by Anna Alter
“What brings you two down here this morning?” he asked.
“My apartment is a little wet,” Violet said, reaching for a berry.
“A little?” scoffed Henry. “The roof is leaking like a faucet!”
“It’s not so bad,” said Violet, popping the berry into her mouth. “I have it all under control.”
Wilbur looked at Henry, then back at Violet. “Well, stop by anytime you need to dry off,” he said, heading inside.
After breakfast, Violet went back upstairs and lay down on the couch. Her eyes felt heavy. The drops of water plinking and plunking around her sounded like a lullaby. Soon she was asleep.
When she opened her eyes again, it was late afternoon. Violet wasn’t quite sure where she was. She was lying on what looked like her couch, but it was bobbing up and down, like a log on a river.
She peered over the edge. There was water as far as she could see. Shoes floated by like little boats. “Oh dear!” she cried.
A broom floated near the end of the couch. Violet sprang to her knees and pulled it onto the cushions. Holding it like a paddle, she rowed the couch to the front door and turned the handle.
WHOOSH!
Water lifted the sofa into the hallway, then escaped down the stairs. Violet hopped off the sofa, ran back to the door, and closed it quickly.
She stood for a moment and tried to collect herself. “Maybe I will pay Wilbur a visit after all,” she decided.
She went downstairs and knocked on Wilbur’s door. Taking a breath, she tried to think of what to say. Water dripped from her pants down onto the doormat.
Wilbur opened the door and looked her up and down. “Violet! Just who I was hoping to see. I could use your help.”
Violet put her wings in her soaked pockets. “You could?” she asked.
“I need to water the blueberry bushes in the yard, and the hose won’t reach. Might I borrow some of the water in your apartment?”
“Of course!” said Violet, beaming.
They went upstairs together, carrying two large watering cans. Wilbur sloshed through the living room and opened a window. He leaned out and looked down. “Perfect!” he said, dipping his watering can into the pool around him and filling it up. He held it out the window, and the water rained down on the bushes below. Violet smiled and splish-splashed over to help.
Within the hour, Violet’s shoes were no longer floating around the room, and they could see the floor again. But drops of water still plink-plunked from above.
“You have been such an enormous help,” Wilbur declared, “you must let me find a way to thank you.”
Violet blushed. “You don’t have to.”
“Please,” he said, “let me do something for you. A surprise.”
“All right,” said Violet.
Wilbur went downstairs and Violet walked around the room, placing her dishes back beneath the drips. Before long, there was a knock at the door.
“Have a seat and close your eyes!” shouted Wilbur from the hallway.
Violet sat down on her reading chair. Squish. Water oozed out of the cushions and dripped onto her toes. She closed her eyes.
The door opened and she heard footsteps moving around the room. There was a clank clank clank that sounded like someone climbing a ladder. There was the THUD of a hammer hitting wood, and once in a while a loud ca-LUNK. Violet sat patiently and waited.
Suddenly it was quiet. Not even a plink! plink! broke the silence. She could take it no longer and opened her eyes.
There was not a drop of water in sight. Wilbur and Henry were putting the couch back in place. Ms. Thornbush was picking up her toolbox. Violet was too stunned to speak. Henry gave her a wink as he folded up the ladder.
“Surprise!” Wilbur said. “The leak in your ceiling is fixed! Shall we go down to my place to celebrate? I have a blueberry pie just out of the oven. I can’t eat the whole thing by myself.”
Henry perked up at the mention of pie. “Sounds good to me!” he chimed in.
Violet looked at Wilbur and smiled. “I just need a moment to dry off,” she said shyly.
Wilbur and Henry went downstairs and Violet sat glued to her chair. She closed her eyes again. This time, she was not wishing away the leaky ceiling or waiting for a surprise. She was just enjoying the quiet. “I might not know how to fix a leak,” she thought, “but I know how to choose a good friend.”
Wilbur put on a wide-brimmed hat to shade his face from the late-summer sun. He placed his hand shovel in his back pocket and began to walk across the yard of 24 Sprout Street. It was early. The birds had just begun to chatter in the treetops, and there was a chill in the air. It smelled like fresh-cut grass.
When he was half a block past Sergio’s Market, he turned, passing through an old, crooked gate. He lifted his head and took a deep breath. The smell of his garden in full bloom filled his chest and lifted him up. He couldn’t wait to feel the damp soil on his paws and the sun on the fur at the back of his neck.
He watered the hydrangeas, picked the basil, and gathered some tiger lilies. As he worked throughout the day, the sweet smell on his fingertips made his heart flutter.
Emma often strolled down Maple Street after stopping at the market. Today, she stopped in front of Wilbur’s garden and peered over the fence.
“Hi there, Wilbur!” she called out.
Wilbur looked up. Was there a bird chirping in the sky above him? Not seeing any, he got back to work.
“HI THERE, WILBUR!” Emma repeated at the top of her lungs.
Suddenly he had the feeling that he wasn’t alone. He searched the edge of his plot, where he found Emma’s face beaming at him.
“Oh, good morning, Emma! I didn’t see you there.”
“It’s four o’clock, neighbor, not morning at all. You should take a break once in a while!” Emma’s eyes twinkled as she turned to go.
Wilbur smiled. How could the day have gone by so quickly? His shadow stretched long over the rosebushes. Time to head home and start supper. He picked up his shovel, put the lilies and basil in a basket, then walked over to the gate.
When he reached Sergio’s, he stopped to peer through the window. Inside, Sergio was selling Henry some barley seeds. Behind Henry was a long line of people wedged in a crowded aisle, waiting to buy their groceries.
“Bit of a tight squeeze,” he thought.
As he turned to go, a sign on the front door caught his eye:
“Well, it’s about time,” Wilbur thought, heading home.
Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. That address sounded familiar. He turned around, dropping the basket, and ran to his garden as quickly as his legs would take him. When he got there, his heart sank. The numbers 5, 3, and 6 hung loosely on the gate under a post, in rusted iron.
How could Sergio move into his garden? Someone in his family had been gardening in that spot as long as he could remember. First was Grandma Gertrude, who had passed by the empty lot one day and noticed the black soil, perfect for planting. She had worked the garden there for many years, then passed it on to his cousin Charlie. Charlie had given it to crazy Aunt Petunia, who had tried to plant chocolate chips and grow a cookie tree. Crazy Aunt Petunia had given it to him.
Wilbur hurried home, sprinting past Violet and Fernando, who were chatting on the front stoop. He heard “more space for sunflower seeds” and “new grapefruit display” float through the air as he rushed past.
Back in the comfort of his apartment, he walked over to his pantry. He opened the doors and looked inside. The shelves were lined with food from his garden: dried herbs, jars of tomatoes and pepper jelly, strawberry jam, and chamomile blossoms. His pantry looked like an aisle in a grocery store. Sergio’s grocery store. Wilbur sighed.
There was a knock at the door. He opened it a crack and peered through. Fernando stood on the other side. His arms were crossed.
“Wilbur,” he began, “what’s wrong? You went by in such a rush.”
Wilbur took a breath, but he couldn’t
think straight. His heart was in his throat.
“Sergio…my hydrangeas…chocolate chips!” he choked out.
Fernando looked confused. “I’m sorry, Wilbur, but I don’t understand.” He had never seen Wilbur so upset about anything.
“Grandma Gertrude, rosebushes, new location in September!” he continued.
Fernando was even more confused.
“I’m sorry,” Wilbur said. “I need to be alone.” He sighed again and shut the door.
Wilbur sat in his grandma’s rocker and looked out the window. The more he thought of the zinnias that would never flower and the roses that would wither, the worse he felt. His eyes started to grow heavy, so he rested his head on the side of the chair.
Something tugged at his foot. He looked down and saw a green vine curling out of the floorboards and wrapping around his ankles. It twisted and curled, slowly but tightly, tying him to his chair.
Wilbur began to lift his paws to free his legs, but they wouldn’t budge. They, too, were tied to the chair by the creeping vine, moving more swiftly as the minutes passed.
A knock at the door woke him and he jumped to his feet. When he looked down, there was no vine in sight. “It must have been a dream,” he thought. “Perhaps it all was. Perhaps Sergio’s was never going to move in the first place.”
He shook himself the rest of the way awake and walked to the front door. When he opened it, Fernando was there again, this time with something in his hands.
“For you,” he said, handing him a plate of peanut butter cookies. “A sweet end to a sour day.”
Wilbur smiled. “Thank you, Fernando. Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, thank you,” he said.
They sat together by the window and drank warm milk with their cookies. Wilbur explained what he’d been through that day and why he had been so upset earlier. As he spoke, Fernando said things like “You don’t say!” and “Dreadful!” and “I don’t believe it!” Wilbur was very relieved to have his thoughts off his chest.
The next day before the sun rose, he woke up to a strange birdcall. Eeeeeep eeeeeep sounded over and over from the window. When he sat up and peered outside, his face fell. It was no bird making that noise, but a tractor heading in the direction of his garden.
He threw on his clothes, grabbed his jacket, and ran for the door. As he raced down the hall, he nearly toppled over an empty plastic bucket. “Not the best place for that,” he thought.
He continued through the foyer and reached for the front door. Looking down, he noticed a large pile of dirt by the doormat. “Strange,” he thought. “I wonder who left such a mess.”
Eeeeeep eeeeeep sounded again from the street. Shutting the door behind him, he ran quickly toward Maple Street.
Today was quieter than usual. The sky was dark and the birds still slept in their nests. But when Wilbur arrived at the next block, the quiet came to an end.
There were people moving back and forth in front of 536 Maple Street—hanging signs, unloading shovels, and calling out to one another. A large yellow digger was parked beside the gate.
“It wasn’t a dream,” said Wilbur to no one in particular. He couldn’t bear to look over the fence and see what was on the other side. He simply turned around and headed home.
When he arrived at 24 Sprout Street, the sun had begun to peek out from behind the building. He could see Fernando and Henry on the porch swing. “Good morning, Wilbur!” they shouted as he crossed the yard. Wilbur couldn’t bring himself to reply.
“Wilbur,” said Fernando, “we’ve been looking for you everywhere. We have something to show you.”
“I’m not in the mood,” he said.
“Just follow me,” said Fernando, hopping to his feet.
Henry yawned and Wilbur noticed something strange. Henry’s shoes, usually so clean and tidy, were covered in dirt.
“Okay,” he said.
He followed Fernando and Henry up the stairs. They passed Henry’s door on the first floor and Emma’s on the second. When they got to Fernando’s door on the third floor, Wilbur stopped, expecting him to open it.
“We’re not going in there,” Fernando said. “Come this way.”
They climbed one more flight of stairs, and Henry opened the door to the roof. Wilbur followed Fernando through the door, looking down at his feet.
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a glimpse of something purple. He could have sworn he saw Grandma Gertrude’s butterfly bushes. Wilbur lifted his head and gasped. “My garden!”
All around him were his oregano plants, cherry tomatoes, and geraniums, carefully planted in white buckets. Bees buzzed around their blossoms as they swayed in the breeze. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
Henry and Fernando joined Violet and Emma, who were standing in a corner, drinking iced tea. Henry yawned again and Emma rubbed her eyes. They all looked very, very tired.
“Thank you,” said Wilbur softly. “You must have been up all night. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
Violet smiled, took his arm, and brought him over to a hammock underneath a lilac tree. Everyone settled in and recalled for Wilbur, in great detail, the long night of digging and planting. He asked again and again how they had carefully lifted each plant out of the ground.
“Sergio gave us the buckets,” said Fernando.
“We passed them to each other up all three flights of stairs at 24 Sprout Street,” said Emma.
“We had to work through the night,” Henry added.
“And without a sound,” said Violet, “so as not to spoil the surprise.”
Then, one by one, the neighbors closed their eyes for a long morning nap. All except for Wilbur, who was too excited to sleep. He gazed gratefully at his friends, and then rested his eyes on his hydrangea bushes until the sun climbed high into the sky.