The squirrels at Pasquali’s Garden Center are building an army.
Andre first notices as he waters the shrubs before the store opens and their abyss-black eyes watch from behind the boxwoods. They fan out into blitzkriegs of matted fur to raid fallen fruit and retreat to the oak tree near the murky, koi-less koi pond, their mouths stained red with raspberries. Their leader—a black squirrel the employees have nicknamed “The General”— hisses from its nest and admires the army’s work. His boss Tyler vows to cut the tree down, but after weeks of complaining, all he’s done is swing and miss at passing squirrels with his broom. They’ve nearly reached the end of the growing season anyway; the squirrels are fattening up on deeply discounted plants just as the store is trimming its employee headcount. Tyler’s already let go of most of the cashiers, landscapers, and the groundskeeper Marko for stealing all the hand shovels. By fall, the squirrels will return to their nests, leaving Andre, Tyler, and an empty store. But every time the army regroups, they return in larger numbers, the tree growing crowded and their chirping battle cry resounding from shadowed branches.
Andre is in the middle of a staring contest with a soldier when Mrs. Stewart, his first customer of the day, hands him a limelight hydrangea and asks Can you save this? When Andre started, Tyler informed him that the widow of Francis Stewart of Stewart, Stuart, & Steward Personal Injury Law is to be treated like royalty. She’s spent nearly $20,000 on landscaping this summer alone. So Andre runs his finger along the plant’s stem and pretends to think of an answer. She’s nestled the plant in a roll of damp paper towels like a diaper, its tangled root system a fist gripping clumps of dirt. The hydrangea’s snow-white flowers are splintered with decay. Its leaves are pockmarked with rot.
“You’re under-watering,” Andre says, his go-to answer for any dying plant.
“But I water every sunrise. I spray only the ground with the jet setting and finish with a soft mist.”
“Is it getting enough sun?”
“Yes,” she says. “And do you notice that strange odor? It’s making my entire garden smell like honey.”
Andre leans in and takes a whiff. He thinks he catches a distant sweetness, sure, but he has no idea what the plant actually should smell like. It’s a limelight hydrangea, right? Still, he can’t let Mrs. Stewart see that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“Let me consult with my manager.”
Andre finds Tyler smoking a cigarette and snipping a pot of roses in the “office,” which is nothing more than a covered gazebo with a desktop computer. He inspects the hydrangea in Andre’s hands without taking off his aviators.
“You’re the assistant manager now,” he says. “Figure it out.”
Tyler continues to de-bud. Withered rose heads pile on concrete.
“Christine from register five has been asking about you,” Snip, a beheaded bud. “A group of us are going to Avondale Park after work if you want to come.”
Andre’s hands are moist from the damp paper towels. Tyler is 26, far too old to be drinking with high schoolers and college freshmen. When he wears his aviators on the back of his White Sox hat, Andre sees the etchings of crow’s feet across his leathery, sun-marked face.
“Can you just tell me what’s wrong with the hydrangea?”
“When I agreed to keep you on past the summer, I told you to be more social and take charge.” Snip. “You know, show me you want this.”