But goddamn, his grandfather sounded so excited, so Andre continued to lie until he could no longer bear to listen to himself.
“I’m proud of you.”
His grandfather begins to cough, a fit of wet, gagging heaves. Andre looks out the window at the garden lit dimly in the floodlights, which cast silhouettes of withered tomato stalks, rotted pumpkins, and daylilies smothered in a blanket of untamed weeds. He’d told his grandfather he’d keep the garden just as he’d left it, a desperate promise in hopes that he’d one day make it back home to appreciate it again.
“Hey, Papaw,” Andre says. “What do I do if a plant gets infected?”
But his grandfather doesn’t answer, and his breaths have grown fainter. Andre calls for him a few times, holds the phone tight to his ear to listen for any reason not to think the worst. Then he begins to snore. It’s not the first time he’s fallen asleep during a call, but tonight it brings relief instead of annoyance.
Andre lies back down onto the floor and listens to the snores, letting Ivan continue to hammer at his chest until he feels confident enough to declare his life saved.
Andre arrives at work the next day to discover that the squirrel army has destroyed both the perennial and annual sections and raided most of the fruits. During the peak of the season, these tight aisles are clogged with shoppers and geraniums, impatiens, and marigolds bursting from their pots like hot pink and crimson fireworks. But now the store looks more like the battlefield of a one-sided war. Pots covered in 50% off stickers strew the concrete like bodies and a trail of pears scarred with bite marks weaves from the tropical greenhouse to the oak tree. The General and his troops look upon their destruction from the branches.
Andre makes his way to the back of the store and out the emergency exit where he’s quarantined Mrs. Stewart’s plant, ignoring a customer who all-too confidently asks him if he can Provide ayuda with a price check, por fa-vor. He sits alongside the train tracks with the hydrangea in his lap. To his surprise, new growth has emerged from rotten stems. They shimmer in the sunlight, reaching for the sky, while the darkringed leaves droop and fall away. The wilting blooms have peeled back and revealed the same purple, crescent-shaped fruits. Flies circle but never land. Andre leans closer. The plant smells floral and syrupy with traces of rancidness at its fringes.
The walkie-talkie on his hip spews static, followed by Tyler’s voice. Bustillo sssss Report sssss Oak tree sssss Now sssss ‘sshole! Andre nestles the plant’s root ball under his arm and heads for his boss.
Andre finds Tyler climbing the tree, arms and legs akimbo as if he’s hugging the trunk.
“That little fucking rat.”
Then he sees it—there on the highest branch, The General nibbles the nosepiece of Tyler’s sunglasses. Shoppers stop and watch Tyler scale the tree’s side as the squirrel army releases a collective, shrill squeak. One drops a pear that hits Tyler in the forehead and sends him back to earth. Andre hears a customer ask what time Lowe’s opens.
“I’m getting the chainsaw,” Tyler says, stomping away toward the gazebo.
“Maybe you want to take a second to think this through?”
“Do you think this place stays afloat by itself? We’re dying here, Bustillo.”
“I mean, it’s the end of the season.” Tyler stops and turns.
“And what do you think happens when winter comes? I’m not paying you to sit on your ass.”
Tyler cranes his body toward Andre. His breath reeks of cigarettes and Red Bull.
“What’s going on with Mrs. Stewart’s hydrangea?”
“I’m not sure. Have you ever seen a plant grow into something… different?”
But Tyler has already lost focus, his gaze drifting back to the tree.
“Figure it out before she comes back tomorrow or you’re worthless to me,” he says. “Prove that you want this, College.”