Chapter 3

Early morning hours, December 22

"Jordan! Jordan Floyd! Where are you, boy? Get your ass home this instant!"

The shrill voice of his mother cut through Jordy's reverie, and he knew once again that he would be in his mother's doghouse for not being home in time for supper.

Still, he lingered in the truck garden beside their apartment building, sitting quietly in space he had cleared for himself between the staked vines of the tomato plants. It felt good to come here; it was, for him, a place where he could imagine himself into any other part of the world. He could be Allen Quartermain, searching for the Lost City of Gold; he could be Will Robinson, stranded on some jungle planet, with only the robot to save him. Or... he could be himself, watching the sun fade behind the city skyline, to the orchestra of honking car horns and ringing bicycle bells and the occasional ice cream truck counter-melody. All in all, he would prefer to stay here all night, rather than in the close quarters of the one-bedroom apartment, four stories up from the sidewalk. Still, he found the energy to stand up, pick one of the nearly ripe tomatoes from its stalk, and make his way to the stoop leading up to the building's door.

His father was gone again, 10 days this time. Jordy never knew where exactly his father went when he disappeared, only that him being gone was like a time of light after too many dark clouds. His mother occasionally smiled; his sister sometimes would laugh out loud; and he... well, he knew that he would be safe from being smacked around, from having his things strewn about in his father's search for the little money Jordy got from selling fresh tomatoes to the people who lived in his building, and others on the street.

Each resident of his building was told when they moved in that a small parcel of the empty lot next door was reserved for their use to grow whatever they might want - flowers... vegetables... weeds. Except that few weeds grew here, as those that didn't want to use their land often ceded it to one of their neighbors, either for a small cash fee, or a bit of the fresh produce that came flowing into the building once fall arrived. Before his family had moved in, the lady next door had used their parcel for growing snap peas and cucumbers, which she then canned herself. When he timidly knocked on her door and told her that, the next spring, he wanted to use their family parcel to grow something himself, she merely looked at him, for a moment angry and sullen. Then she asked, "What will you grow?" "Tomatoes," he replied, having not, until that moment, decided exactly what he would farm. The old lady nodded gravely, still looking him over. Then, bidding him to stay in the hall for moment. When she returned, she placed in his hands a worn book the size of a magazine. On the cover it said "The Burpee Seed Company Guide to Growing Prize-Winning Tomatoes." "Read that, young man, and perhaps something will come from this dream of growing tomatoes!" she said as she shut the door. He looked at the closed door for a moment with something akin to awe written in his face; then he ran home and read the book from cover-to-cover, devouring all manner of tips and tricks that he hoped would help him maximize the number of tomatoes he could grow.

The first year, his entire yield was about one bushel. He had hoped for three, but had misjudged nearly everything in his inexperience, and killed 75% of crop before midsummer. Still, what was left was so good, that those people to which he had given one of his tomatoes kept asking if there were any left... and would he grow them again next summer?

He gave six tomatoes to the lady next door, and she gave him 12 cans of fresh peas and six jars of pickles.

The next year, learning from experience, he had his entire crop in the ground once the last frost had passed. By late summer, he had ripe tomatoes the size of grapefruit hanging at the end of his vines. By his estimation, it would be a total yield of about six bushels.

On August 15, he woke up to find that every ripe tomato on his vines had been stolen in the night, leaving him with only four or five plants that were yet to yield fruit.

His father raged; his mother cried. But Jordy kept his own counsel. He continued to nurture the plants that were left; at night he would wake silently and sit by the window overlooking the truck garden, watching to see if anyone or anything was moving near his plants. And he made a plan in his head as to what he would do when he did see something.

By the end of August, his last few plants were ready to harvest. But, instead of picking the fruit, Jordy left it on the vine, knowing it would be a tempting target. He knew he had three or four days before the fruit would start to get overripe; he hoped only that the thief who had taken him the first time would make another attempt by then.

And then he went next door and knocked on the old lady's door.

That night, he snuck out of his apartment and into the shadows between the building and the garden. He stood guard for hours, armed only with youthful eyes... and a whistle. But no one came.

The next night he again snuck out, and again stood like a statue in the shadows, making no noise to alert whomever might want to prey on his plants. But again, nothing broke the silence.

Then, on the final night before he would pick his crop, he heard the rustle of feet walking on grass. He saw the movement of his vines and heard the 'snap!' of the fruit being removed from its stem. He moved quietly from his hiding place and stepped through the broken fence into the garden itself, placing the whistle between his lips as he did.

As he drew closer to the back of the person stealing his tomatoes, Jordy realized it was a girl, a fact that shocked him more than a little. He had presumed it was a man taking his fruit, and had made plans accordingly. Now, he wondered if that plan would be necessary at all.

And when the thief turned around and found Jordy standing there, she did the one thing he totally did not expect.

She began laughing.

"Figured it out, did you, squirt?" his sister said mockingly. "I wondered why you kept refusing to pick what was left of these things, especially after you lost the first lot. But hey, your loss is my gain... literally! Old Man Ferguson gave me 10 cents apiece for the last load, and these should get at least that much!"

Jordy still had not said a word, but then, he was used to such treachery, even from his own family. Looking at his sister like he might eye a particularly nasty form of garden pest, he stood like a statue for a moment... then looked up at the fourth floor window of his old lady neighbor.

The winter before, she had told Jordy that she kept a BB-gun by the radiator underneath the window that overlooked the garden, to shoot any vermin who might be troubling her vegetables. Since she had a hard time sleeping, she sometimes sat and watched the garden at night, though she rarely had needed to use the rifle.

Three days earlier, Jordy had called the old lady, and told her of his plans, and asked if he could borrow the BB-gun. Instead, she proposed to him that she would keep watch from her apartment, and, should he need it, she would be there with the gun loaded. Chuckling, she added, "All you have to do is whistle. You do know how to whistle, don't you?"

Now, he could see her shadow on the blind, and knew she was aware that he was confronting someone in the garden. Though the BB couldn't do much damage, he knew it would be enough to scare off the intruder; his plan had been to discover who it was, then get the police involved to recover whatever could be salvaged of the first crop, or at least get compensated for its theft.