“Come see the newest addition I just planted in our garden,” Jacob Marks called to Helen Murphy, another tenant and garden committee member who was weeding the area where the yellow, purple, and white spring crocuses had just begun to pop up. She stopped and walked over to Jacob who was standing in a corner of the garden next to the black, wrought iron gate going out to the sidewalk. Jacob, like her, was a tenant at The View, a co-op apartment building on Manhattan’s upper west side, and one of the founding members of the co-op’s garden committee. He was a tall, lanky man in his late fifties who wore a wide-brimmed hat and a bandana around his neck whenever he worked outside, and shorts and sandals, even in November.

            “What have we here?” Helen asked.

            “This is a Sweet Spirit Grandiflora Tree Rose,” Jacob said. “I purchased it this morning from a Long Island nursery. It has a strong, sweet fragrance and will produce large, scarlet-pink roses through the fall.”

            “Sounds delightful,” Helen said.

            She looked at the young bush with sparse branches and dark green pointy leaves. “It should do well here. This area gets lots of sun.”

            “We’ll see,” Jacob said. “Sure hope so.”

In the days immediately following the planting, other tenants came to see the rosebush, and during the succeeding months, whenever they passed through the garden, they continued to stop and see how it was doing, as if making regular check-ins on a newborn in a hospital.

            “Look at our rosebush,” seventy-year-old Sarah said to sixty-eight-year-old Lucy, her friend and neighbor, as they walked through the garden to the street, one June morning. “It’s growing. See the new branches.” She bent down and gently touched the leaves. “Come on, honey. We’re all excited to see your scarlet-pink roses Jacob keeps promising.”

            One afternoon, later that week, Sarah and Lucy were enjoying cake and iced tea in Sarah’s apartment.

            “Remember when Jacob started our garden with two other former tenants?” Lucy asked. “Twenty years ago. They had to get permission from the Board of Directors.”

            “I remember,” Sarah said. “All the work those young guys did. Researching the types of flowers that would grow best in our crazy New York weather. Designing the flower beds and the winding, pebbled paths.”

            “All our flowers are so beautiful!” Lucy exclaimed. “Who would have known that our gorgeous garden would have increased the desirability of living in our building.”

            “It certainly takes a lot to maintain it. Jacob told me that now we have fifteen tenant volunteers on the garden committee,” Sarah said.

            “Wish I could help, but this old body won’t let me,” Lucy said. She touched her lower back and flexed her hands. “Everything hurts.”

            “Do you think our rosebush will last through the winter?” Sarah asked Jacob when she saw him in the garden one afternoon, shortly after Thanksgiving. “I heard it’s going to be extremely cold, this year.”

            “It’ll be fine, Sarah. Don’t worry. I’m going to wrap it in burlap for protection.”

            In late May of the following year, Sarah witnessed the bush’s first buds that then blossomed into the famed scarlet-pink flowers. “Every time I see these flowers, I get happy,” she told Jacob one afternoon when she saw him deadheading the marigolds.

            Jacob looked up at Sarah and smiled. “As the bush matures, it will have even more roses,” he said.                                           

            Soon, the rosebush had branches that stretched through the gate like dogs and cats in a pet store butting their faces up against their cages, and the roses’ fragrance was so aromatic that passersby stopped to smell them up close. Although other buildings in the neighborhood also had rosebushes on their premises, this bush was the one everyone in the neighborhood raved about, and it was also the one plant in the garden that the tenants engaged with.

            One morning, Molly, the babysitter for Sammy and Jessica Seidelman, was pushing three-year-old Sammy in a stroller through the garden, while seven-year-old Jessica scooted behind. Molly stopped in front of the rosebush and pulled out her phone.

            “Jessica, come stand here so I can take a picture of you and send it to your mom.”

            Later that morning, Eduardo opened the gate to the co-op, and he and his girlfriend, Tamara, walked into the garden from the street, holding hands. When they were a few steps inside, Eduardo gently pulled Tamara towards the rosebush.

            “Let’s take a Selfie,” he said, moving in close to Tamara, laying his head on her shoulder, and putting one arm around her waist. Then he held his cell up high in front of them.

            “Smile, monkey face,” he said, and Tamara started to laugh.

            “One more,” Eduardo said, moving to the other side of her, kissing Tamara on her cheek, and snapping a second photo, the colorful blooms wrapping around them.

            On most days in the afternoons, Jeanette, a tenant on the sixth floor, brought a folding chair, drawing pad, and pastels to the garden and sketched the rosebush.

            “Your work is beautiful,” said Gordon, a tenant in apartment 5C who had stopped to admire the single rose Jeanette was drawing. “So much detail.”

            During the third year, the rosebush continued to provide pleasure to the tenants, although the flowers were less abundant than the previous year. Then, late that summer, Sarah noticed that it had become straggly and had lost many leaves.

            “The rosebush isn’t doing well,” she reported to Jacob. “I’m concerned.”

             “We love the bush. Please find out what’s wrong. Frankly, it looks like it’s dying,” Gordon wrote in an e-mail to the garden committee.

            The committee determined the rosebush was free from disease and insects, and members continued to water, fertilize, and prune it. None of this helped, and that winter, Jacob again wrapped it in burlap to protect it from the elements.

            The following spring, in its fourth year, the bush surprised the tenants with new branches and leaves and an abundance of showy flowers. Then, in mid-August, the leaves again fell off, and the plant stopped producing new blooms.

            One late-August morning, Sarah met Jeanette in the mailroom.

            “That rosebush is so unpredictable,” she said.

            “Maybe rosebushes go through different growth cycles,” Jeanette suggested. “Some years, the bush gave us a plethora of large roses. Other years, the branches are sparce and there are fewer flowers.”

            “That’s an interesting thought,” Sarah said. “I guess it’s in its ‘slow cycle,’ now.”

            “What happened? Where’s the rosebush?” Jeanette asked Damon, the security guard, as she walked through the garden to the street, one afternoon, a few days later.

            Damon shook his head. “Jacob came by and yanked it out of the ground with his bare hands, then threw the bush over the side of the building onto the lot below.”

            Jeanette shifted her gaze back and forth from Damon to the empty hole where the rosebush had been, and then back to Damon.

            “Wow!” she said. “We’re going to have some very unhappy people in this building when they find out.”

            “I told Jacob the bush was still producing roses,” Damon said. “But Jacob just looked at me and laughed. Then he said, the summer flowers in this garden are still blooming. He had lots of buds in the spring, but only one single rose all summer long. Said it made the corner by the gate look terrible.”

            As word spread that the rosebush had been removed, tenants went to the garden to check for themselves.

            “It’s true. It’s gone,” Sarah said to Lucy one afternoon when they visited the garden.

            A few minutes later, Helen arrived. She walked to where a coiled hose was lying on the ground, pulled it over to the bed of portulacas, and turned on the water.

            “Helen, how could the committee remove the rosebush without telling us?” Sarah yelled to her from across the garden.

            “We don’t know any more than you.”

            “What do you mean? You’re on the garden committee.”

            “We didn’t have a meeting,” Helen said. “Jacob didn’t tell us anything. Damon told us what he saw and what Jacob said to him.”

            During a tenant meeting in the lobby one evening a few days later, a third-floor resident asked why the rosebush had been removed.

            “It was Jacob who removed the bush,” Michael, the co-op board president, said. “He’s not here, and I don’t want to speak for him. I can tell you that when I questioned him, he told me he was tired of it. Said he bought it with his money, and he planted it. Felt he had the right to remove it.”

            Tenants wiggled in their seats, upset by Jacob’s apparent indifference to their feelings.

            “I understand he was tired of the bush, but he planted it in our garden,” Jeanette said.

             “Since the garden is community property, the rosebush was actually a gift from Jacob to the tenants in the co-op. It was not just Jacob’s rosebush. That rosebush belonged to all of us.”

            “Jeanette’s right,” Gordon said. “Jacob had an obligation to inform us, first.”

            “And we would have protested,” Helen said. “Besides, the bush wasn’t dead. We checked for insects and disease and scraped away the bark from a portion of a branch. Green filament was there, so we knew the plant was still alive, just dormant.”

            “I feel so sad,” Sarah said. “That rosebush brought such joy. What Jacob did was unforgiveable. He should resign.”

            “I agree,” Lucy said. “We certainly don’t want him to make any other impulsive and harmful decisions.”

            “We can ask him to step-down. But remember, he’s a founding member of the garden committee,” Michael said.

            “Wait a second,” Lourdes, a second-floor tenant said. “I’m not so sure I agree with all of you. It’s the garden committee’s job to preserve and keep our garden in good condition. That sad-looking bush detracted from the garden’s attractiveness. Frankly, I probably would have done the same thing.”

            The next day, Jacob was in the garden watering the petunias. Mrs. Stewart and Amy, her five-year-old daughter, tenants on the third floor, had just opened the gate and were coming in from the street. Suddenly, Amy stopped and stared at the vacant space where the rosebush had been. Seconds later, she burst into tears.

            “Mommy, somebody took my rosebush” she said.

            Jacob turned off the hose and walked over to her.

            “I pulled it out, a few days ago. The plant was old and not doing well.”

            “Put it back,” Amy demanded.

            “I can’t do that, but in a few days, I’m going to plant some pink, purple, yellow, and red zinnias in that corner. You can help me.”

            “No, I won’t!” Amy said, crossing her arms and scrunching up her face.

            During spring of the next year, Helen noticed a posting in the neighborhood on-line newsletter from a tenant in an apartment building two avenues over: “Thanks to Andrew P. for planting the discarded rosebush he found in the lot last summer. It survived the winter and is thriving. Come see it!”

            Helen called Jacob to share the news and together they went to see the bush.

            “There it is, our rosebush,” Helen said, walking up to it in the center of the lot and bending down to smell the flowers.

            Jacob followed. “It’s doing well,” he said, noting the many new branches with healthy green leaves and plentiful blooms. “There was nothing here when I tossed the bush. Just dirt and rocks.”  He scanned the lot. Now, sod covered the entire area and dwarf boxwood shrubs framed the periphery of the lot on three sides. On the fourth side, a chain-link fence separated the garden and the sidewalk. Spring flowers in decorative containers evenly placed around the garden’s periphery, added vibrant splashes of color to the space.

            “Somebody’s done a fantastic job transforming this lot into a garden,” Jacob said.

            “That’s for sure,” Helen said, turning from the rosebush to Jacob. “I know the other tenants would be thrilled if we could return the bush to our garden.”

            “That would be wonderful,” Jacob said, smiling broadly. “I feel terrible about what I did. Didn’t know everyone was so attached to it.”

            Helen affectionately patted his back. “Let’s see if we can find the super.”

            In the lobby, a middle-aged man wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt was mopping the marble floor.

            “Excuse me, sir,” Jacob said. “Can you tell me who’s in charge of the garden?”

            “I am. Andrew Pomerantz. Superintendent and resident green thumb.” He looked Jacob and Helen up and down. “And you are?”

            Jacob extended his hand. “Jacob Marks. This is Helen Murphy. We live up there in The View,” he said, gesturing to the tall beige building with balconies overlooking the Hudson River. “We’re both members of our garden committee.”

            “Neighbors and fellow gardeners. Pleased to meet you both,” Andrew said. “I used to be a professional gardener before I became superintendent of this building.”

            “You’ve got an impressive rosebush out there,” Jacob said.

            Andrew beamed. “That bush was my inspiration to start the garden. Last summer, it was just lying there in the dirt. Such a sorry looking thing. I planted it in a container and wrapped it in burlap before the first snowfall. It survived the frigid winter.”

            “I’m embarrassed to say this,” Jacob said, “but I’m the one who threw the bush over the wall. We—”

            Andrew looked at Jacob wide-eyed. “Forgive me for interrupting, but why would you do that?”

            “I was impatient. I wanted to see roses every year, all season long.” Jacob shook his head. “I didn’t realize the bush has periods of slow growth. The other tenants were very fond of that bush and furious at me for pulling it up.”

            “I can certainly understand their feelings,” Andrew said.

            “The tenants in our building would be grateful if I could give them back their rosebush.”

            Andrew shook his head. “I can’t help you, Jacob.”

            Jacob reached for his wallet.

            Again, Andrew shook his head, more vigorously, this time. “Put your money away, Jacob.”

            “I’ll give you a hundred dollars,” Jacob said, pulling out twenties.

            “The rosebush is thriving here. The tenants like that I transformed the empty lot into a garden, and they enjoy the rosebush and the other flowers.”

            “I understand what you’re saying, Andrew. I trust you can also understand my predicament.”

            “It seems you and I think differently, Jacob,” Andrew said. “If I see a discarded plant on the street that has a little sprout of green, I bring it home and try to revive it. You should see the number of plants I’ve saved from destruction and how they’re thriving.”

            “I guess that’s that,” Jacob said, looking to Helen.

            Andrew smiled. “Good to meet you folks.”

            As they walked back to The View, Jacob turned to Helen and shrugged. “At least I tried,” he said. “It will be difficult to tell everyone that I couldn’t get the bush back.”

            “You did your best, Jacob. Surely, they will appreciate that.”

            At the next co-op meeting, a week later, Jacob spoke to the tenants.

            “I know many of you were upset that I removed the rosebush without consulting you. I thought it was beyond hope. It turned out I was very wrong about the bush and what I did. Last week, I spoke to the super at the bush’s new home and explained our situation to him. Even tried to buy back the bush. He wasn’t interested. I’m sorry.”

            On Earth Day, the following spring, Jacob carefully removed a rosebush from its container and placed it in a hole he had just dug, next to the zinnias. As he was adding more soil around the plant to fill the hole, Sarah and Lucy entered the garden from the street.

            “Is this a replacement?” Sarah asked, glancing past the marigold and petunia plants and over at the bush.

            “This is a Grandiflora rosebush, like our former one,” he said. “We’ll have lavender roses, maybe by the end of this summer.”

            “I’m sure they’ll be very pretty,” Sarah said, coolly.

            Jacob smiled wryly, getting her message. “Well, this time, Sarah, I’m not going to interfere. I’ll let the rosebush do whatever it needs to.”

            Sarah looked at him. “You know, Jacob, that is the way to manage many things, except maybe children. We all have a way of regenerating ourselves. Even you, I see,” she said, her eyes smiling. “I look forward to the flowers.”

About the Author:

Carol Pierce was born and raised in New York City. She holds a B.A. in English, an M.S.Ed. in Special Education, and a Professional Certificate in Supervision and Administration from Hunter College. She was a teacher and Assistant Principal with the NYC Department of Education for more than 20 years. An emerging writer, Carol enjoys the power of words and writing short stories that transport readers to other worlds. Her stories have appeared in Drunk Monkeys, The Write Launch, Griffel, and Twist & Twain. In addition to writing, Carol enjoys swimming and researching her Hungarian roots.