.” Clare opened her hand. “Here is my copy.”

She unfolded the paper. Tiny hand-printed letters covered the entire page—information for probably a hundred people painstakingly copied on this one sheet. Numbers and words followed each name. She turned it over. Midway down, Clare saw it—Dante called out “There!” at almost the exact moment her eyes landed on two tiny NJs.

“I don’t believe it,” she whispered. Next to the second NJ was the name, Gruff McKing.

“He’s a Seed Saver?” Dante asked.

“Unbelievable,” said Clare. “Thank you, God.”

The children scrambled to their feet. From her backpack pocket, Clare retrieved the scrap of paper Gruff had given her. They headed in the direction he’d told them. For the first time in days they felt their burdens lift and a sense of hope flow through them.

Putting together the information on the two papers and remembering his words and gestures, the children eventually located Gruff’s building. When they saw a balcony brimming with green potted plants and brilliant purple flowers, they guessed they were in the right place. The children dismounted and walked their bikes into the first floor landing. Peering around, they decided to lug them up the stairs, not trusting the neighborhood. It wasn’t easy, but after a struggle they reached the second floor. Finding what they believed was Gruff’s door, they knocked tentatively.

“It’s open,” the familiar voice called.

Dante looked at Clare. “Should we just walk in?”

“He must be expecting someone else. But we might as well, he’s expecting someone.”

The children opened the door and pulled their bikes in after them. Across the crowded room sat Gruff, in front of the smallest Monitor they had ever seen. He didn’t look up.

“Mr. Gruff,” Clare said.

He put up his hand, as if to pause her. The children waited.

Gruff let out a long, low whistle. He turned.

“I’m so glad you came,” he said, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Dante and Clare exchanged puzzled glances.

“Here,” he said, pointing to the Monitor. “You’ve been reported missing.”

Their eyes grew large.

“Don’t worry,” he continued. “Before I checked here, I checked with the Network. Something about your garden question made me wonder. I learned that Clare and Dante James were on the run. Then I checked the Monitor for images. I was just about to go back and look for you. But I see you’ve either also checked me out, or are very brave, or perhaps are somewhat foolish and desperate children.”

The children stood frozen, holding the handlebars of their bicycles, trying to make sense of the old man.

“Well, sit, sit,” Gruff commanded. “What’s the matter? All is well now. You’re safe here. I just hope nobody recognized you and reported you to the authorities.” He got up and walked over to Dante, uncurling his fingers from the bike. “You must be Dante.”

Dante nodded.

“Sit down, Dante,” he said, walking the boy to a couch. The couch was piled high with old newspapers and magazines with barely room to sit.

Clare broke from her trance. She parked her bike near the door and crossed the room to Dante. Shoving the paper pile aside, she squeezed in next to him, arms folded defensively in front of her.

Despite the awkwardness of the situation, her eyes couldn’t help drinking in the apartment. Except for the library, she had never seen so many books—none of which were on shelves. They were scattered and piled throughout the room: on chairs, end tables, and the floor. She strained to read the titles.

Between the books were magazines, flipped open to hold the place of half-read articles and essays. In the corner was the table where they’d first seen Gruff—every square inch of it covered. And in the middle, that tiny Monitor.

Even more surprising were the numerous potted plants dangling from the ceiling: an indoor jungle. Clare had never seen anything like it. Her mouth drifted open as she stared at the apartment brimming with both life and years gone by.

“Children,” Gruff said. “Forgive me. I’m guessing you’ve never been in the home of a packratting old widower before. I know it’s a bit much, but I’m here alone . . . Excuse the mess—”

“Oh no,” stammered Clare. “It’s wonderful. Plants, books—”

“Mama tried to grow a houseplant once,” Dante said.

At the mention of Mama, the children felt a pang of homesickness. They blinked back the tears that welled up in their eyes.

“Are you hungry?” Gruff asked, their watery eyes unnerving him.

“Yes,” said Dante at the same time Clare said, “Not really, we ate when we got off the bus.”

“Well, sounds like at least one of you is.” Gruff got up and headed toward an arched doorway. “Kitchen’s in here,” he called over his shoulder. “Come on!”

The kids followed.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “So many things in season this time of year.”

Clare and Dante exchanged interested glances. Gruff bent down and pulled two large tomatoes out of a bin.

“Are those tomatoes?” Dante cried.

Gruff’s eyes twinkled. “They certainly are.”

The children thought about their own tomato plant. They remembered the recent afternoon they had come home to the molested apartment; how they discovered their mother had been arrested. Gruff was quiet as he sliced the tomatoes and set them in front of the children.

“Some people like them with salt,” he said, pushing a dish with the grainy, white substance toward them. “I like them just like this.” He picked up a slice with two fingers, bent his head back, and hanging the red wedge over his mouth, took a big bite, followed by a satisfied smile. The children copied him.

The tomatoes were sweet and juicy. Clare and Dante had never eaten food that was juicy. It was incredible. Over and over they placed the slices in their mouths and bit down—sometimes quickly, squirting juice out at all angles and giggling; other times they bit down slowly, squeezing, crushing, nearly drinking the juice. They tried the tomatoes with salt. Before long, all the slices had disappeared. The empty plate staring up at them, Clare suddenly realized what they’d done. Her face fell.

“Mr. Gruff,” she said shamefully. “I’m so sorry. We’ve eaten up your wonderful tomatoes.”

He stood and walked toward the bin. “Oh, that’s okay, there’s more.” A wide grin split his face as he showed the children his bin full of ripe tomatoes. “In fact, that was only one kind. I have several varieties. Here, try these.” He scooped up some small yellow pear-shaped fruits and set them in front of the children.

“What are these?” asked Clare in awe.

“Tomatoes. There are many kinds of tomatoes, kids.”

Dante popped the entire thing into his mouth.

“Whoa,” Gruff said. “You might want to remove the stem first, little fella.” He pulled the stem off one and popped it into his own mouth. They ate several of the tiny tomatoes.

“And now,” Gruff said, “for dessert.” He turned and left the room, a bowl in his hand. The children waited. After a few minutes, they began to worry. They discussed what they should do. Just as Dante stood up to go look for him, Gruff returned. He set the bowl on the table. In the dish were small blue spheres.

“What is this?” Dante asked.

“Clare?” asked Gruff, giving her the same look Ana had when quizzing them on their studies.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m guessing it’s fruit,” she said. “Like what Ana told us about. Like Sweeties. Like peaches.”

Gruff smiled. “Indeed. These are berries. Blueberries. They’re easier to grow than a lot of fruits because they grow on bushes rather than trees. Try them,” he urged, pushing the bowl forward.

Clare hesitated. “I didn’t know blueberries really existed,” she said. “I’ve heard of blueberry flavored Sweeties, but I never thought they were really, like, you know, from a plant.”

“My sweet girl, don’t you know that all food originates from plants and animals?”

“Animals??!” the children cried.

“Another story,” he said, his hand up. “Forget I said that.” He offered them the berries. “Eat.”

Dante put a berry in his mouth. He curled his tongue around it and rolled it around before biting down. It was soft yet explosive as the skin broke. The taste was pure and sweet. It wasn’t as juicy as the tomato, but the flavor was so like a Sweetie. Dante laughed.

“Go on,” Gruff insisted of Clare. “Here, do it by the handful, straight into your mouth.”

Clare did as she was told and dumped a small handful into her mouth. As she savored this new and wonderful food, Clare remembered the night she and Dante had gazed up at the star-strewn sky, the feeling of smallness and emptiness of her life, and she delighted now in this new experience.

“Well?” asked Gruff expectantly.

“They’re wonderful. Where did you get them?”

Gruff nodded his head toward the archway. “Come with me.”

He led them out of the kitchen and back through the main room. He disappeared behind some curtains, to a sliding glass door that opened onto the balcony they’d seen from the street. His sitting room, thick with plants, was nothing compared to this. The balcony exploded in vegetation. Plants were everywhere—on the floor, on benches, on the wide railing. Pots were stacked and tiered. Gruff pointed to some large containers bearing three bushes. Each bush held the little round blueberries; a few of the berries were green. He plucked off a large, dark blue one and popped it into his mouth.

“Blueberry,” he said simply.

Clare’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. Her eyes darted from the floor to the benches and railing. “You grow these blueberries right here? But—”

Before she could finish, however, she noticed the wall of the apartment building. Trellises of lush, verdant vines bearing large, green tomatoes covered the wall. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Those are your tomatoes?” Dante asked, having seen them.

“Sure are.”

“But, but how can you have them out here in the open?” Clare asked in astonishment.

Gruff motioned the children to sit on the porcelain stools and wooden boxes. He sighed. “Nobody really cares about New Jersey. Least of all this town, or this part of town. Perhaps you noticed.” He waved his hand toward the dilapidated and vacant neighborhood.

“Just to be safe, I pick the tomatoes before they turn red and let them ripen inside. Not that it matters. Not much enforcement goes on around here. For anything. Hmph.” He stared straight ahead. “Society has given up on us.”

The children listened in quiet disbelief as Gruff told his story. “In the beginning, when the regulations for urban gardening first began, we were careful. But the truth is,” he paused, and his eyes grew hard, “by the time seed saving and gardening became illegal, most folk didn’t notice or care. They had grown used to processed and packaged food. In time, people forgot food came from living things.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Most folk, ‘specially city folk, knew nothing about producing their own food. But some of us weren’t so easy to get rid of. We went underground, so to speak.” The light was coming back to his face. “We networked. We called each other Seed Savers.”

He smiled. “We’re strong in number, even now. Yes, Clare, I used to be careful about where I grew my food. And then one day it dawned on me: nobody has plant knowledge anymore. People see a bush, a tree, a flower, but they don’t know the names. They don’t know what’s edible and what’s not.

“GRIM doesn’t drive through this neighborhood. Little by little, I began replacing my ornamentals with edibles. And nobody noticed.” He let out a long sigh and stuck out his lower lip.

The children’s eyes wandered from the storyteller to the plants, bushes, and even trees, on the balcony. “All of these make food?” Dante asked.

“Nah. Some are just flowers. But they are flowers you can eat,” he said, winking.

“What!?”

“Sure,” said Gruff. He reached over and picked a bright red flower and handed it to the boy.

“Try this.”

Dante held the soft flower in his hand. He giggled and then bit into it. He chewed it up.

“Well?” Clare asked, “How is it?”

“Good,” said Dante. “Have one yourself.”

“Are the yellow ones okay to eat?” she asked Gruff.

“Certainly. Be my guest.”

Lifting it to her nose, Clare first smelled the flower. Then she brought it to her lips and nibbled a tiny piece. It wasn’t bad. A little spicy, but not unpleasant. If she had known, she might have described it as a slightly nutty flavor.