This week's story is called "Tomatoes". It was written by John Robinson Junior. Here is Walter Gathery with our story.

Mother let no one touch the tomatoes. Why? was a mystery to me. I watched her working in the tomato patch. Her sun-browned hands seemed to touch each plant, each green leaf lovingly, as if it were a newborn child. I was worried. She spent so much time in the hot sun. I decided to speak to her about it. This was not easy. Since father's death, she liked to be alone. She was withdrawn most of the time.

"Mother," I asked, "why do you tire yourself out like a young farmhand, you have plenty of help."

"Oh, Jimmy," she said it in a slow breath as she rose to her feet. She brushed some damp hair from her cheek and breathed deeply for a moment. I had never seen her so short of breath. I had also noticed that she seemed always tired around the house.

"Shoo..!" she said, "Isn't it a hot day for the end of June, a real scorcher?"
"You should stay indoors," I answered, "there is no reason to waste your strength out here." She smiled and let me lead her back to the house holding my arm.

"You must not worry about me, Jimmy!" she walked beside me with slow careful steps. “You have your law studies to worry about. Besides, what do you know about running a farm?"

"Well, not much, I guess." My arm stiffened. She must have sensed that I was hurt, because she quickly talked about something else.

"Are you sure they will not object to the college you staying home, I mean?"

"No, father's funeral was so near the end of the class term, there is no reason to go back. They'll mail my marks. Besides, I like being here with you. I never seem to be with you enough."

"Yes, yes, it is nice," she said, entering the kitchen. "Now, you sit down and let me get you some lemonade. I know how you used to love lemonade when you were little."

I smiled and shook my head at her, "I always hated lemonade, mother, it was Jenny who loved it!" My sister Jenny died at ten when we were both children.

"Uh, Heavens above," she laughed, "I'm going to be a joke around the farm soon, an absent-minded old woman."

She went to the sink and washed her red tomato-colored hands. "The tomatoes are good this year, Jimmy, big and firm and lots of them ripe already."

"Yes, I saw them. And I've seen you out in that field everyday since the funeral. Why don't you let the help worry about the tomatoes, you have enough to do in the house."

She turned and looked at me. "Jimmy," she said firmly, "don't interfere with my work on the farm, I know you mean well. But there is so little you understand about things. I'm trying to learn to live with my loneliness, Jimmy, I must do it in my own way." She was close to tears. I said nothing more. She walked hurriedly out of the kitchen.

I sat for a long time without moving. I did not know what to do. My thoughts were all mixed up. I knew I had interfered and did not blame her for telling me not to. But this only made me feel even more useless. Every attempt I made to understand her problem only drove us further apart. I'd never been a part of the farm really. Father gave up trying to teach me how to farm early in my life. He saw how much I loved books. I was given small jobs around the farm and no more was expected from me. When business began to get better, seasonal farm workers were used and even my small jobs were taken away from me. That seemed to be the final break with the farm, then there was school, college. Jenny was mother's pride and delight. She would always be outdoors, running between the roads of vegetables and fruits, laughing and asking questions. She was everything my parents could have wished for during her ten years of life. Now, mother was left with only a son, who was a stranger, and an empty house, full of memories of father's deep laughter and lively footsteps of my sister.

I felt bad and left the kitchen and walked through the hallway and upstairs to my room. Later, mother came to the door and looked in.

"Mrs. Austrimv was just visiting, Jimmy, she is such a nice woman. Remember when she used to bring you a cake when you had the chickenpox?"

"I remember. But it was Jenny who had the chickenpox." I laughed.

"Yes, yes, of course, it was Jenny." She was lost in her thoughts for a moment, but checked herself when she saw I was watching her. "Well, I'm going to take a nice nap; I'll pick some of those tomatoes later."

I found it hard to read my book that afternoon. I kept wondering about mother. I was puzzled. Why did she give so much of herself to the tomatoes? It was almost dinner time when I went downstairs. Mother was not in the kitchen and dinner had not been started. The house was empty. I left the house and began to walk around the farm. The ground seemed strange under my feet. I tried to make myself realize that this was where I was born and grew up. But it was impossible. The farm seemed to be part of someone else's life, someone I knew, but who was not me. I walked toward the tomato patch. I knew where mother was. She was at the farthest end of the patch, too far from the house for me to have seen her before. A large basket of tomatoes lay on the ground. She was on her knees beside it, her face was buried in her hands, her body was shaking. She looked small, smaller than she usually did. I went to her. When she realized she was not alone, she began to wipe her eyes and shame.

"I know I'm interfering again, mother," I said softly, "but I must know how I can help. Please tell me why you spend all your time out here when it makes you so unhappy?" She was silent for a long time.

"Jimmy," she said finally, not looking at me but staring straight ahead, "your father planted these tomatoes."
"Father? But he was so ill." She put out a hand, gently touching the bush in front of her. "He was too ill to work. But he would not let the walls of sickroom shut him in and smother him to death. He loved the fresh air and sun and working in the ground. You could not stop him from doing something. I tried to talk him out of it and he promised not to tire himself. And so, everyday he came out and planted a few tomato seeds. And these plants are the only part of the crop that was his. I feel there the only part of him I have left still living. And they will be gone at the end of the summer."

I got on my knees beside her and put her head on my shoulder. "Mother, I know I've never been much use to you here."

"But you're going to be a lawyer, Jimmy. I always wanted you to live the life you chose for yourself."

"I know mother, but this is part of my life too. I regret not taking more of an interest, I feel so unnecessary. I want to spend part of my time here even after I begin working as a lawyer. Think you could teach me a little about farming?" She did not answer.

"It sounds foolish to talk this way after all these years, doesn't it? But mother, there is more of father still living than these tomatoes. You have to realize that. There is a part of father that will live after this summer and the next."

Slowly, she drew away from me. Our eyes met and a change came over her face. Her expression showed surprise at what I said, she touched my cheek. "Jimmy," she cried, "Oh Jimmy, I'm such an old fool." And she stood up and with the youthful energy I always remember in her, got her basket before I could take it and walked sharply ahead of me to the house.

Later, at the dinner table while pouring me a second cup of coffee, she said, "You know Jimmy, the profit on tomatoes is higher all the time. Next year, I think I'll have a bigger and better crop." She smiled over the coffee pot. "If you spend your vacation here, would you like to help with it?"

You have heard the American story "Tomatoes". It was written by John Robinson Junior. Your storyteller was Walter Gathery. The story was published in Best American Short Stories Volume Eight, edited by Robert Oberfirst. This story is copyrighted. All rights reserved. This is Shirley Griffith.