The Cactus
This story appeared in Rumblefish Press, Winter 2017 Issue (Vol I, Issue II) (rumblefishpress.com)
The doorbell rang twice. Tony took a final drag of his cigarette, blew a cloud of smoke, and lifted himself from the easy chair. He started toward the front door, but stopped suddenly.
Jill?
“Just a sec,” he yelled as he hurried back to his chair. Could she have changed her mind? He switched off the football game and hid his beer under the sofa. Then, tucking in his shirt, he scurried to the door and opened it. A large barrel cactus wrapped loosely in red foil lay at his feet.
What the hell? He watched the UPS truck pull away. A few seconds later, he lifted the plant with both hands, went inside, and kicked the door shut with his foot. “You’re heavy, like me. Bet nobody’s screamin’ at you to lose fifty pounds.” He deposited the cactus on the coffee table and yanked the miniature card from the foil. Then he plopped back into his chair, lit another cigarette, and opened the envelope.
Dear Tony,
Since you’ve got the emotional intelligence of a barrel cactus, I thought you’d enjoy this parting gift. You two should get along just fine!
Jill
Shit. He tossed the card on the table and sat staring into space, cracking his knuckles and rubbing his temples. Finally, he fumbled under the sofa for the beer can and switched the game back on. During commercials, he would sneak a peek at the plant’s prickly ribs. Their message was clear: don’t mess with me! When the game ended, he walked around the cactus several times. It wasn’t so bad, he mused. At least it knows how to protect itself.
After a few days, Tony took a liking to the odd plant. But it wasn’t long before his mood soured. Although he watered the cactus once a week, as advised by instructions stuck in the soil, it showed no sign of appreciation.
“Why don’t ya perk up when I water ya, like other plants, ya thorny bastard?” He chuckled. “Hey, we’s not so different after all—I’m the horny bastard and you’re the thorny bastard! So, ya gotta gimme somethin’, man. I don’t know what you guys are supposed to do, so it don’t really matter. Grow a flower, sing a song, just do somethin’, for God’s sake! Relationships are about communicatin’, ain’t they?” He was happy to be able to use a line that had been hurled at him countless times during the last six months.
As the weeks went by, the plant showed no sign of change. Tony grew indignant. He decided he would water the succulent every day until it begged him to stop. “That’ll learn ya, ya poker-faced shit!” he snapped, dousing the soil.
Another two weeks passed and still no change. “Damn it!” Tony exclaimed one lonely Saturday. “I’ve taken ya into my home and treated ya like my own kid. And whataya do? Ya just fuckin’ sit there like a bloated couch potata. Com’on, goddamn it, turn yellow, grow a carnation or an ear, for all I care. OK, no more water for you, my tongue-tied friend, until ya start showin’ some give and take.”
Every day Tony examined the cactus. Nothing—it looked just like it did two months ago when he brought it into the house. Finally, he’d had enough. “OK, smarty-pants, that’s it!” He picked up the plant and carried it into the driveway. Then he lifted it above his head and threw it onto the asphalt with all his might.
It cracked open and lay in two pieces amidst the scattered soil. As Tony surveyed the area, he felt a sudden pain in his chest. He approached cautiously, as if it were a land mine.
Holy shit!
It was hollow. No water spilled out.
He bent down for a closer look. No soft membrane within. It had died long ago, without a whimper.
With a trembling hand, he picked up the larger shard. For a moment, he imagined it was a piece of himself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Jill, I’m so sorry.”