On this side of the wall, the garden rests under sprinklers that run all day. The wall stands at the edge of the garden, made of sand lime brick. It towers over the roof of the house, guarding it from the scorching Arizona sun. The wind kicks up dry dirt, and dust devils beat against the exterior of the brickwork. Long paths of cobblestone weave through the garden, and the soil is dark and wet where all the hedges and flowers cover the ground. Beyond the wall, the country is harsh and coarse and red.
“That took longer than I thought,” the old woman said. “Take a seat in the shade and I’ll make us a drink.”
“That’d be alright,” said the young man.
“What would you like? I have tequila.”
“Tequila is fine.”
“I’ll make us a couple of margaritas.”
The old woman walked into the house while the young man wiped the sweat off his forehead and beat the dirt out of his shirt. He sat underneath the veranda by the garden. The door to the house was slightly ajar, and a blender made noises from the inside, gently drowning out the sound of Sean Hannity’s voice on the television, which was always on, even when nobody watched. The young man took off his gloves and looked at the uprooted lime tree. It leaned against the farthest side of the wall, and on its exposed roots hung dark clumps of dirt. A small bag of very small limes sat next to it.
“We did a good job,” the woman said, handing a cold cup to the young man.
She sat next to him and faced the lime tree. Sweat burrowed in the deep crevices of her wrinkles as she frowned under the hot sun.
“I knew that lime tree wasn’t going to thrive,” she said.
“It could have.”
“It didn’t belong here.”
“At least you tried.”
“Thanks again for the help,” the old woman said, sipping on her margarita. “This new tree should do just fine. Figs do well in the heat.”
“It’ll be less work.”
“Another margarita?”
“Please.”
“I’ll squeeze a few limes into it this time.”
The old woman grabbed the bag of limes by the uprooted tree and went back inside. The blender made the same noises. The television advertised the ticket price for AMERICAFEST. $225 for seniors and $350 for adults. In the garden, a fig tree stood on a patch of fresh, wet soil, where the lime tree had stood only a few hours prior. Its branches were short, the leaves bright green, the soil around it loose. The young man stood up and walked up to the tree. He held onto its slim trunk and stomped heavily on the soil around it.
“You’re such a hard worker,” the old woman said. “Sit down and relax. The tree isn’t going anywhere.”
He grabbed the second margarita and sat down.
“You’ve changed a lot in these last few years,” she changed the subject abruptly. “I remember when you were just a boy, so little and scared.”
“Was I?”
“I remember the day I brought you home. All your friends came to say goodbye at the airport. You didn’t want to leave.”
“It was tough saying goodbye to them.”
“It frightened you when security pulled us to the side.”
“I wasn’t scared.”
“You must have been ten or eleven at the time. Geez, this was so long ago.”
“So long ago.”
“And you knew right away why they pulled us to the side,” the old woman said.
She stood up in protest.
“Happens all the time,” he said.
He finished his drink in a large gulp.
“You did such a good job translating. It was all so serious. We had to get cash out. You made sure it was in dollars, too.”
“They wouldn’t have accepted lempiras.”
“Goddamned extortion. You were so scared.”
“I wasn’t that scared,” the young man said. He stood up and approached the fig tree. “You get used to that kinda stuff.”
“I bet they would have detained us or something if we hadn’t paid.”
“That’s the point.”
“You’re such a good boy,” the old woman said.
“How long until the tree gives fruit?”
“A few months. Maybe a year.”
“That long?”
“These things take time,” she said, beckoning to the young man to sit back down. “Just like your papers, but in the end, it was worth it.”
The wind picked up and crept over the garden wall. With it came dry, red dirt. The jalapeño bushes swayed back and forth. The small patches of birds of paradise and sword lilies danced in perfect little rows. The fig tree stood strong in the loose soil, and only the smallest branches bounced in the wind.
“I wish there was a way to keep all this dirt out of the garden,” the old woman said. “It’ll dry out the plants.”
“It’s not enough dirt to do any harm.”
“When I went to pick you up in Honduras, the very last time I went, I stayed there for a long while until the adoption papers were cleared. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“You already spoke English and everything. I was so pleased. Not at all like the others.”
“That was a good margarita. Better than the last one.” He showed the woman his empty glass.
“I just wish you’d change your mind about coming with me next week.”
“That fresh lime juice really made a difference.”
“All that business that happened last time shouldn’t have happened. They were just taking precautions.”
“What tequila did you use?”
“The problem is that they don’t know you like I do, but that’s just how they are. I mean, with everything going on, can you blame them?”
“You always buy the high-end stuff, don’t you?”
“I told my girlfriends that you spoke English before you even came to the country, and that you spoke it so good too.”
“So well.”
“And you were so good and so polite. I was so pleased.”
“I’m glad.”
“I don’t want to go alone. There will be people outside protesting. They protest everything these days. Sometimes, they try to sneak in to sabotage things. You can be a good boy and come with me, can’t you? I’ll pay for your ticket.”
“You know how I feel about that sorta thing.”
“These last few years, things have been rough. This country has seen better days.”
“Things are rough all over.”
“But things will get better. I know they will.”
“That was the best margarita I’ve had in a long time.”
“You want another one? I can make you another one.”
“I’d drink another one.”
“I think I’m out of tequila. I’ll check though. I have beer. Would you like beer instead? I have light beer.”
“Beer is fine.”
“I’ll be a few minutes,” she said.
The young man waited until the woman was inside, and then he walked around the garden and out the side gate. He leaned against the far side of the wall and looked out to the endless red and yellow of the Arizona desert. He took out his wallet and pulled out half a joint. He lit it, took a few drags, and stomped out the rest. Dirt flew from his boots. He stifled his cough and went back inside the garden. He sat back down and looked at the fig tree. The sun perched high in the sky, and the sweat on the young man’s brow had dried and turned to brown salt.
“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” said the old woman, walking out of the house.
She handed him two beers. He used his lighter to open both bottles. He handed one of them to the old woman. She sat down and they drank.
“I had to take a work call,” he lied.
“That’s why I like you. You’re so responsible. Even on your day off. Not like the rest.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
“You’re a good boy. You are. You work and go to school. You got your own insurance. You pay your taxes. You’re not a burden. You helped me with the tree and expected nothing in return. You’re useful and not lazy like the others.”
“The beer is alright.”
“If they were all like you, things would be different.”
“I should stop drinking. The margaritas were strong.”
“That’s why I go to these ‘things’ as you call them. Because something has to be done, and it is up to us.”
“I should make a cup of coffee.”
“The media calls us names, horrible names, and they say all these horrible things about us, but we just want things to go back to normal. Back to when things were good, you know?”
“I think we had enough to drink.”
“I’m afraid to go on my own. These people, they hate us. I know they do. Even my own sister, she won’t even talk to me anymore.”
“Maybe we should stop drinking,” he said and finished his beer.
“That thing that happened last time you came with me; they were just doing their job. It’ll be fine this time. I promise.”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it. Maybe, if it’ll make you feel safe.”
“You’re such a good boy. It will make me feel safe.”
“Do you mind if I go inside to make a cup of coffee? I’ll make two. It’ll sober us up.”
“That’s a good idea, but take your shoes off when you go in the house.”
“My shoes?”
“They’re covered in dirt from the garden. No need to make a mess inside.”
“You’re still wearing your shoes.”
“I’ll make us coffee.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll take them off.”
“Stay out here and relax. I’ll bring you a coffee.”
The old woman walked inside and the young man followed. He stopped at the door and took off his shoes. He left them outside. She walked into the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine, the sound of grinding drowned out the television. She was still wearing shoes.
“I’m so happy the adoption agency gave me you. I couldn’t have asked for a better kid,” the old woman shouted over the grinding.
“What are you going to do with the lime tree?” he shouted.
“Throw it away, I suppose. There’s no use for it.”
The young man was reluctant, but later that night, they both picked up the withered lime tree and placed it in a green compost bin. The discolored leaves stuck out and danced in the wind. The fig tree stood strong in the soil, unbothered by the gusts of hot air and dirt. A single pair of shoes sat on the backdoor of the house, covered in red earth. Inside, the lights were off except for the television which flashed blue and red through the windows against the inside of the garden wall.
Outside, the sprinklers went off again. Beyond the wall, it was God’s country.
Born in Caracas, Venezuela, Emile Estrada immigrated to the U.S. due to the deteriorating political landscape of his native country. He studied philosophy at San Jose State and completed his MFA at Northern Arizona University. His fiction can be found in The Good Life Review and in Thin Air Magazine.
