The wedding was small.
Eleanor's mother insisted on keeping it simple. "No need to spend money you don't have," she said. "Save it for the apartment."
Rose was the maid of honor. Henry's friend Sal was the best man. The ceremony was in a small church on 18th Avenue. The priest was old. His hands shook when he held the book.
Eleanor wore a white dress. Not fancy. Simple. She had sewn it herself at the factory, using scraps of fabric she'd saved over months.
Henry wore a grey suit. The same one he'd worn to his mother's funeral. It was too tight in the shoulders.
They stood at the altar. The candles flickered.
"Dearly beloved," the priest said. His voice was thin. "We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony."
Eleanor looked at Henry. His eyes were wet.
"You may now exchange your vows."
Henry went first. His voice was quiet. "Eleanor. I promise to love you. To take care of you. To walk you home every night. To sit with you on the roof. To grow tomatoes with you. I promise to be honest. To be kind. To never leave."
Eleanor's throat tightened.
She took a breath. "Henry. I promise to love you. To feed you. To mend your clothes. To listen to your stories about the mail. I promise to be patient. To be faithful. To grow old with you."
The priest smiled. "By the power vested in me by the State of New York and the Church of God, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Henry kissed her. The congregation applauded. There were maybe fifteen people. But it felt like a thousand.
---
The reception was in the church basement.
Folding tables. Paper plates. A cake that Rose had made. It was lopsided. The frosting was too sweet.
Eleanor's mother cried. "My baby," she said. "My baby is married."
"I've been married for an hour, Mama."
"It's still my baby."
Rose hugged Henry. "Take care of her."
"I will."
"She's stubborn."
"I know."
"She's loud."
"She's quiet."
Rose laughed. "You really love her."
"Yes."
---
They didn't have a honeymoon.
No money for hotels. No money for trains. No money for beaches.
Instead, they went to the roof.
The sun was setting. The sky was orange and purple. The water tank hummed.
Henry had brought a blanket. A bottle of wine. Two glasses.
They sat on the edge. The city spread out below them.
"We're married," she said.
"We're married."
"In a church basement."
"With a lopsided cake."
She laughed. It was the first time she had laughed all day.
"I love you, Henry."
"I love you, Eleanor."
They drank the wine. The glasses were plastic. The wine was cheap.
But the view was beautiful.
---
That night, they went to his apartment.
Third floor. Franklin Avenue. The building where he lived.
The apartment was small. One bedroom. A kitchen. A bathroom. A window that faced the alley.
"It's not much," he said.
"It's ours."
"It's rented."
"It's ours until it's not."
He took her hand. "We'll find our own place someday. With a roof. A real roof."
"I don't need a roof. I need you."
He kissed her. The room was dark. The streetlight came through the window.
---
Chapter 65 – The Apartment (Flashback)
They found the apartment on Franklin Avenue.
The same building. The same floor. But a different unit. 3A.
The landlord was a man named Mr. Goldstein. He was old. He wore cardigans. He smelled of cigar smoke.
"Three rooms," he said. "Kitchen, bedroom, living room. The toilet is down the hall."
"How much?" Henry asked.
"Seventy-five a month."
"We'll take it."
Mr. Goldstein handed him the keys. The keys were on a metal ring. The metal was rusted.
---
The apartment was empty.
No furniture. No curtains. No dishes.
Eleanor stood in the middle of the living room. The floors were scratched. The walls were beige.
"It's ugly," she said.
"It's ours."
"Same thing."
He put his arm around her. "We'll make it beautiful."
"How?"
"Slowly."
They started with the bedroom. A mattress on the floor. Sheets from Eleanor's mother. A pillow that Henry had owned since he was a boy.
The kitchen came next. A hot plate. A pot. A pan. Two plates. Two cups. Two forks.
The living room took months. A couch from the Salvation Army. A table from the curb. Chairs from a garage sale.
Eleanor painted the walls. Not beige. Yellow. The color of morning glories.
Henry hung a shelf. He wasn't good with tools. The shelf was crooked. Eleanor didn't care.
---
On the first anniversary of their wedding, Henry came home with a small box.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Open it."
She opened the box. A packet of seeds. Tomato seeds.
"Tomatoes?"
"To grow on the roof."
She looked at him. "You remember."
"I remember everything."
They went to the roof. The same roof. The water tank. The painted eye.
Henry had brought a bucket. Soil. A small trowel.
Eleanor knelt on the tar paper. She filled the bucket with soil. She planted the seeds. She watered them with a cup.
"It's not a garden," she said.
"It's a start."
She looked at the bucket. The dark soil. The tiny seeds buried beneath.
"How long until they grow?"
"A few weeks. Maybe more."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we try again."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're patient."
"I'm hopeful."
"Same thing."
"No. Not the same."
---
The seeds sprouted on a Tuesday.
Eleanor came home from the factory. She climbed the stairs to the roof. She checked the bucket.
Green shoots. Small. Fragile.
She ran back downstairs. "Henry! Henry!"
He was in the kitchen, making coffee.
"They grew!"
"What grew?"
"The tomatoes!"
He followed her to the roof. They stood over the bucket. The green shoots were maybe an inch tall.
"They're alive," she said.
"They're alive."
She knelt. She touched one gently.
"Hello," she said.
Henry knelt next to her. "You're talking to the plants."
"They can hear."
"Plants can't hear."
"They can feel."
He looked at her. "You're strange."
"You're stranger."
He kissed her. The water tank hummed. The painted eye watched.
---
That night, Eleanor wrote a letter to her mother.
Dear Mama,
We planted tomatoes on the roof. They're growing. Henry says they'll be ready by August.
The apartment is coming together. The yellow walls help. I still need curtains.
I think about Papa sometimes. Not often. But sometimes. I wonder if he's proud of me. I wonder if he even knows.
I'm happy, Mama. I didn't know I could be this happy.
Come visit soon.
Love, Eleanor
Her mother came the next Sunday.
She stood in the living room. The yellow walls. The crooked shelf. The Salvation Army couch.
"It's small," her mother said.
"It's ours."
"It's clean."
"I clean."
Her mother walked to the window. The alley below. The brick wall across.
"No view," her mother said.
"The view is on the roof."
They climbed the stairs. The roof door was propped open with a brick. The same brick.
The water tank. The painted eye. The bucket of tomato shoots.
Her mother knelt. She touched a leaf.
"You grew these?"
"Henry and I."
"From seeds?"
"From seeds."
Her mother stood up. She looked at the sky. The clouds were white. The sun was warm.
"Your father would have liked this," she said.
Eleanor's throat tightened. "You think so?"
"He always wanted a garden. But we never had the space."
"He could have planted on the roof."
"He was afraid of heights."
Eleanor almost smiled. "That's why he left?"
Her mother looked at her. "Don't."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't joke about that."w
Eleanor took her mother's hand. "I'm sorry, Mama."
Her mother squeezed her fingers. "I know."
They stood on the roof. The water tank hummed. The city hummed.
"Are you happy?" her mother asked.
"Yes."
"Really happy?"
Eleanor looked at the bucket. The green shoots. The small leaves.
"Really happy," she said.