The Gardener

The Gardener

by Theresa A. Queen

He had a sweet face - there was something about the proportion of the large brown eyes to the smile, something about the cheekbones and the angles and the way the sun-etched smile-lines dug deep into leathered skin. It was not something I noticed before. For that matter, he was not anyone I noticed before or anyone you would notice.

He presented merely as a backdrop - as much a part of the landscape as the landscape itself: a man in a wide brimmed hat, a background noise, the hum of a lawn mower; the snappy buzzing of an electric edger, a rustling tumble weed of grass and clippings.

Somedays, he would just be the brim of the hat peeking over the bushes holding a pair of shears. Often, he zipped around in the green gator with its motor sputtering, hauling bags of mulch and branches, bouncing across the lawn of the Resort with his sunglasses atop his head in the bright sunshine. Sometimes, he puttered along in a red tractor dragging away fallen trees. Other afternoons, he hacked away at the thick, unruly tropical foliage with a machete.

Neither one of us spoke the other’s language. Aside from the occasional absent minded wave, or a clumsy “Buenas Dias,” there was nothing much to say.

I saw him often, having a smoke or eating his lunch behind the cabanas, papa rellenas, stuffed fried potato dumplings, though at the time, I did not know what they were called. Both of us, it seemed had a habit of tossing leftovers to the lanky, tan mutt that frequented the property. Occasionally, she allowed him a head scratch or a belly rub - something she never let me get close enough to do.

He was a carpenter in his native country. I noticed him about the Resort making various repairs - hammering away at the dock or a fence or mending a broken deck chair. Once, I found him in the kitchen reinstalling a cupboard door that had come off its hinges. He was friendly with the busboy, Mateo, and also Maria, the cook. He brought them papa rellenas, which is how I learned their name, and his as well, José.

Papa rellenes de José.

There was a storm coming - of that there was no doubt, but whether it would hit us, how hard it would hit us, whether it would dissipate into the ocean or pass to the north or south or the east or west, whether the weather people knew what they were talking about, who we should listen to, whether we should stay, whether we should go, whether there was hope, whether there was none, whether the whole thing was overblown - that was all subject to much debate.

José busies himself boarding up the windows. He hammers away at the boards, nails in his mouth, tool belt dragging his jeans down. A few others lay sandbags along the entryway. He passes me carrying a sandbag on his shoulder and waves - only then did I notice that his eyes were gray. On this silver cloudy day, it looked as if the light was shining right through him.

The storm didn’t seem too bad at first - just bluster. It passed with what appeared to be superficial damage. Some branches littered the ground. Some thatch roofs blew off. But, of course, it went out to see gathered strength and, when the wind changed again, it returned.

This time, the storm wailed all night like a banshee in need of attention - an epic, fury. It screamed and rattled the windows. It shook the palm trees and soaked everything in an unrelenting deluge, and then, it intensified. Rain pelted the tin roofs until the storm ripped them off and tore apart the huts on the beach. It knocked over buildings and pulled down power lines and forced the small court house and the bank to close indefinitely. It tossed about boats like toys and piled them up on the beach in broken pieces and tangled them with fishing nets - the temper tantrum of a petulant toddler. Buoys, tree trunks and boats littered the shore like sea shells.

The damage to the Resort is still being assessed. The east wing was largely destroyed. The west appears mostly unscathed except for the dining room where a large branch of the fig tree crashed through one of the glass carriage house windows. Debris and glass litter the white tablecloths below.

José stands on a ladder with a saw cutting down the offending branch.The light from the broken windows shines down and illuminates his face in a golden glow. Behind him, the shadows make a large cross on the wall.

It’s late. I tell him it is time to go home.

“Sola una hora más. ”

He wants to finish the job.

On the linen covered table below lies a cracked phone.

Yours? I asks picking it up in my hand and gesturing towards him with it. It is very old and has large spiderweb of broken glass in one corner.

José descends from the ladder.

He nods.

“Pardone me. Uh, excuse me. Do you - ”

His hands trail from the phone, and I understand from the gesture that he wants to borrow a charger. His hands are calloused from wear. There is black dirt under his nails.

I return with one from the lost and found and plug it and the phone in. More or less instantly, the phone springs back to life. He smiles and shows me the picture on the screen as it lights up.

“Me filho.” He says.“My son.”

“Jesus.” Except when he pronounces it, it sounds like “Hey, Zeus.” The photo is of a younger doppelgänger of the gardener - smoother, unweathered skin, but with the same sweet face, the same gray eyes. He is just a boy. On the screen, he wears a blue hat with floppy bunny ears.

“Que guapo,” I say, awkwardly, searching the back of my mind for a the handful of Spanish words I happen to know.

He beams. His eyes sparkle.

“Gracias. Gracias.”

Then the screensaver cycles to another image: a small, puffy white dog in a sweater.

“Awwwww.”

He smiles - a wide grin.

I stoop down and begin to pick up the pond fronds littering the floor of the dining room.

“I do. I do.” He says.

I put them in the pile he has started and begin to sweep up the broken glass. A gust of wind rustles the white curtains behind him.

“I do. I do.” He gently takes the broom from my hands. As he does, a spark of static electricity - a small zap, courses through us both, an electric pop, not unlike a rubber band snapping skin. I laugh. So does he. Briefly, our eyes meet. For single moment, I feel strange, suddenly buoyant.

“Ok. Ok. Gracias.” I say and head back to my office.

An hour and a half later, he gently knocks on the door. He extends a hand with the charger.

“Thank you. Thank you.” He says smiling.

“Keep it.” I tell him, and I open the drawer to show him there are many more. I grab my things and turn out the lights as I leave for the evening.

The next morning, the charger lays perfectly coiled up in the chair to my desk.

On another day, Jóse lays sod outside the pool house. He begins by using a pick axe to break up the hard, wind -swept soil. He raises it above his head like a sledge hammer and plunges it into the stubborn rock. Then he pulverizes the rocky soil further with a spade. He performs the backbreaking work silently and without complaint. I tell him it’s not necessary, but he insist.

I’m pretty sure the last guys who laid sod for us didn’t bother with that, I try to tell him.

If we don’t break up the soil, the grass will not grow properly, he explains in broken English. Then he must mix in good topsoil with the broken earth and cover it with the sod. Lastly, he must use a pressure roller to make sure it adheres properly to the ground below and water it well. He is out there in the sun baking for hours. It is five o- clock. I tell him again to go home. He tells me if he doesn’t finish today, the grass will die.

I decide to go for dinner. When I come back, he is still working. He has wrapped two empty garden soil bags around his feet to avoid damaging the delicate new grass. He kneels, pushing down the edges with his bare, dirty hands to ensure that each roll of sod fits seamlessly.

Outside, there is a commotion. Four cars arrive, all at once, two black escalades and two black pick up trucks. They park on the grass and block in several other cars. The men who emerged from the vehicles wear khaki uniforms emblazoned with gold insignia. They wear bullet proof vests and guns on their hips, and they have masks and balaclavas covering their faces. Others wear jeans and black jackets that read “POLICE” or “FEDERAL AGENT” in all capital letters. Some wear sand colored fatigues, boots, body armor and carried semi - automatic weapons with “BORDER PATROL” sewn on their badges. A fifth marked vehicle with blue police markings and lights pulls into the driveway as the others emerge. ICE is written in white letters across the side.

They banged on the door of my office and continued banging.

I did not go to law school. I did not know that the warrants they had were not signed by a judge and, therefore, invalid. I just saw a piece of paper that said “Immigration and Customs Enforcement” with a signature at the bottom. Truth be told, my hands were shaking so badly, and I was so frightened, that I barely glanced at it. Instead my gaze fell downwards to the handcuffs and the utility belts and their black boots and their black guns.

I told myself there was nothing I could do, and so I let them in.

Outside, the face that I had only seen in a smile was steely and wide -eyed. His hands were cuffed behind his back - making his shoulders seem unusually broad. Two officers flanked him on either side, towering over the small man with lawn bags tied around his feet. In the grass, a few feet away, the bus boy, Mateo, lays cuffed, face down in the ground, blood dripping from his mouth, his shirt wet with the ribbons of saliva that shake with his sobs. Mary, the cook, sits in the back of the ICE vehicle dumbstruck with two of the new maids, whose names I do not know.

I find myself looking out over the hedges at the now overgrown lawn. The bougainvillea vines have taken over. They dangle down and spill their red blossoms all across the cobblestones. A leaf blower moans as it pushes a tumbleweed of grass and clippings across the walkway, but the man holding it is wearing a different hat and has a different face.

The kitchen and restaurant are closed. They've been closed for weeks. There is no one to open them. The repairs to the East Wing are on hold indefinitely due to the labor shortage, leaving a half- destroyed crumbling building open and vulnerable to the elements. I don’t know if the Resort will be able to stay in business. I just don’t know if we will make it.

Only Jesus knows.