The only reason Andre has the job in the first place is because of his grandfather, a regular since the store opened in 1936. He remembered Tyler laughing at him when he interviewed in a tie, and when he asked why he wanted a job—adding Don’t give me that aspirational college BS—Andre said he needed a paycheck, enough to cover the bills for him and his brother. Pasquali’s is a fine summer job, dull and steady. He arrives at 5:30 a.m. to water the nearly 50 rows of viburnum, wisteria, Rose of Sharon, and cotoneasters, stepping carefully through their tangled, overhanging branches. Mornings are a blur of sales and forced smiles, wet shoes and dirty hands and sunburns that bite at his neck. Evenings are quiet enough to let his mind drift. He returns home exhausted, falls quickly into a hard, dreamless sleep, and wakes before dawn to do it all over again.
But his intention had always been to return to school when the summer ended. Until one day it wasn’t.
“Tell her you’ll keep it for the weekend to figure out what’s wrong,” Tyler says. “And get her to buy something on her way out.”
Mrs. Stewart is pinching the leaf of a snowberry like a baby’s cheek when Andre returns to tell her the news. She pats the root ball goodbye, refuses his offer to show her the new shipment of oakleaves.
The squirrel army watches from the tree with interest.
Andre only knew how to tend to life with the guidance of his grandfather’s hands. He was tender in the knowledge he passed down on those long summer afternoons in his garden, nudging Andre’s shovel deeper when the hole he dug was too shallow and tilting the watering can further to correctly douse the hibiscus. This was his garden after all—a tiny plot of land on the far Northwest side of Chicago that he built over the decades—so he knew by feel alone how much care the earth beneath his feet needed. After Andre’s father left and his mother passed and he and his brother Ivan moved in with their grandparents, his grandfather committed himself to teaching Andre everything he knew about gardening. Together they built a pergola to house his orchid collection, his grandfather pointing out the exact spots for Andre to drill holes. They fertilized the grass in strict, straight lines like marching soldiers. They harvested cherry tomatoes and ate them with dirty hands until their stomachs soured.
Andre realized that gardening was how his grandfather knew how to parent his daughter’s son, because in between their chores he often found ways to instill life lessons. Once as they watched a bee pollinate a sunflower, he awkwardly explained the process of reproduction and how Andre must be intentional about where he placed his stinger. When Andre’s baseball team lost because he swung at a high fastball, his grandfather reminded him that on the years his pepper plants refuse to bear fruit, it’s better to commit to growing more next year than to count the failures of his care. But the lesson he returned to most often was about Andre’s future.
“Whatever you choose for yourself,” he’d say as he packed soil with the heel of his hand, “just make sure it’s something you care enough about to master.”
His grandfather was thrilled when Andre was accepted to college, even though he knew nothing about marketing, British literature, or any of the other classes he was scheduled to take. His grandfather himself didn’t have a high school diploma, but he openly daydreamed about the life Andre would build with a bachelor’s degree. His steady hands had begun to wobble, his stiff legs unable to raise him after he knelt. He no longer guided Andre by hand. Instead, he offered instructions and watched Andre tend to his garden from a nearby chair.
By the time Andre dropped out of school, his grandfather’s increasing falls and coughing fits from the spreading cancer in his throat made it impossible to live in the home he’d built. His grandfather moved to a palliative care facility, his brother Ivan assumed ownership of the house, and Andre allowed his life to stall and the garden to wither.
Andre wonders what his grandfather would do to save this hydrangea. He inspects it in the red glow of the exit sign that leads to the railroad tracks and the Lowe’s that recently opened across the street. Even since this morning, the plant’s blooms have turned inwards and the cigarette burn-like stains have spread to new leaves. But strangely, it doesn’t look like it’s dying, or at least in a way he’s seen before. It’s grown darker, sure, but its stem remains firm. He thinks of calling his grandfather for advice, but he has no idea how to even describe the symptoms.
Andre listens to the squirrel army screech in the shadows as he mindlessly plucks one of the blooms. Something is nestled inside. It looks like a growth at first, but when he pinches it between his fingers and it squishes, he realizes. It’s a fruit.