by Ruby Lang
“What I don’t get,” Ty said, “is why you dragged Magda into this in the first place if you never planned to sell.”
“I’m going to sell. I don’t want to keep paying the taxes on an empty house. A man can’t help it if he keeps getting these subpar offers.”
“What’s wrong with this latest one? Are they meeting the asking price?”
Byron avoided Ty’s eyes. “Maybe.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Byron was getting his asking price, and he still didn’t want to take it. What chance did the garden collective have if everything was left to the whims of people who couldn’t make up their minds about what they needed to hang on to?
“Do you know how much work your niece has been putting into this?”
“I’ve been putting in the work.”
“No, you’ve been in Florida dreaming up delays and construction. She’s been here cleaning up after the workmen, supervising every new light fixture change, every alteration to the security system, updating the listings, showing it to people who keep opening drawers and tracking mud and ripping down shower curtains. She’s keeping it all up under the threat you’ll yank it away from her, because she’s responsible and because she cares. Did you know that on the night of the blackout, she even spent the night in that place because she wanted to make sure it was okay? She’s doing this all while trying to rent out other places and sell that garden so she can pay off her student loans. Then she brings in an offer before your deadline, and you disappear on her.
“I’m not going to argue with you, but I hate what this is doing to her. If you don’t want to sell the townhouse, that’s your damn business, but why keep dragging other people into it? You jerked her hopes up by giving her the listing, and then down again by telling her she needed to get an offer. And then when she did, you didn’t even consider it.”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it for days. Do you believe any of this is easy for me? My wife’s been gone for ten years now. The rest of my family, even longer. I’ve moved on with my life, except for this one piece of it. Every time I’m about to sell it feels like losing the people I love all over again.”
“Some of us don’t have those choices, Byron. I would have loved to be able to grieve after my mom died, to not have to take care of things. For my dad to have stayed awhile after she passed. But also I know that my choices now—to do things or not do them—affect the people around me. And you’re holding back the family you have now.”
“They aren’t really my family. They’re my wife’s.”
“They visited you when they were kids. They remember the darkroom you used to have. You kept up with them enough that you knew Magda was working in real estate—”
“That was her mother’s doing. She’s always calling to check in on me.”
“They worried when you went missing. They could be your family if you’d let them. I’d love to go away and leave all this pain behind. My dad tried to do that. It’s only made him worse. But I’m always going to feel those losses. When you care about something, anyone, anything, a person, a pet, a garden, a home, you feel it.”
God, he already cared, didn’t he?
Jenny had told him, but he hadn’t listened. Maybe she’d been teasing him about his gardening friends. Maybe she’d been jealous. But it came down to the same thing. He didn’t have to chase down his sister. His sister would always be his sister, his family, his mother, and father, no matter where they were, would always be loved by him. But the friends he’d made at the garden—they wanted him around, too. They welcomed him, even in the face of his reluctance.
And there was Magda, who’d told him the same, who was trying to do the right things for herself and for everything else even if it wasn’t always the pleasant or easy thing.
Could he build something with her? The answer had always been yes, but maybe he’d faltered because he’d been too afraid to turn that question on himself, to find himself unworthy.
But before he had a chance think more, Magda stormed in. “Uncle Byron!” she said, her face a mixture of the fury and helplessness that he often recognized on his own when he dealt with family. “Where have you been?”
Chapter Fourteen
All she felt was relief. Deep, deep relief that Byron was all right—made even sweeter by the fact that Ty was with him. For some reason his presence made her know it was real—it comforted her.
She hugged her uncle and ended up with a fry squashed into her shoulder. She didn’t care. She turned to Ty and she almost wanted to cry with how grateful she was, how glad she was to see her uncle, even though he thought he had never been lost.
There were probably some other feelings in there, too, but now was not the time to analyze them.
Uncle Byron was still looking a little startled by her enthusiastic greeting. “I checked in with you. I told my housekeeper I’d be staying on. I don’t see what the fuss is.”
The heartfelt part of the reunion was over, apparently. “You left the townhouse in a frail emotional state. You checked out of your hotel.”
“I’m not frail. I don’t have emotional states. I get mad when people feed me nonsense, and I certainly didn’t think anyone was keeping tabs on me.”
But Byron did at least look a little ashamed.
Ty intervened. “Why don’t we find somewhere quieter to talk about this? We could go to my apartment.”
Byron said, “We could go to the townhouse.”
To the waiter, he added, “Can we get these fries wrapped up?”
On the way there, Magda texted her mother to let her know Byron had been found and where they’d be going. She received a reply in thirty seconds flat. On my way.
She stared at the phone. She knew her mother wasn’t pleased with her right now, with the way she’d behaved with Flora at the fair. But sometimes that instant show of support was comforting and sincere.
She hurried to catch up with the men, who’d already reached the door. Uncle Byron was having trouble with the lock. “Don’t know why this system has to be so elaborate,” Byron muttered.
Magda refrained from telling him why and took over.
They emerged into the house. It was hot and stuffy. She’d turned the air conditioning off as she hadn’t shown the place for a couple of days.
Byron blinked, looking around. Then he said, “You kids have strong backs. Why don’t you help me move some of those boxes from the top floor downstairs.”
* * *
They were already sorting through Byron’s photographs by the time Magda’s mother and sisters and their families arrived with food from Mamí’s favorite restaurant: a big aluminum pan of arroz con gandules, chicharrónes de pollo still warm and crisp, and pastelón with dark cheesy bits at the edges that Magda couldn’t help picking off and popping into her mouth as she cut squares to serve everyone. There were tostones, and surullitos, and fresh green salads, and there was even a little mac and cheese for Magda’s nephew Sebastian, who had recently declared that was the only thing he’d eat. Although Seb did also happily consume a handful of the fries that Byron contributed to the table. It was good Mamí had brought food and the children were there; otherwise it could have been awkward, considering Flora was still angry with Magda over her remarks at the block party, and how Ty and Flora remembered each other from that same event, and how Alma had taken Flora’s side, and how Byron had scared everyone by going missing.
Yet, with the kids racing around, enjoying the novelty of spacious empty rooms and stairs and with everyone walking back and forth and getting in everyone’s way in the kitchen, the atmosphere relaxed to a degree. They’d pulled the chairs from the dining room. For a moment they’d debated whether to use the plates and fancy napkins and glasses, too. “It seems a waste that we have these place settings and we can’t use them,” Mamí lamented.
But it was better this way, to be
able to move around and get up and sit down and talk. Magda couldn’t help noticing that despite the tension between Ty and Flora, Mamí liked the way Ty made sure that she and Byron filled their plates. Ty answered her mother’s questions with good humor and convinced Seb to eat a surullito.
Mamí gave her youngest a look of genuine approval; she had made a good choice for a change. But Magda was slightly deflated by the fact that she and Ty weren’t really together. Ty wasn’t staying.
“He’s nice,” Mamí said. She nudged Magda’s sisters to say something as she went over to talk to Uncle Byron.
“He’s great,” Flora said without inflection, watching their mother depart.
Magda snorted. “Somehow I doubt that’s what you think.”
“You wouldn’t be able to take my honesty.”
Magda took a deep breath. “Maybe that there is the whole problem. You don’t respect me. You don’t think I can handle things and so you try to take the hurt away.”
“We love you,” Alma said.
“That isn’t the same thing.”
From the way they both stared blankly at her, she knew she wasn’t explaining clearly.
“I need you to start treating me more like an equal. I understand it’s not easy for you. I’m younger. I haven’t always made great decisions in the past. I got in debt—”
“How much?”
“It’s not your business. It’s all mine. I am taking responsibility for it. It’s why I quit culinary school and why I’ve been trying to sell this house and the lot. It’s why I can’t go to your benefit, Flora—”
“I can pay.”
“I don’t want you to rescue me. I’m not saying all of this because I want or need help. I’m telling you because I finally feel—I finally feel like I can say it to you—that I need to clear this up.”
Judging by the way they were staring at her, they were concentrating on what they thought of as her failures again. But she owned all of it; they didn’t. And that was something.
Flora was muttering under her breath, “This is what happened because Mamí spoiled her.”
“Flora,” Alma said, a warning in her voice.
But Magda said clearly, “I’m almost thirty years old. You don’t have to blame anyone else about how I was raised and how I turned out. You can talk to me about what you think. Why didn’t you ever say anything to me if you were worried?”
“Would you have listened?”
“I wasn’t really given a chance, was I? I mean, I don’t like being criticized more than the next person, but I do like being talked to like I’m an adult, and that I can handle myself. I’d appreciate being included. I know it’s a lot to demand respect right now after admitting I’ve screwed up. But I deserve to be treated like your sister, not your child. It’s what I always deserved.”
Flora rolled her eyes. Alma shrugged.
But although it stung a little bit, at least she’d laid out her thoughts to them. Was it better that they addressed her as an imperfect adult rather than a kid who needed placating? She laughed to herself. Not much. But it made a difference in her mind. Plus, there was something Magda enjoyed about Flora and Alma’s awkwardness around her right now. They swerved away from her like a fish in an aquarium for the rest of the evening, but in that avoidance maybe they were really thinking about how to treat her. She and her sisters weren’t finished with this argument. But family was never quite finished, was it? The tension wasn’t comfortable, but something had shifted in Magda’s heart, at least—something might really change if she stuck firm.
“I still say your debt’s not about you. It’s the economy,” Ty murmured.
“How much of that did you hear?”
“A little. Are you sure you want all this honesty with your sisters?” he asked. “Because I have that with mine, and it’s a pain in the ass.”
“And yet, you’re leaving because otherwise, you’d miss her,” Magda said lightly. “Which is too bad, because I ought to hire you as my financial adviser.”
His look was inscrutable. “That reminds me I should hire you as my broker because I’ll really need to sell my apartment.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again.
This was a very bad time to realize she didn’t want him to leave. No, more than that; she was halfway in love with him.
In her silence, he’d gotten up to get himself some water and it seemed like he was now going to avoid her, too.
She sighed.
Across the room, Mamí and Byron were sifting through more boxes of photographs.
“I remember you used to love to take pictures,” said Mamí, wiping her hands on a paper napkin. She reached for a portrait of Ariana in what Magda recognized as one of the house’s window seats.
Magda leafed through more. Ariana in the backyard with sunglasses. Ariana in the kitchen—a greatly changed kitchen from this one, waving a spoon menacingly at the photographer.
Magda hadn’t known Ariana very well. She’d been a child, then a self-involved teenager when her aunt died. But she could see that each picture carried with it so much love.
She closed her eyes. Too much. It was all too much. She could feel the love, the love in the picture, the love in her heart, searing her from the inside. She had to tell Ty before he left. She had to tell him she loved his voice, the gentle murmur of it in her ear, strong and tender, she loved the way he listened to her, the way his hair flopped when it was hot out and he’d been in the sun, she loved how he fed her and how he watched her to make sure she was enjoying herself. She couldn’t leave these things unsaid, trapped in time and distance.
She had debt hanging over her, but she didn’t want to also live with regrets that could fill an entire house. When they were alone, they were going to talk.
“Byron,” Ty was saying to her uncle. “Have you ever thought about taking these pictures to the Museum of Harlem History and Heritage, maybe to donate or lend them? I’m not an expert, but this seems like something they’d like. You have an amazing trove here.”
“Your boy here is always hitting me up for donations,” Byron grumbled. But he looked pleased. “My pictures in a museum. It would be a nice way to be remembered.”
“Like we could ever forget you, Byron,” Mamí said, swatting him on the shoulder. “You or Ariana.”
“I don’t stay in touch.”
“You called me when you wanted to sell the house,” Magda reminded him.
Mamí added, “You could take us up on our invitations.”
Byron hummed noncommittally and pulled out a picture, which he gave to Ty. “There. That’s your garden. That’s the Joneses’ old place.”
Ty took the photo. A huge smile came over his face. And because it seemed he couldn’t help it, he looked up for Magda because that’s how he was—he always shared with her.
They bent over the picture together. A long sweep of solid stone steps, flanked by elaborate ironwork on the railings leading up to a narrow three-story townhouse. In front of the steps, a woman in what looked like late-sixties garb posed with a young boy.
“Do you know who they are?”
“I didn’t take this. I think my brother must have done. But that’s the mother of my old classmate, Katherine, and maybe the younger brother. We were in first through sixth grade together. She had to sit next to me quite frequently—Jackson, Jones. You know how it is. It was a big family. Always a lot of mischief going on at the Joneses’.”
Byron’s face glowed as he talked about the photo.
Ty was asking about a couple of the other houses on the block. Magda pulled out her phone and looked at the reply she’d gotten from Katherine Jenkins-Jones, the owner of the lot. It was only a couple of lines, thanking her for the offer papers, and saying that she’d take a couple of days to consider it.
Byron’s old classmate Katherine.
; “It’s still in the family,” Magda said slowly.
She thought for another moment. “Are you still in touch with Katherine?”
“Everybody likes to remind me I’m bad at keeping in touch,” Byron grumbled. “Of course I’m not. It’s been years.”
Magda pulled out her phone.
“Would it be okay if I gave her your contact information?”
Byron seemed intrigued, although he tried to play it cool. “Why not?”
He watched closely as she started tapping in Katherine Jenkins-Jones’s email address. Keith had told her that he didn’t want her pestering his client. But surely it wasn’t a bother if she simply passed on some information. And a picture or two.
Magda snapped a photo of Byron’s photograph of the house. She attached it along with a picture of the garden in full bloom. Tell a story, Keith had said. Of course, he’d probably never expected her to weave one for their own client.
Chapter Fifteen
Saturday
Ty hadn’t planned on going to the garden the next morning, but his phone started pinging while he was trying to dutifully down his Greek yogurt and granola. Jenny’s hoarse morning voice drifted from somewhere near where the couch should be. “These messages! How many gardens are you planning on buying?”
Jenny had given up her apartment and was staying with him for the next few days before she packed up her U-haul and drove across country, and her boxes had somehow managed to take over the whole living space.
Ty tried very hard to ignore his sister as he scrolled through his messages. There was such a thing as too much closeness, and he was experiencing it right now.
He stopped at a text from Magda and stood up abruptly. “I gotta go.”
He started looking around for an unobstructed path back to his bedroom. What a time for him to die Collyer brothers–style, crushed by the weight of his sister’s belongings.
Jenny appeared in front of him, hair sticking straight up.