Mary Ann wrote the comments beside the plant numbers. She did not know whether she was collecting useful market research or simply giving herself a reason to return to the notebook after supper. She found she liked having an answer to the question of what she had done that day. There were still quiet evenings when she reached for Walter's coffee cup by mistake, and still mornings when she felt no particular desire to get out of bed. But the seedlings did not care how she felt, and sometimes their need for ordinary attention made the difference.
In early September, Hollis Pruitt stopped by with a spare length of irrigation tubing on the bed of his truck. He had lived two properties down from Mary Ann and Walter for twenty years, long enough that neither household bothered with formal invitations. Hollis was a retired produce buyer with a back that stiffened after driving and hands that had spent a lifetime testing fruit by weight, scent, and firmness. He spoke infrequently, but when he did he expected to be listened to.
"Larry says you've become a tomato scientist," he announced, opening his truck door.
"Larry exaggerates."
"He says you've got half a field of plants and every one has a number."
"That's closer."
Hollis walked the rows slowly, pausing to turn a leaf over and study the underside. He looked at the soft fruit, the cracked fruit, the thick-skinned processing types, and the small group Mary Ann had marked as worth saving. He did not flatter her. He picked a tomato she had been proud of, pressed one finger against a weak spot near its shoulder, and handed it back without tasting it.
"That one won't travel," he said.
"I'm not sending it anywhere."
"Not yet."
She glanced at him. "You know something I don't?"
"A few things. Mostly I know how to recognize somebody who's paying more attention than she admits."
They sat on overturned buckets near the shed, looking over the rows. Hollis asked how many plants she intended to save seed from, then asked what criteria mattered most. She answered with a scattered list: flavor, fruit production, healthy leaves, strong stems, a willingness to ripen before the heat broke. He listened until she stopped.
"You're not growing tomatoes," he said. "You're growing decisions. Every year, you decide which ones get to keep existing. That's the whole job."
Mary Ann smiled faintly. "It sounds better the way you say it."
"It'll sound worse when you throw away the plant you've been babying since April because the fruit's no good. But that's the job, too."
He stayed long enough to help repair a leaking fitting on her garden hose. Before leaving, he took two tomatoes, one dark red and one almost purple, and promised to tell her whether they were worth another season. Mary Ann watched his truck disappear down the lane and looked over the field again. The rows no longer resembled the neat summer vegetable gardens she remembered from childhood. Some were ragged, some almost bare, and several carried plants she already knew she would not repeat.