by Sandra Smith
After several hours, the children entered another city. It wasn’t a metropolis, but it did have a bus station. Clare hoped she had enough money.
23
A MAN NAMED GRUFF
“Two tickets to New Jersey.”
“New Jersey?” The woman behind the counter scowled at them. “Where’s your folks?”
“In New Jersey. We were visiting my cousins.”
“City?”
Clare was momentarily flustered. Of course she would need the name of a city. She knew almost nothing about New Jersey. She said the first thing that came into her head: Trenton.
The woman raised her eyebrows. “No station there,” she said, “only a drop-off point along the road.”
“That’s okay,” Clare said. “Mama will meet us.”
The woman took Clare’s money and handed her the tickets, explaining where they needed to get off and change buses. The children stowed their bikes and mounted the bus. As it rolled away, they sat as silent as the closing day. Dante soon fell asleep, but Clare kept a vigilant watch.
At last he awoke. “Clare?”
“Yes?”
“Why are we going to New Jersey? What is New Jersey?”
“It’s a state, silly. I read, once, all of the state nicknames and mottoes. New Jersey is the Garden State. I remember, because it was like Lily’s last name. We didn’t know what it meant back then, but it stuck in my head. Things must be different in New Jersey. It must have gardens. You know some of those old shows on the Monitor where they have real food, and we used to think it was fake, before we met Ana—what if those places still exist?”
“Wow,” said Dante. “Do you think so?”
“I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “I hope so.”
It took the better part of two days, but the children finally made it to New Jersey. Slowly, they stepped down off the bus. Looking around, what they saw were not the gardens of their imaginations. Instead, what they saw, and had been seeing from the bus windows for the past several minutes, were half-burnt buildings and piles of trash. Covered from top to bottom with graffiti, faded and broken brick buildings grimly greeted the children and their fleeting hopes for a new future. Her heart sinking fast, Clare stepped back on the bus.
“This is New Jersey?” She timidly asked the bus driver. “Trenton?”
“Yeah,” he answered brusquely. “Trenton, kid, this is it.”
She stepped back down onto the street. Their bikes lay on the sidewalk. The door slammed shut behind her. Dante stood next to the bikes, looking smaller than he’d looked to Clare in a long time. She felt like crying, but for Dante’s sake toughened up.
“Well,” she said to her brother, “we probably just got off at the wrong stop in New Jersey. Every place has bad parts, I suppose.”
“I’ve never seen anything this bad,” Dante countered.
“We haven’t exactly gotten around.”
They decided to head in the direction the bus was going since they hadn’t seen anything resembling a garden on their way into town. They mounted their bikes and began riding.
It was depressing. Unlike home, no grass grew around the apartment buildings. There was a small park with worn-down grass and littered with refuse and garbage. Abandoned buildings that years earlier had been factories of a proud and powerful nation. In the distance, smokestacks spewed pollution, evidence that some industry still existed. But nowhere was there a sign of New Jersey, the Garden State.
The children stopped to rest after thirty minutes of riding. They ate the food packs they had purchased at the last bus stop. Neither of them spoke.
At last Dante asked, “What are we going to do now?”
“I’m thinking I should ask someone,” Clare said.
“Ask what?”
“Ask where the gardens are.”
Dante was silent, then looking up asked, “What if there are no gardens?”
The emotions Clare had repressed for days came flooding out. They took the form of anger. “What do you mean no gardens?” she yelled. “Why wouldn’t there be gardens? Why would New Jersey be called the Garden State if there were no gardens! Don’t be stupid!” She stood up, towering above her young brother and looking down at him with narrowed eyes and a scowl.
Dante began to sob, the gigantic tears running in streams down his smooth face.
“I’m sorry,” Clare said, dropping down and hugging him. “I’m sorry, Dante. I’m just stressed because I’m thinking the same thing.” Arms around each other, they cried.
“Are you kids okay?” A voice broke into their sorrow. An elderly man, skin dark and wrinkled as a raisin, ambled up to them. A cane as rough as the hand holding it clicked to a stop.
Clare sniffed and dried her face with her arm. “Yes,” she said.
“Don’t look like you’re okay.”
“Well,” she said, trying to sum up the man’s character, “we were just thinking about our dog that died.”
“Uh huh,” said the man, clearly suspicious.
“We’re fine, really.”
“Okay,” he said, moving on.
“Wait,” Clare called. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go on.”
“My family just moved here. And before we moved, I did some research . . . ”
The man waited, gazing at them with intense eyes.
“ . . . was New Jersey ever called the Garden State?”
He laughed aloud. But before he laughed, Clare noticed for a fraction of a second a look in his eyes. She wasn’t sure what the look was—astonishment, grief, fear? It flashed by quickly.
“Yes,” he replied. “The Garden State. I certainly haven’t heard that in a while.” He shook his head. “Not sure why it was ever called that.” He surveyed their surroundings. “Sure ain’t nothin’ resembling a garden here.” The spunk left him for just a moment before he recovered. He looked at them hard. “Where you from?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Clare.
“Do you even know what a garden is?” he asked, his voice lowering.
She nodded her head yes, as did Dante.
For the first time the man seemed to notice the bulging backpacks on the ground next to the children. He fished a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket.
“Got a pencil?”
Clare pulled one from her backpack and handed it to him.
“Name’s Gruff. Seein’s how you and your family,” he said your family with a strange sort of emphasis, “is new to town, ya might need a friend. Here’s my address—if you need anything.” He handed the paper and pencil back to Clare and explained how his place wasn’t far from where they stood, gesturing down the street and telling them which way to turn.
“Garden State,” he mumbled as he walked away.
24
ANA’S PAPER
The children watched the old man hobble away, despair settling in like an old cat.
“What are we gonna do now? There aren’t any gardens here,” Dante said.
“Do you think there are gardens anywhere?” Clare asked. “I’ve always heard rumors that rich people eat better food than everyone else. After we learned about real food, I thought that’s what it must be. But where do they get it? Do they grow it themselves?”
Dante shook his head and shrugged. How would he know?
Finally he asked, “What do you think about that guy, Gruff?”
“Strange,” Clare answered.
“But sorta nice,” Dante said. “He could have asked us a bunch more questions.”
Clare agreed. She thought about the fleeting look in his eyes at the word garden. She remembered his face when he saw their backpacks and his offer to help; the way he said your family.
“Where will we sleep tonight?” Dante asked. Lately all he did was ask hard questions.
Clare’s hand was in her pocket. She was fingering a tiny square of folded paper.
“I think it’s time we call on Ana,” she said.
“What d
o you mean? We haven’t even talked to Mama or Lily yet.”
Clare pulled the square from her pocket. “Dante, Ana gave me and Lily some information. One of the things she gave us was a list of Seed Savers. She made us promise to keep two copies in different locations.” Clare opened her hand. “Here is my copy.”
She unfolded the paper. Tiny hand-printed letters covered the entire page—information for probably a hundred people painstakingly copied on this one sheet. Numbers and words followed each name. She turned it over. Midway down, Clare saw it—Dante called out “There!” at almost the exact moment her eyes landed on two tiny NJs.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered. Next to the second NJ was the name, Gruff McKing.
“He’s a Seed Saver?” Dante asked.
“Unbelievable,” said Clare. “Thank you, God.”
The children scrambled to their feet. From her backpack pocket, Clare retrieved the scrap of paper Gruff had given her. They headed in the direction he’d told them. For the first time in days they felt their burdens lift and a sense of hope flow through them.
Putting together the information on the two papers and remembering his words and gestures, the children eventually located Gruff’s building. When they saw a balcony brimming with green potted plants and brilliant purple flowers, they guessed they were in the right place. The children dismounted and walked their bikes into the first floor landing. Peering around, they decided to lug them up the stairs, not trusting the neighborhood. It wasn’t easy, but after a struggle they reached the second floor. Finding what they believed was Gruff’s door, they knocked tentatively.
“It’s open,” the familiar voice called.
Dante looked at Clare. “Should we just walk in?”
“He must be expecting someone else. But we might as well, he’s expecting someone.”
The children opened the door and pulled their bikes in after them. Across the crowded room sat Gruff, in front of the smallest Monitor they had ever seen. He didn’t look up.
“Mr. Gruff,” Clare said.
He put up his hand, as if to pause her. The children waited.
Gruff let out a long, low whistle. He turned.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said, “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Dante and Clare exchanged puzzled glances.
“Here,” he said, pointing to the Monitor. “You’ve been reported missing.”
Their eyes grew large.
“Don’t worry,” he continued. “Before I checked here, I checked with the Network. Something about your garden question made me wonder. I learned that Clare and Dante James were on the run. Then I checked the Monitor for images. I was just about to go back and look for you. But I see you’ve either also checked me out, or are very brave, or perhaps are somewhat foolish and desperate children.”
The children stood frozen, holding the handlebars of their bicycles, trying to make sense of the old man.
“Well, sit, sit,” Gruff commanded. “What’s the matter? All is well now. You’re safe here. I just hope nobody recognized you and reported you to the authorities.” He got up and walked over to Dante, uncurling his fingers from the bike. “You must be Dante.”
Dante nodded.
“Sit down, Dante,” he said, walking the boy to a couch. The couch was piled high with old newspapers and magazines with barely room to sit.
Clare broke from her trance. She parked her bike near the door and crossed the room to Dante. Shoving the paper pile aside, she squeezed in next to him, arms folded defensively in front of her.
Despite the awkwardness of the situation, her eyes couldn’t help drinking in the apartment. Except for the library, she had never seen so many books—none of which were on shelves. They were scattered and piled throughout the room: on chairs, end tables, and the floor. She strained to read the titles.
Between the books were magazines, flipped open to hold the place of half-read articles and essays. In the corner was the table where they’d first seen Gruff—every square inch of it covered. And in the middle, that tiny Monitor.
Even more surprising were the numerous potted plants dangling from the ceiling: an indoor jungle. Clare had never seen anything like it. Her mouth drifted open as she stared at the apartment brimming with both life and years gone by.
“Children,” Gruff said. “Forgive me. I’m guessing you’ve never been in the home of a packratting old widower before. I know it’s a bit much, but I’m here alone . . . Excuse the mess—”
“Oh no,” stammered Clare. “It’s wonderful. Plants, books—”
“Mama tried to grow a houseplant once,” Dante said.
At the mention of Mama, the children felt a pang of homesickness. They blinked back the tears that welled up in their eyes.
“Are you hungry?” Gruff asked, their watery eyes unnerving him.
“Yes,” said Dante at the same time Clare said, “Not really, we ate when we got off the bus.”
“Well, sounds like at least one of you is.” Gruff got up and headed toward an arched doorway. “Kitchen’s in here,” he called over his shoulder. “Come on!”
The kids followed.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “So many things in season this time of year.”
Clare and Dante exchanged interested glances. Gruff bent down and pulled two large tomatoes out of a bin.
“Are those tomatoes?” Dante cried.
Gruff’s eyes twinkled. “They certainly are.”
The children thought about their own tomato plant. They remembered the recent afternoon they had come home to the molested apartment; how they discovered their mother had been arrested. Gruff was quiet as he sliced the tomatoes and set them in front of the children.
“Some people like them with salt,” he said, pushing a dish with the grainy, white substance toward them. “I like them just like this.” He picked up a slice with two fingers, bent his head back, and hanging the red wedge over his mouth, took a big bite, followed by a satisfied smile. The children copied him.
The tomatoes were sweet and juicy. Clare and Dante had never eaten food that was juicy. It was incredible. Over and over they placed the slices in their mouths and bit down—sometimes quickly, squirting juice out at all angles and giggling; other times they bit down slowly, squeezing, crushing, nearly drinking the juice. They tried the tomatoes with salt. Before long, all the slices had disappeared. The empty plate staring up at them, Clare suddenly realized what they’d done. Her face fell.
“Mr. Gruff,” she said shamefully. “I’m so sorry. We’ve eaten up your wonderful tomatoes.”
He stood and walked toward the bin. “Oh, that’s okay, there’s more.” A wide grin split his face as he showed the children his bin full of ripe tomatoes. “In fact, that was only one kind. I have several varieties. Here, try these.” He scooped up some small yellow pear-shaped fruits and set them in front of the children.
“What are these?” asked Clare in awe.
“Tomatoes. There are many kinds of tomatoes, kids.”
Dante popped the entire thing into his mouth.
“Whoa,” Gruff said. “You might want to remove the stem first, little fella.” He pulled the stem off one and popped it into his own mouth. They ate several of the tiny tomatoes.
“And now,” Gruff said, “for dessert.” He turned and left the room, a bowl in his hand. The children waited. After a few minutes, they began to worry. They discussed what they should do. Just as Dante stood up to go look for him, Gruff returned. He set the bowl on the table. In the dish were small blue spheres.
“What is this?” Dante asked.
“Clare?” asked Gruff, giving her the same look Ana had when quizzing them on their studies.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m guessing it’s fruit,” she said. “Like what Ana told us about. Like Sweeties. Like peaches.”
Gruff smiled. “Indeed. These are berries. Blueberries. They’re easier to grow than a lot of fruits because they grow on bushes rather than trees. Try
them,” he urged, pushing the bowl forward.
Clare hesitated. “I didn’t know blueberries really existed,” she said. “I’ve heard of blueberry flavored Sweeties, but I never thought they were really, like, you know, from a plant.”
“My sweet girl, don’t you know that all food originates from plants and animals?”
“Animals??!” the children cried.
“Another story,” he said, his hand up. “Forget I said that.” He offered them the berries. “Eat.”
Dante put a berry in his mouth. He curled his tongue around it and rolled it around before biting down. It was soft yet explosive as the skin broke. The taste was pure and sweet. It wasn’t as juicy as the tomato, but the flavor was so like a Sweetie. Dante laughed.
“Go on,” Gruff insisted of Clare. “Here, do it by the handful, straight into your mouth.”
Clare did as she was told and dumped a small handful into her mouth. As she savored this new and wonderful food, Clare remembered the night she and Dante had gazed up at the star-strewn sky, the feeling of smallness and emptiness of her life, and she delighted now in this new experience.
“Well?” asked Gruff expectantly.
“They’re wonderful. Where did you get them?”
Gruff nodded his head toward the archway. “Come with me.”
He led them out of the kitchen and back through the main room. He disappeared behind some curtains, to a sliding glass door that opened onto the balcony they’d seen from the street. His sitting room, thick with plants, was nothing compared to this. The balcony exploded in vegetation. Plants were everywhere—on the floor, on benches, on the wide railing. Pots were stacked and tiered. Gruff pointed to some large containers bearing three bushes. Each bush held the little round blueberries; a few of the berries were green. He plucked off a large, dark blue one and popped it into his mouth.
“Blueberry,” he said simply.
Clare’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. Her eyes darted from the floor to the benches and railing. “You grow these blueberries right here? But—”
