For viewing during the gallery exhibit: as prompted, gently turn but do not lift, the two sculptured figures to reflect the emotions of the couple as the story unfolds.
They became a couple in the early spring when life is fresh and hope is everywhere. {Prompt} In mid-May, they moved in together and adopted a kitten named Max. They planted a vegetable garden (their first) in the sunniest part of their yard: lettuce in vibrant shades of green and red; four zucchini seedlings (not realizing one would have been plenty); cherry tomatoes that promised to be “early bloomers” and beefsteaks that fed their fantasies of BLTs for breakfast.
They toiled in their garden, weeding, watering, enjoying their time together as Max cavorted around them, playfully hiding under the broad zucchini leaves, occasionally leaving offerings of his own in the fertile soil.
“Max! No!” the man yelled, furrowing his brow. He gathered the kitten up, thrust it at the woman who held Max to her chest and stroked his small head with the underside of her chin. “You shouldn’t reward him for bad behavior,” the man admonished.
The woman smiled and patted her partner’s arm. {Prompt} “Don’t be so hard on him,” she said. “He’s only a kitten.”
At night they slept spooned together on a double bed with Max at their feet. After a time, the man began to complain about this. He said sleeping with an animal was unhealthy. She cuddled closer and told him about the new zucchini recipes she’d collected for their prolific plants: fritters and lasagna, breads both sweet and savory. Their freezer was stocked with loaves of it.
By the end of June the zucchini had worn them out. They dug up all but one plant, and felt hugely relieved of responsibility. Max was appreciative of the new expanse of space in what he now considered his alternate litter box. “Max! No!” was a frequent refrain. And just as often as the man called it out, the woman scooped Max up, cradling his rotund kitten tummy in her palm, and snuggled him to her neck. The man frowned, clucked his tongue, shook his head. {Prompt}
In August, the tiny cherry tomatoes, those “early bloomers,” turned yellow and red and orange. The couple thrilled at the sight of them, delighted when the sweet fruit exploded in their mouths. They imagined the tomato-y taste of their vine-ripening beefsteaks and anticipated the pleasure of consuming them together. He bought large Mason jars. She read cookbooks about canning and added tomato sauce recipes to their zucchini collection. They would be ready when the harvesting was upon them. {Prompt}
It happened all at once on a day in late September when the sun was high in the sky. The heavy scent of tomatoes assailed them as soon as they entered their garden. They looked at one another and knew it to be true: the time had arrived. They garnered the fruit and mounded tomato after red tomato into baskets and bowls and buckets with Max darting around their legs and the man shouting his usual complaint, “Max! No!”
That night, as the tomatoes stewed in pots on the stove and they argued over the correct way to add basil (she tore it into small pieces, he sliced the leaves into thin, even strips with a sharp knife) she knew their relationship was over. {Prompt} The next day, she moved out, taking her clothes in two suitcases, half the tomato sauce and Max the cat.
After she left, he discovered the loaves of zucchini bread in the freezer and thought about calling her to collect her share. As he considered this, he wandered into their garden and picked up a clod of dirt. Crushing it between his fingers, he realized it was not a clod of dirt at all. It was instead the final word from Max.
Pat Scott From the Depths pumice rock from 1989 St. Helens' eruption, on antique door stops, and onyx.
