Chapter 6 - The Secret in Brent's KitchenI met Agnes Whitaker three years earlier at the town library.
She had been looking for large-print books and had apologized twice for taking too long at the counter. She was soft-spoken, slightly stooped, and carried herself with the careful politeness of someone who had spent her life trying not to inconvenience anyone.
When I knocked on Brent's door Tuesday afternoon, she answered herself.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
“Huy? Is that you?”
I smiled.
“Yes, Mrs. Whitaker. It's been a while.”
“Come in, dear.”
Brent was nowhere in sight.
The house smelled of lemon polish. The entryway was spotless, and every piece of furniture appeared carefully arranged. Through the back windows, I could see Dad's garden below the rise.
Agnes followed my gaze.
“It's lovely this time of year.”
The words surprised me.
“You like the garden?”
“My late husband used to grow tomatoes. We had a little patch behind our first house.”
She sat in an armchair.
“Arthur brings me vegetables sometimes. Or he used to.”
I felt a knot tighten in my chest.
“Did you know he was still delivering them to you?”
She looked down at her hands.
“Not recently. Brent doesn't like me going out there.”
“Why?”
Agnes took a long time to answer.
“When I had surgery, I couldn't cook for several weeks. Arthur brought a box of vegetables to the house. Brent had just lost his job, and I knew he was struggling. Arthur told me not to mention the food to anyone.”
“Brent was unemployed?”
“For almost nine months.”
I thought about the immaculate house, the expensive deck, the new fence.
“He told you not to tell anyone?”
“No. I told Arthur not to tell him.”
Her voice trembled slightly.
“Brent has always believed he must be the person who takes care of everyone. When his business failed, he couldn't bear the thought of people knowing. He was ashamed.”
“What does that have to do with the garden?”
Agnes turned toward the window.
“His wife left shortly before they moved here. She told him she couldn't live with his anger anymore. He doesn't talk about it, but he believes people judge him constantly. He thinks that if the house looks perfect, perhaps nobody will notice the rest.”
I remembered Brent standing on his deck in his robe, staring at the garden with open contempt.
“He's hurting people because he's afraid they'll see him hurting?”
“I'm afraid so.”
I wanted to feel sympathy.
Part of me did.
But sympathy didn't erase the damage he was causing.
“Mrs. Whitaker, the county may force Dad to remove the garden.”
Her eyes widened.
“Remove it?”
“He has thirty days.”
Agnes gripped the arms of her chair.
“But so many people depend on it.”
I looked at her.
“You knew?”
“I knew some. Arthur never told me everything. He simply said the vegetables needed to go somewhere.”
She rose slowly and walked toward a small cabinet.
From it, she took a brown envelope.
“I've kept this for years.”
Inside were photographs: Dad and Mom standing beside an enormous harvest of potatoes, Teresa carrying crates, and several children holding baskets of tomatoes.
In one photograph, a younger Brent stood beside Dad.
He was wearing a work shirt, his face covered in sweat, holding a shovel.
I stared at the picture.
“When was this taken?”
“About fifteen years ago. Before his business failed.”
Agnes touched the photograph.
“Brent volunteered for two summers. He helped Arthur build the irrigation system. He used to say the garden was the best thing about living here.”
I felt the room tilt around me.
Brent hadn't simply overlooked the purpose of the garden.
He had once helped build it.
“Why did he stop?”
Agnes's mouth tightened.
“His company went bankrupt. He was sued by a partner. Then his marriage fell apart. He began to believe that everyone who offered help was secretly looking down on him.”
She placed the photograph in my hands.
“Please don't tell him I gave you this.”
I nodded.
Then she asked a question that made me stop at the doorway.
“Has Arthur started forgetting things?”
I turned.
“What?”
“Sometimes he repeats himself. He came here last month and left his truck running in the driveway. I didn't think much of it, but…”
She looked embarrassed.
“I'm afraid he's pushing himself too hard.”
I thought of Dad struggling to tighten the screw on his hoe.
The trembling in his fingers.
The early mornings.
The endless rows he maintained alone.
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“I don't know.”
I thanked Agnes and left.
On the walk home, I carried the photograph inside my coat.
I found Dad in the shed, stacking seed trays.
“Why didn't you tell me Brent used to help you build the garden?”
Dad stopped moving.
“Agnes told you.”
“She didn't mean to hurt you.”
“I didn't say she did.”
I held out the photograph.
For a moment, he looked almost twenty years younger.
Then he sighed.
“Brent was a good worker back then.”
“What happened?”
“Life.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No,” he said. “It isn't.”
He sat on a wooden crate.
“He lost everything he thought made him a man. His company, his marriage, his savings. After that, he couldn't accept help from anybody.”
“Then why doesn't he just leave the garden alone?”
Dad looked at the photograph again.
“Because every time he looks at those rows, he remembers the person he was before he decided that needing people was a weakness.”
I stared at him.
“And what are we supposed to do about that?”
Dad returned the picture to me.
“Nothing. His life is his own.”
Then he stood, reached for another stack of trays, and winced as a sharp pain crossed his face.
“Dad?”
“I'm fine.”
May you like
But when he turned away, I saw him press one hand against his chest.
And for the first time, I wondered whether saving the garden might mean losing the man who had spent his life tending it.
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