Page 7 of Big Britches

Mateo died during final exams. Wracked with guilt, Pedro left school against his mother’s wishes, stepping into his father’s shoes as breadwinner. He found work on nearby Isla Holbox, landscaping and tending tropical gardens for the wealthy. It was on Holbox Island that he discovered his second passion: gardening. Similar to reading at an early age, Pedro found working outdoors tranquil and meditative, the perfect foundation for nurturing and healing wounds of a painfully disrupted adolescence.

He had a knack for it too—both with design and gardening. His vision for landscaping was multidimensional in profound ways, with color, texture, height, depth, size, scale, and volume. He made plants not only grow but thrive and possessed what he eventually came to know as a green-thumb.

There was always work on Holbox, the ferry full most mornings with construction workers and landscapers. It was on that boat that he befriended Rico, a house-painter with dreams of relocating to the United States.

“Why work for pesos here when we can live the good life there?” Rico asked.

“What makes you think it’s any better in the states?”

“Because the pay is more. You can make a lot of money there. My girlfriend, Malena, is in Georgia. She makes in an hour what we make in a day.”

This intrigued Pedro. Though he loved working outdoors, the wage was terrible. He had started a side gig, hustling at night, just to make ends meet.

“She’s going to help me get sponsorship,” Rico said. “You should go there too. Maybe I could do the same for you.”

“But I can’t leave my mother.”

“Would you sacrifice a few years if it meant prosperity for both of you long term?”

Six months later, Rico had left for Georgia. Meanwhile, the seed he’d planted in Pedro germinated. He and his mother were getting by on their meager earnings, but it was becoming clear that where they lived was going downhill. Drugs were abundant, and the cartel ruled. Pedro saw its effects on his co-workers, clients, and even the tourists he engaged with. It got to where many of the streets were not safe to travel at night.

When he received a letter from Rico the following year, he broached the subject with his mother.

“I think you should go,” Alejandra said.

“But it could be years before we see each other again. I would worry about you here.”

She clasped his hands in her own, gently squeezing. “Do not focus on me. I will be fine. I have my work, my friends, church. It’s you I worry about, dear one. You’re different from other boys your age.”

“Oh, I?—”

“Sorry. That is not what I meant. Who you love is your business. Your father had an open mind regarding nature and its diversity. Me, too. I suspect you know that, though.”

Pedro nodded.

Alejandra continued. “What I meant is that time cheated you, forced you to mature while others your age were discovering themselves… love… life. I want to give that back to you. Your father would have too. But where we live grows more volatile and corrupt with crime. You see it more than me on Holbox, I suspect, as well as here in Chiquilá. So, if the American dream is your dream, then let it be ours together. You go there if Rico can make it so. Perhaps one day I can join you.”

It took a week of contemplation, along with a slightly more attuned scrutiny of his surroundings, and situation to decide. Could he sacrifice precious time with his surviving parent for better years together down the road?

Yes. Yes, he could.

It would be difficult, and he would miss her terribly, but he was determined to make their lives better.

So, he wrote Rico back, explaining that he would like to take him up on his offer.

When Pedro turned off of Sun Hill Road into the designated driveway, he stopped at a gigantic wrought-iron gate with a large letter at the top in an ornate script. To his left was a short pole with a small stainless steel talk box and keypad. Pedro rolled down his window. He looked at the numbered keys for a moment, wondering if Silas had forgotten to give him a code. After a quick search, he located a CALL button and pressed it.

There were three rings before a female voice answered.

“Shepherd residence.”

“Hello, I’m Pedro, with Compton’s Greenscapes. Here to do the lawn.”

“Pedro? Where’s Carlos?”

“Sorry, ma’am. He had an emergency and had to return home indefinitely. Mr. Compton sent me in his place.”

There was a brief pause, then the voice said. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Could you hang on for just a moment, please?”