The Garden

Over the hill, Jack’s home sits quiet and still, the garden kept away in the back. The peppers grow fruitful, and tomatoes abundant. Jack heads to the backyard with coffee in hand to see his yield. The garden kept him and his wife Mary sustained. He sees a tomato as red as her lips once were, and kneels down to pluck it off the vine. He admires the seemingly perfect fruit and rubs the dirt off on his shirt. As he gets up, Jack notices the plant below has the tiniest bite taken out of it. 

“How could I allow this? What could have done this?” Jack mumbles to himself. Pacing through the garden, he finds two other veggies with nibbles. The pacing turns into a beeline to the shed. Digging out boxes he hasn’t touched since the winter of ’42, he pulls out as many mousetraps he can hold. Nearly dropping his greedy handful, he sets them up next to any part of the garden where he can find a weakness.

This garden doesn’t deserve weakness. 

Back to the shed he goes, where he pulls a hammer, nails, and some wood to patch the fence. After his work, he brings his pickings into the kitchen. Dropping his gathering of crops to the table, he glances at the woven basket. The basket, still sitting on the counter, was one Mary used every time she brought vegetables inside. Once the basket was filled to the brim, she would get working on cooking a meal to be enjoyed by Jack for dinner. Going to the market was uncommon for the couple, as they got most of their produce from their own yard. Since her passing, it became more vital to go to the market, but just as uncommon. Jack couldn’t make the meals she had supplied for them, but he would try to recreate her recipes with no avail.

He sits at the kitchen table with his now cold coffee and tries to focus on the morning paper. Mary’s tomato soup stirs in his head. With a taunting yield of tomatoes on the counter, it made sense. 

Lunch time comes and he inspects the tomatoes he picked today. They were ripe, but the others from days prior were overtaken with bruised rot. Unsuitable to eat, Jack put them in the rubbish. The zucchini he threw out yesterday was then covered by the tomatoes. He makes a small helping of soup with what he can, the unsatisfying taste settling in his mouth for hours.

By nightfall, he lies in bed, the trap in the garden set. His nightly prayers are the only sound in the house. He prays for his love, he prays for her salvation. He dozes off with the hope of finding what is causing his garden’s suffering. He wakes with the sun and checks each trap, only to find them empty. If the mousetraps didn’t do the job of catching the culprits, then he would have to make something that would. He engineers a trap that will protect his beloved plants. The summer sun beat down on Jack, his shirt soaked through with sweat. He had been out in the yard all day, working harder than he had in months. 

After several hours of frustrating and tedious work, Jack finally goes inside and cooks up his first and last meal of the day—another lesser version of Mary’s tomato soup. He sits with the bowl, stirring and fiddling with the spoon. Finally, his growling stomach snaps him back and he takes his first bite. With each spoonful, he thinks of Mary and her perfect tomato soup. Her voice still rings in his ears, calling him for supper. He forces down the last of the soup and cleans up the kitchen sloppily. Still displeased, he washes up for bed, locks up the house, and says his prayers.

For the first time since they met, his leading prayer of the night isn’t about Mary. He prays he will find the trap in the morning, triggered by the filthy nuisance, its body trapped and lifeless; that he would do good by Mary— after all, it is her garden that this vile critter is taking from. 

When the sun comes over the hill and into his bedroom window, Jack is already outside. His coffee is not brewed today; he is running on the need of protecting the garden. The moment Jack makes his way to the garden, he sees the abomination. The peppers have been ravished,—greedily and hastily eaten away. His efforts were not enough. The shed knew company that day as he spent most of the sunlight experimenting on more traps—traps that would work this time. Traps that the revolting pest wouldn’t be able to escape. 

Jack sets his creation, harvests the few salvageable vegetables left, and heads for the kitchen. The overripe peppers wilting on his counter don't even catch his eye. With dusk approaching, he makes himself some supper, another disappointing bowl of tomato soup. He dices, sautes, and mixes. It's somewhat better, but nowhere near the warmth of Mary’s. It will never be Mary’s. He can barely stomach the soup anymore, but he still finishes it. He leaves the bowl on the table and heads to bed. Jack prays for both the garden to heal and his love for Mary within the same line—his devotion to her slipping from the forefront of his mind as he slips to sleep. 

Jack wakes at the break of dawn. He doesn’t bother to get dressed. He makes his way to see the fruits of his labor and, once downstairs, notices movement in the garden. Ecstatic to have finally caught the vermin, he runs out the door, nearly taking it off its squeaky hinges. Jack throws himself to the ground, dirtying his pajamas, overtaken with the pride of his success. 

“I've caught you, you greedy bastard!” He shouts. Jack reaches for the evil that has been destroying his crops. He holds up the trap and attempts to see what was causing the deplorable damage to his wife’s sanctuary. The creature thrashes, trying to escape, clawing and screeching for freedom. Once it finally seems to admit defeat, Jack is able to take a closer look. The animal is pale, and hairless. The fur that is common in rodents is absent. Its eyes are sharp, not soft. The way it moves is unlike any other animal Jack has caught before. 

Walking the contraption to the shed, it looks back at him. Jack’s eyes meet the animal’s, and he sees his own eyes reflected back at him. He sees his own coffee stained teeth, his own tired face, and haunted eyes staring back at him. He sees himself. Jack places the trap down on a log and pulls himself from the trap. He picks up his axe and raises it. He sees his own eyes filled with fear.

Right before the axe reaches its peak, Tiny Jack’s eyes soften. They turn from a pale blue to a deep brown. A frail and skinny rabbit sits where he just saw himself.

Allison M. Bumpus

Allison M. Bumpus is a junior engineering student with a specialization in civil engineering and minors in Construction Management and Mathematics. Born and raised in Massachusetts, she enjoys short forms of writing, and is very involved in campus life as a Resident Assistant and a part of the RWU Women’s Rugby team.