at sea, they show up at Mrs. Zagretti’s for dessert — tasty bread crumbs dipped in fat and salted just so, as if she knows exactly how they like it.
The moment the door opens, the birds attack, flapping raucously over the fence to land on her shoulders. Bowl in hand, Mrs. Zagretti tosses bits of bread over the railing. The clever gulls catch the food in midair. Once they’ve gobbled up the last morsels, she goes back into the house. The birds linger on surrounding roofs to wait for more, but when the miracle fails to occur, they fly back out to sea, where the bowl of food is never empty.
Betty doesn’t wear a watch. She likes to rely on the widow.
At about ten o’clock, a taxi arrives to transport Mrs. Zagretti to her son’s grocery store. At three in the afternoon, she returns home laden with groceries and stale bread for the insatiable birds.
When Betty is busy with a literary text, she loses track of time. Only when Mrs. Zagretti’s taxi appears does she realize she must put away her work before the children come home from school.
Betty works at the machine only in winter. In summer she devotes herself to the children. Also, in hot weather, friends she hasn’t heard from all winter call on the telephone. They come for a swim in the sea and stay for supper, leaving behind wet towels and a carpet full of sand.
Betty’s friendship with the widow began over the fence. The two of them sought to display their horticultural know-how, each on her own turf. Mrs. Zagretti won the contest. Not only did she have a green thumb — all ten fingers yielded a plentiful crop. She was privy to the secrets of the green world, knew what the plants wanted and lovingly fulfilled their every need. She showed her Jewish neighbor which ones needed full sun, which could manage with less. The two exchanged tomato seedlings, cucumbers, zucchini, a variety of flowers.
“Life, my dear, is a garden full of all kinds of plants,” Mrs. Zagretti said. “People, too, are plants that must be cultivated if they are to reach their highest potential.”
In the summer, Mrs. Zagretti spent all day in her garden. She cared for every plant as if it were a living creature, caressing each with her hands, her eyes, and, it seemed to Betty, her heart.
The pride of her garden was the fig tree, which had been imported from Italy. During the winter, the tree was wrapped from top to toe in a black cloth. In April, when all danger of frost had passed, Mrs. Zagretti uncovered the tree as reverently as one would unwrap the mummy of an ancient pharaoh. The delivery of the tree into the hands of the spring sun always took place on a Sunday, before mass. Then, usually on Good Friday, the whole family — her son and daughter-in-law, the daughter-in-law’s parents, and their children — would take part in a ceremony, dancing around the tree as if it were a pagan god.
With a little sun, a little rain, and a little organic fertilizer, the tree would begin to sprout. Red buds appeared among the branches. They grew fuller every day, until, to Mrs. Zagretti’s delight, leaves burst open like green spoons in the sunshine. Every morning and evening she watered the tree, counting the blossoms and later the fruits. She spoke to the tree in Italian.
At the end of September, when the widow Zagretti harvested her figs, she talked to herself in a melodious voice, perhaps even singing a song as she worked. Over the fence, she presented Betty with a dozen of the green fruits on a plate covered with an embroidered cloth.
“You’re the only one who appreciates the fruits of my fig tree,” she said. “My own daughter-in-law doesn’t deserve them. Anyone who says that figs from a can are as good as the ones from a tree isn’t worthy of a real, natural fruit — a fruit grown without chemicals or artificial fertilizer, a fruit as God created it. But what can you expect from an American girl who paints her fingernails and dyes her hair!”
Betty obliged her neighbor. She extolled the figs and assured Mrs. Zagretti that only an Italian tree could have produced such delicious fruit. Her interactions with the widow were unfailingly warm and sincere. She listened to her talk about the same topics over and over: the garden, the economy, her son’s grocery store, and the shortcomings of her American daughter-in-law.
One fine winter day when Betty is busy at her typewriter, Mrs. Zagretti knocks at the door. Looking out the window and seeing her on the way, Betty can’t believe her eyes. In the three years since she and her family moved into the neighborhood, the widow has never once darkened her doorstep, nor has Betty ever set foot in her house. The friendship has never crossed over the fence. For the first year, Mrs. Zagretti deliberately ignored the Jewish family. She seemed to have decided not to see Betty’s friendly smile or to respond to her greetings. The house had previously belonged to an Italian family, and Mrs. Zagretti was unable to adapt to the change. Not until spring arrived, when the two women began working in the garden, did they forge an unexpected connection, an emotional affinity that bound them like roots intertwined under the fence.
Mrs. Zagretti noticed that contrary to expectations her Jewish neighbor had a natural gift for gardening. It was Betty’s ungloved hands that gave her away. Standing on her side of the fence, she was surprised to see Betty scratching at the soil with bare fingers — something her daughter-in-law would never have done. She leaned over the fence and offered her new neighbor half a dozen gladiolus bulbs, along with instructions as to how to plant and tend them, how to dig them up at the end of the summer, how to store them for the next season.
The second spring, Mrs. Zagretti presented Betty with some tomato plants started from seed that were ready to be put into the ground. Every morning the two women greeted each other with a friendly “Good morning,” and every evening they wished each other a good night. But they never invited each other into their homes. The garden brought them together, and as the garden blossomed, so did the friendship — but never did it cross their thresholds.
Now, when the widow knocks at the door, Betty greets her with undisguised amazement. She isn’t sure whether to invite her in or deal with her in the doorway. Sensing her hesitation, Mrs. Zagretti steps in without ceremony. “Close the door,” she says. “No sense letting the heat out.”
Mrs. Zagretti removes her coat but not the black shawl covering her head. She sits down and fingers her rosary as if she were seated before the priest in a confession booth rather than in a Jewish home.
Betty flutters around her guest, making coffee and waiting for her to speak.
“Why didn’t you go to your son at the store?” she asks. “Is something wrong?”
Mrs. Zagretti stares at her neighbor in surprise. “Ah, you notice everything,” she says. “No, I couldn’t bring myself to do business on a day like today.”
Betty sips her coffee and studies her older neighbor out of the corner of her eye. Mrs. Zagretti has not touched her coffee. Something has definitely happened, Betty decides. Or is today a religious holiday? No, it has to be something personal — the shadow clouding her neighbor’s face attests to that. Her nose seems sharper than ever and her cheeks are sunken, with no sign of their summer color. Only the severe black line of her eyebrows hints at her former radiance.
Mrs. Zagretti sits silently, absorbed in herself — until suddenly she stands up and makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Too bad your walls are so bare!” she exclaims.
“What do you mean?” Betty asks.
“The people before you had holy pictures on the walls.”
“But Jews don’t put up religious pictures,” Betty says.
“A house without a picture, my mother used to say, is like a heart without a god,” Mrs. Zagretti says. “When
