It takes Edgar three afternoons to clear the tiny plot behind the condemned school. Overgrown with ivy and blackberry, the ground is a minefield of used needles and condoms sagging under the sad weight of spent sperm. He fills boxes with shards of glass, stuffing mildewed blankets and sleeping bags on top.
No one pays attention to the old man loading his truck. The neighborhood’s streets flow with pickups hauling broken-down lawnmowers and busted bedframes.
He breaks up the hard clay with a pickaxe and shovel, mixing in loamy black soil. Planting lettuce and squash, Edgar buries runner beans close to bamboo poles set deep into the earth. He scatters sunflower seeds against the fence, sets paving stones rescued from construction sites between the rows. Ravens circle above, calling to each other, as Edgar fashions a scarecrow from an old broom.
Soon the kids down the street gather, peppering Edgar with questions while he digs a hole, unwraps the root ball of a tree. Throughout the summer the kids water and weed the plot with Edgar, leaving late in the afternoon, their bike handlebars loaded with bags of greens and tomatoes.
The next spring, Edgar thins lettuce when men he has never seen in the neighborhood climb out of sleek SUVs. They walk along the edge of the garden, careful not to muddy their shoes. Edgar watches them take pictures then leave, wiping his face as he adjusts the scarecrow’s hat.
A bulldozer arrives early a week later, its tank treads flattening Edgar’s garden in less than half an hour. The blade cuts right through the tree, yanking roots from their soil. Edgar takes in the wreck from his truck, fingers tight on the steering wheel. He knew it was coming. But this soon?
When “New Homes” signs appear in the neighborhood that summer, Edgar drives by the site. How could six three-story townhomes be squeezed into the plot? Nearing the tall, box-like homes, he slows, greeted by banners boasting “Low Maintenance Yards.” Parking behind a sparkling new convertible, Edgar turns off the engine, taking in the front yard, the impossibly green grass framed by a crowd of heavenly bamboo planted too close to each other. The front door opens, and two men shake hands in the doorway, laughing. They don’t notice the old man or his truck, not when he turns the motor back on, not when he presses his truck into the car, crumpling the bumper.
Edgar reverses slowly, hitting the gas as he drives to the end of the block. Turning the corner, he spots a postage stamp-sized yard near an abandoned house. The grass hasn’t been mown in months, but the lot holds afternoon sun. Perfect for tomatoes.
