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."
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.