Chapter 26 Jack

Margarite Espinoza begged her daughter to let her go in the end. "I want to die," she said. But her daughter, Joanna—a slight thing, only twenty-four, and an only child like Jack had been—clung to her mother's hand, begging her to stay.

Jack had seen this play out again and again—the patient made peace with their fate, and either their loved ones accepted it or they didn't. Margarite had been ready for more than a week. But Joanna couldn't get ready, because the idea of a life stretching before her without a mother could not be conceived of in someone so young.

When her mother passed, the poor girl's racking sobs could be heard all the way down the hall. Sandra swept in like a grandmother and let the young woman sob onto her bosom.

Joanna's raw emotions had exhausted Jack, and when he arrived at the garden, he was dragging. These were the moments he wished he had someone in his corner, someone he could go home to, who would hold him the way Sandra had held Joanna.

He was expecting to make quick work of his watering today and get on to the theater and rehearsal, but as he walked up to the garden plot, something caught his eye. Something huge. He squinted, dragged his fingers through his hair, and leaned forward to have a closer look.

Itwas an exceptionally large cucumber on top of his footlocker. There was a note wedged under it. He pulled it free.

Greetings from Plot Nine. Thank you so much for your generous gift of tomato food. I should like to return the thoughtfulness. I only recently discovered that what I thought was a weed was a vine busy sprouting this monster cucumber. My garden adviser says vegetables that grow too big lack flavor, but maybe I got lucky with this one. Enjoy.

Jack grinned. He tucked the giant cuke into his backpack and set it aside. He harvested a few ripe tomatoes, then got out the radish seeds that Gabe, the janitor at work, had given him. Last week, after Jack had handed out bags of homegrown tomatoes—to say he was producing a bumper crop was an understatement—Gabe had sensed a fellow gardener and had brought him the seeds. "I grow these every year," he said. "Can't beat 'em for taste. Now, be sure you mix some coffee grounds in the soil. Six inches deep, and keep 'em watered." He also handed Jack an article that backed up his claims about coffee grounds.

Jack planted the seeds next to his carrots, mixed the soil with the coffee grounds he'd brought from the break room, and watered them. When he got ready to leave, Jack took some of the seeds and found some paper to pen a note to Plot Nine.

Congratulations on single-handedly tackling the food shortage crisis by growing a cucumber big enough to feed an entire city block. I can't wait to try it. In the meantime, my garden adviser said the radishes grown from these seeds are the best in the state. In addition, he is keen on coffee grounds as a soil enhancer. He gave me an article that perhaps you will find interesting.

He placed the seeds and article along with his note beneath a rock on her locker.

From there, he went to the theater. The thespians were already gathered in the auditorium. Doralee was onstage arguing with Jerry about choreography. Mr.Carlton, one of the older thespians with a penchant for bow ties, was napping in the back row, his head tossed back, his mouth open. "Hey," Jack said softly and gave him a nudge.

The old man woke with a sputter and looked up. "Oh. You made it. Some of us were starting to wonder."

"I haven't missed a rehearsal yet," Jack reminded him.

"No, but we keep expecting it. A kid like you must have better things to do than hang out with a bunch of old-timers."

Jack had many things to do, but he didn't know if they were better than this... project? Pastime? Craziness? Whatever it was, it was more fun than he would have guessed. It was sort of starting to feel like he had an odd little family.

As he made his way down the center aisle, he noticed more needlepoint seat covers had appeared on various rows with no obvious rhyme or reason as to their placement. Lovebirds Martin and Mary were sitting on two of them. They had their heads together as they pored over a sheet of paper.

Karen was standing below the apron of the stage. "Jack! Thank God. Pleasecome speak to Annabeth." She cast a glare to the wings where Annabeth stood with her arms crossed tightly, her mouth stubbornly pursed. She was in a dressing gown.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Yes, something is wrong, and it starts with an A and ends with bethand it's her attitude."

"Well, you've got a bad one yourself, Karen," Annabeth shot back. "Is a thank-you so impossible for you to say?"

"What exactly are we arguing about?" Jack asked.

"Costumes, obviously." Karen waved her hand at Annabeth, up and down, Vanna White style. As it turned out, Annabeth had significantly changed the costume Karen had made for her, proclaiming she'd fixed it. Karen, of course, thought she had ruined it.

As that battle wore on (for which there was no real solution, as Annabeth had definitely altered it), at least the debate over who would play Blanche DuBois had been sorted. It came as no surprise to anyone that Catherine had won the plum role. But Meredith did not take defeat quietly and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, that Catherine's version of Blanche was overwrought.

"Well, maybe that's because Blanche is overwrought, Meredith," Catherine shot back. "Remind me, what lead roles have you ever had?"

Meredith gasped. She was winding up to respond, but Catherine spotted Jack. "Oh, hey there, kid. I've got some news to share—"

"It will have to wait," Walter said sternly and lifted a hand in a silent attempt to quell any argument. "Listen up, people. We're all on edge. We've got a lot riding on this and we're running out of time, and these arguments aren't helping. Who can tell me the best thing we can do at this point?"

The seniors looked around at each other. Martin was brave enough to venture a guess. "Give up?"

Walter sighed. "We rehearse! And we rehearse and we rehearse until we can't, and then... we rehearse once more and put on a show."

"I don't disagree," Mary said cautiously. "But we have sets to paint."

Walter looked like he might explode. "Yes, Mary, we do. That is my point. There is muchto be done. I think you can all trust that this will be a late night. Except for you, Jack. It's not your tush on the line. All right, can we get on with rehearsal? Places, everyone! Act one, opening musical number."

Everyone scrambled onto the stage to take their places for the opening dance, Jack included. He was really nothing more than muscle, and because his dancing skills were so bad, no matter how often Jerry tried to help him "loosen his hips," he was in the very back, next to the crude rendering of a bus stop. Annabeth sat at a piano and began to play; the cast sprang into action, singing and following the choreography they'd learned. Jerry wandered through them as they danced, correcting postures, demonstrating the moves for those who couldn't remember. Mr.Carter sang, "What's the matter, honey, are you lost?" from an original song, "Elysian Fields,"written by Doralee and Karen, which, Jack had to admit, was pretty good.

Their collective dancing had improved over the disaster it was last week, and even lifting Meredith was a little easier than it had been, thanks to his hitting the gym this week.

When they had completed the run-through of the opening number, they silently looked around at each other, their faces lit with shock and delight.

"We sort of nailed it," Karen said.

Jack would not have believed it, but this show, this crazy-ass musical, was chaotic and fun and original and interesting and might be worth the price of admission.

But as they found their places to go through the opener again, Jack couldn't help wondering how they could possibly make enough money from it to pay off their debt.

Nevertheless, they were committed. They were still working on the opening number when he ducked out early to meet up with Byron.