What You Sow

The Boy found the seed on his way to school. He was walking with his head down to hide his black eye, watching his scuffed sneakers appear one in front of the other on the rough cement, when he came upon it. He stooped down to get a closer look and poked at it with one finger. It was about the size of a nickel but shaped like a plump orange slice. It’s shell was woody and the color of charred walnut, and it wriggled a little when he touched it.

Today was his birthday. Not that anyone would remember. They never did. But maybe this could be his birthday present. He’d always wanted a pet and it kind of reminded him of those jumping beans his classmate had brought in for show and tell last week.

Carefully he scooped it up and stood watching it intently. It was strangely heavy in his hand and reminded him of the weights his grandfather tied to his fishing line, small but substantial. Much to his disappointment it did not move again even with vigorous prompting from his index finger. So much for his birthday present. The Boy was about to cast it aside when he felt a strange emotion rush to the surface of his mind.

The Seed was angry. The Boy gritted his teeth. It just wasn’t fair that it had landed on a barren patch of cement where it had no chance to grow. His hand made a sweaty fist about the small seed and he stomped the rest of the way to school.

While doing the laundry that evening he came across the perfect home for his seed. They were out of detergent again but a thick layer of soapy gunk had dried at the bottom of the measuring cap. As he scraped it out and onto the dirty clothes in the basin he thought to himself that the cap kind of resembled a little flower pot.

He rinsed the makeshift pot out until the water ran clear and then filled it with some dirt from under the back stairs. He poked a little hole into the soil and fished the seed out from his pocket where he had put it for safekeeping. It was warm from sitting against his leg all day. He dropped it carefully into the nest he had made for it and then covered it over.

The Boy took the little pot with him and headed toward the kitchen. Father was passed out again in his chair, empty beer cans littering the floor around him. The television had been left on and a couple squabbled loudly at one another while a talk show host tried to get a word in edgewise. The Boy tiptoed through the living room despite the noise, silently willing Father not to wake up.

The Boy set the little pot down next to the sink, which was full of dirty dishes and giving off an awful odor. He crawled into the bottom cupboard, the one closest to the stove, and felt around in the dark until his hand found the package of crackers he had hidden there. Quickly he squirmed back out hearing the unmistakable scuttle of mice.

He found a glass that wasn’t as dirty as the others and filled it with water. Carefully balancing glass, crackers and pot he carried them all to his room and sat on his bed to eat his dinner. The last cracker he saved for the seed, crunching it up between his fingers and sprinkling the crumbs on top of the dirt. Then he poured some of his water on it and put it on the window sill where the moonlight would shine on it.

When the Boy awoke in the morning, the first thing he did was check on his seed. He had dreamt during the night that it had sprouted and grown up and out of his window to reach high into the clouds. He thought that maybe he could climb it and meet a giant like the boy in the story his teacher had read to them.

The Boy’s heart fell to see that the seed had not grown at all during the night and still slept soundly beneath the surface of the dirt. But as he peered into the cup he thought he saw the soil push up ever so slightly into a mound. Smiling, he grabbed his bag and skipped all the way to school.

By the time he got home that day a little green was poking through the black surface of the dirt, and by the end of the week the little plant stood stoutly in its makeshift home and sported three leaves. Every day after school the Boy would care for his plant, feeding it some of his dinner and dribbling a bit of water at its base.

Once when he didn’t have anything to eat he folded the crumbling bodies of two dead flies he found on the windowsill into the soil. When the leaves became dull with dust he lovingly wiped them down with a bit of cloth he cut from his favorite shirt.

Another week passed and the plant’s delicate roots filled the small detergent cup and began climbing out over the lip. The Boy snagged a large aluminum can from the cafeteria trash cans at his school. It had once housed a family sized portion of green beans, but he didn’t think the plant would mind. He cut his finger on the sharp rim while transplanting it, so he made sure to put it exactly in the middle where it would be safe from the edges. Gently he tucked its soft roots under the soil. One wrapped around his injured finger and gave it a little squeeze. He assured the plant that he loved it too.

On the weekends he took the plant outside with him to play and gave it the best spot in his tree fort. Then he would tell it the stories his teacher had read to them that week. When he couldn’t remember a part he would make it up. In the afternoon, when Father would wake and stomp about the house yelling, the Boy would quietly slide under the bed with his plant and curl protectively around the aluminum can. He liked the calm earthy smell that came from it.

It occurred to him that his plant might be lonely when he was at school so he started bringing it little presents. A rock shaped like a heart, a sea shell with a hole in it for stringing from art class, a bit of pink chalk, and a shiny button found on the playground – treasures like these he placed around the base of the plant and by the time a month had passed the offerings made a ring all the way around the inside of the can.

Every time the Boy looked at his plant he couldn’t help but smile. It was a dark green now and had many leafy arms kind of like an octopus. It made him feel happy and if he squinted his eyes and tilted his head to one side, just so, the leaves would form a face and his plant would be smiling back at him. Things even seemed to be getting better for Father. He announced one night that he had found another job. He made the Boy pancakes for dinner and let him watch cartoons until it was time for bed.

The smile didn’t stay on Father’s face like it did on the plant though. A few days later he was mad again and swatting at the Boy. He tried squinting and tilting his head, just so, to put the smile back but Father thought he was making fun of him for losing his job and grabbed his precious plant from his arms. Father poured the remainder of his beer on it and laughing, stuck it on top of the fridge.

Each day when the Boy got home from school he would glance mournfully up at the top of the fridge. If he stood with his back against the opposite wall and stretched up on his tiptoes, he could just see the top of his plant. As the days passed he watched it begin to droop from lack of water and adequate light.

The Boy’s heart grew heavy and he begged Father to let him have his plant back. Father just laughed at him and then called him a string of names that made the Boy cringe. Somehow the words hurt worse than the marks Father left on his arms, but he wore long sleeves the next day all the same. The Plant looked down on the exchange in silent fury.

More days passed and the plant began to lose its leaves but still it refused to die. Instead the bare vines grew thicker and longer, reaching out desperately searching for light, for water, for the Boy. The plant never left his mind, he could think of nothing else.

One night the Boy could no longer stand it. Surely, the Plant was angry at him for abandoning it. That thought turned over and over in his mind until his stomach hurt from it. Quietly, oh so quietly, he dragged a chair over to the fridge. If he used the chair to get onto the counter then maybe with a metal hanger he could hook the can and slide it over within his reach.

The Boy winced when the chair creaked as he climbed onto it. It sounded so loud in the dark kitchen he was certain Father would hear him. He froze for what seemed an eternity waiting and listening. When he didn’t hear Father get up, he crawled up onto the counter top and balancing himself carefully on the edge, stood up. He peered across the top of the fridge and found his plant looking back at him.

Smiling, the Boy reached one arm behind himself to retrieve the hanger he had wedged in his back pocket. He bent the metal out straight and reached for the plant with it. He frowned as his first attempted ended up pushing the can back further. The second time he had to stand on his tiptoes and he stretched his arms as far as they would go. He was so close.

He tried bouncing a little on his toes to reach further, but he lost his balance and had to grab on to the side of the fridge to keep from falling. The thin wire slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly to the floor. The Boy could hear Father stirring in the next room. He clambered down quickly looking to replace the chair and be out of there as quickly as he could. The kitchen light flicked on before his other foot even reached the floor.

Father glowered at him with bleary eyes and stumbled into the room. He leaned on the door frame for a moment and looked confused. The Boy stayed frozen where he was, one knee on the chair and the other foot on the floor. Silently he willed Father to keep looking at him and not up at the top of the fridge. If he could just spare the plant from Father’s wrath…but recognition finally darkened on the older man’s face and his hateful gaze left the Boy and locked onto the plant.

The Boy scrambled out of the way as Father stormed over and yanked the chair away. Drunkenly he slapped his hand across the top of the fridge searching for the plant. When that did not yield results he slammed the chair into the front of the fridge and mounted it himself. He yelled horrible things at the Boy with slurred words that made him sound like a monster in one of those scary movies.

Finding the rim of the can, Father held the plant up high above his head. Standing on the chair like that he towered menacingly over the Boy, who looked on in horror. Father narrowed his eyes and then flung the can to the floor with so much force the aluminum dented. The plant and all the treasures the Boy had collected for it scattered across the floor. Dirt and dead leaves were everywhere.

The Boy felt a spasm rock through his body as the plant came to rest against his foot, naked roots splayed out behind it. He was in pain. His Plant was in pain. He looked up as he heard the chair creak and watched as Father swayed once, as though a strong wind had come through the room. Father tried to regain his balance but the chair groaned loudly and then one of the wooden legs snapped. The older man fell, his head cracking soundly on the floor.

The Boy trembled and covered his eyes, but he would not run away. He could not run away. His Plant needed him. He could feel it there, resting against his foot. Cold and hurting and angry. He peeked out from behind his hands and saw Father lying motionless on the kitchen floor. His chest slowly rose and fell as he lay there asleep. A big bruise was forming on his head. The Boy felt his heart jump in his chest. Father was going to be so angry at him when he woke up. Angry at him and at his plant. The Plant pressed itself closer to the Boy’s foot. It was scared. The Plant was scared that Father would wake up.

When the police arrived they found the boy sitting on the kitchen floor cradling some sort of creeping vine plant in a dented tin can. A single white flower bloomed amidst a bunch of ropy, leafless vines. He was staring wide-eyed at his father who lay dead just a few feet away. A neighbor spoke animatedly to the officers. She had heard yelling, which she confessed was not at all unusual, but the loud crash that had followed concerned her. She knew there was a little boy that lived here with his father so she had called 911.

The EMT noted the ligature marks on the dead man’s neck and determined that he had been strangled after being hit over the head with something. The neighbor chimed in that it was probably a drug deal gone bad, what with the hour of the night and all. Maybe he had tried to defend himself with the broken chair? And didn’t they find the door already unlocked when they got there? Also, she had seen someone jogging down the street while she was on the phone with them…

One of the officers quickly jotted down notes in a little booklet while the neighbor prattled on. The dead man did indeed have a suspicious baggy of white powder on his person and there were enough empty beer cans strewn about the place to get several grown men quite intoxicated. The officer looked about the filthy house and eyed the telltale bruises on the small boy. No one would miss this man. No one would insist they discover the definitive details of his last moments. With the neighbor’s statements he thought that this would be a quick case to close.

Another policeman with kind eyes helped the Boy pack his things in a large black garbage bag. He told the Boy that he was going to take him home with him until they could find a new place for him to live. He said that his wife was planning a big Thanksgiving dinner and that their own son was away at college. She would be so excited to have another little boy to cook for! With a reassuring smile he added that his wife liked to plant things too and would have a proper pot for him to put his flower in.

The Boy thought that sounded good and he saw his Plant nod slightly in agreement. He could already feel its roots straining against the sides of the metal can. With the proper care it wouldn’t be long before it outgrew this container as well. He picked up his bag in one hand and cradled the plant against his side with the other, and they both set out to find their new home.