The first year of marriage was not easy.
Eleanor still worked at the factory. Henry still delivered mail. They woke at dawn, ate breakfast in silence, and went to their jobs. In the evenings, they sat on the roof. The tomato plants grew. The green shoots became stems. The stems became leaves.
But money was tight. The rent was due every month. The grocery bill was always higher than expected. Eleanor learned to stretch a dollar. She bought day-old bread. She made soup from bones. She mended Henry's shirts until the fabric was more thread than cloth.
"You work too hard," Henry said one night.
"I work the same as you."
"You work harder."
She set down her needle. "We're a team. There's no harder or easier."
He took her hand. "I don't want you to be tired."
"I'm always tired. So are you. That's life."
He looked at the tomato plants. They were taller now. Small yellow flowers had appeared.
"The tomatoes are growing," he said.
"They're growing."
"Next year, we'll plant more."
"Next year, we'll plant everything."
He almost smiled. "Everything?"
"Basil. Peppers. Flowers."
"You're going to turn the roof into a jungle."
"A beautiful jungle."
He kissed her. The water tank hummed. The painted eye watched.
---
One night, Eleanor came home from the factory with a cut on her hand.
The needle had slipped. The gash was deep. Blood dripped onto the floor.
Henry wrapped it in a clean cloth. "You need stitches."
"I need a bandage."
"You need a doctor."
"I need a bandage."
He took her to the emergency room anyway. The waiting room was crowded. A child cried. A man coughed.
The doctor was young. His hands were steady. He stitched the wound. Five stitches.
"Don't use that hand for a week," the doctor said.
"I work in a factory."
"Then don't use that hand."
Eleanor looked at Henry. He was pale.
"I'll be fine," she said.
"You're not fine."
"I will be."
They walked home. The streets were dark. The streetlights were on.
"Henry."
"Yeah."
"I want to leave the factory."
He stopped. "What?"
"I want to do something else. Something with my hands. Something that matters."
"You sew fabric."
"That doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
She looked at him. His face was serious. His eyes were brown.
"I want to make things," she said. "Not for a company. For people. For neighbors."
"Like what?"
"Dresses. Curtains. Things that are beautiful."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Then do it."
"How? We need the money."
"We'll find a way."
She hugged him. Her hand hurt. She didn't care.
---
She left the factory in the spring.
Rose threw a small party. A cake. A card signed by the women on the line.
"You'll be back," Rose said.
"I won't."
"You say that now."
Eleanor hugged her. "Thank you. For everything."
Rose's eyes were wet. "You were my only friend there."
"You were mine too."
---
Eleanor set up a sewing table in the living room.
The yellow walls. The crooked shelf. The Salvation Army couch.
She made curtains first. Blue. Simple. They hung in the window.
Then she made a dress for Rose. Rose paid her. Not much. But enough.
Then a neighbor asked for a shirt. Then another neighbor asked for a hem.
Word spread. Eleanor's sewing became known. She worked from home. She set her own hours. She was her own boss.
Henry came home one evening to find her at the table, sewing.
"You're smiling," he said.
"I'm working."
"You're smiling while you work."
She looked up. "I'm happy."
He kissed her forehead. "I know."
---
The tomatoes ripened in August.
Red. Small. Sweet.
Eleanor picked the first one. She held it in her hand.
"We did it," she said.
"We did it."
She took a bite. The juice ran down her chin.
"It's good," she said.
"It's perfect."
She gave him the rest. He ate it in two bites.
"Next year," she said, "we plant more."
"Next year, we plant everything."
They sat on the edge of the roof. The city spread out below
them. The water tank hummed.
"Henry."
"Yeah."
"I'm glad I married you."
"I'm glad you said yes."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. The sun set. The stars came out.