About A Cactus

When Flight JX 2593 reported engine failure, Anne Haddox, in her home on Sycamore Street, had her hand around a little clay pot. She liked to hold this pot and gaze at the plant within whenever she felt troubled. But right now, the plant itself was the trouble. While she was used to seeing a bright, vibrant green, the contents of the pot were different now. There was a brown, shriveled succulent inside it that had no spikes but cut her just the same. She glared down at it for several long moments, and then cursed loudly.

Her husband spilled the coffee he was pouring into his cup. He cursed, too - quieter, less heated - and set the carafe back in the coffee maker. "What happened?" he asked, tearing out a handful of paper towels and mopping up the spilled coffee. His hands swept across the counter in smooth, efficient arcs. Competent. Capable.

Anne swallowed the sour taste in her mouth. "This plant is dead," she said.

Jim dropped the coffee-soaked towels in the trash can and turned to face her, leaning back to let the counter help hold him up. His eyes drifted down to the plant in her hands. He hummed a cautious agreement.

"I killed it." Anne wrapped her hand tighter around the pot, her other hand clenching at nothingness. "Why the hell did I think we could have a plant?"

Jim let out a short huff of breath and turned away, back to his coffee. He took a sip. "I don't see why you're getting upset about a cactus."

"I wanted this cactus." She advanced to the counter with a growl and slammed her fist, and the pot with it, beside his coffee cup. The brown liquid leapt up and splashed onto the counter again. This time they both ignored it. "I wanted this," Anne continued, "and you supported me."

Jim looked away from Anne and the cactus, his jaw set, teeth clenched. "Why do you sound mad when you say that?"

Anne was shaking now, still holding onto the cactus like nothing else mattered, which at the moment was true. In the skies overhead, the pilot of Flight JX 2593 was telling the passengers not to panic.

"I showed you this plant in the store, and you wanted it, too, remember? You said it would be nice to have a cactus in the house." She flung the words at him like knives, as if they hurt. "And you bought a little spray bottle so I could water it. And this little clay pot."

Jim cursed and left the kitchen, abandoning Anne and the cactus and even his coffee. He stormed into the living room and stared at their plush leather couches. They didn't look inviting. He didn't feel like sitting down.

Anne came into the room after him, with the cactus.

"Will you shut up about the cactus?" Jim yelled, rounding on her. "It's such a stupid thing to be upset about! Who cares?"

"I care," she told him, her eyes flashing with a rare hint of steel. "All I wanted was a cute little cactus - we deserved this cactus! But no!" Her voice broke, and something inside her snapped, too. Tears spilled from her eyes. She took a wild, gasping breath, and then said, "I couldn't even keep that alive."

Jim froze, struck. She had knocked the wind out of him. His anger evaporated, leaving him as empty and dead and shriveled as the cactus, which he suddenly couldn't stop looking at. He swallowed hard. "Oh," he said.

His change in demeanor changed Anne, too. The tension left her body, and she dropped her hands limply to her sides, her fingers just barely latching on to the rim of the pot. "Why did we buy the pot?" she asked him in a desperate whisper. "Why did we buy the spray bottle?"

Although neither of them had set foot in the room for several months now, Jim could almost smell the pastel pink paint, could almost hear the jingling of the little bells on the spinning mobile. He wondered sometimes, too, why they had set themselves up for so much heartbreak. How they had allowed themselves to climb to such impossible heights without once entertaining the mere possibility that the foundation could crumble beneath them.

Jim tried to forget their endless hours of preparation and study and planning. He shook his head, partly to clear it, and partly to answer her question. No, he didn't know why they had bought the little clay pot. He realized with a flash of relief that it was easier to think about it that way - as a clay pot, as a spray bottle, as a cactus.

Anne sniffled. Jim realized she was waiting on him for something. He walked over to her slowly and deliberately, only stopping when they were mere inches apart. He worked hard to unstick his throat.

"I'm sorry, hun," he managed finally. He reached down and gently pried the cactus from her hands while the flight attendants of Flight JX 2593 told the passengers to assume crash positions.

"But you know," Jim pressed on, in a whisper as faint as hers, "we can't focus on that cactus forever. We have to..." He gestured vaguely, uselessly. "I don't know. Keep moving forward, I guess." He sighed heavily, his breath ruffling her bangs. He swept them away from her forehead, and then traced his hand down the side of her face, his trembling fingers trailing down the length of it. His breath hitched. "We- we could try to get another cactus someday, or we could... adopt someone else's cactus."

Anne let out a huff of watery, half-hearted laughter. Their analogy was starting to fall apart.

Jim set the plant on the coffee table and embraced his wife. "I am sorry about the cactus," he said. "More than sorry. I don't know the word." He cleared his throat. "But I'm glad I still have my gardener."

Another wet chuckle from Anne. "I'm not a gardener," she told him, her voice thick.

"Okay," he said. "Forget about the plant stuff. I just mean that, when there's trouble, I can't hold on to what I don't have."

Anne nodded against him and hugged him tighter. Her fingers grasped fistfuls of his shirt. "I'll think about that cactus every day," she said. "But I gotta stop holding on to it."

They pulled apart as a low rumbling filled the house. The floor vibrated beneath them.

"What's that?" she asked.

They rushed to the front windows together, their steps in sync. The house started to shake. The window panes rattled.

And as Flight JX 2593 plowed into Sycamore Street, Anne Haddox had her hand around Jim's.