The Greenest Fig

The Greenest Fig

When I was eight or nine years old, my father planted an illegal fig tree in our backyard. We took a vacation to the coast of North Carolina, and he brought back a sapling, transporting it across state lines. He said, Don’t tell anybody, and he winked at me. I haven’t told a single person until now, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I grew up with that tree; it was like a silent, older brother who grew to fifteen feet as I inched my way up. My father pampered it, fertilized it, gave it water, and made sure it had enough sunshine. However, there were no figs for three years.

One day, my mother was washing dishes when my father came in with an exciting discovery. He had a small green fig on a paper towel, and he wore the widest grin. They made such a big deal over the little fig, my parents did, as if it was some kind of gift from heaven. My father sliced it in half and shared it with my mother, and they laughed and danced around the kitchen like teenagers. I guess they’re still in love, my sister said, and I stuck my hands in my pockets, and we watched them carry on. I didn’t want any of that fig, not one bit.

The next year, the figs started coming in at an unexpected rate. There was always a small bowl of them on the kitchen counter or in the fridge during the summer months. My father had to give some away to neighbors or coworkers; otherwise, the yellow finches or the wasps would eat them. Occasionally, I went out and stared at the tree. I wanted to carve my initials into the slender trunk, but I’m sure my father would tear me to pieces if I did. A couple of times I picked some unripe ones and fed them to the neighbor’s dog. I thought they might make him sick and put a stop to his relentless barking, but he was fine.

My sister is older than I am by several years. A few years after the initial fig invasion, she came home for the holidays; she lived on campus at an out-of-state university. I remember her dancing around the living room with an imaginary partner and smiling a lot. Her teeth were so freakishly white. How’d she get her teeth so white? I thought at the time. She told my mother that she had a new boyfriend, and he was taking her to Boston for New Year’s Eve. My mother was happy for her, but I thought, Big deal, it’s cold out, and you can see it on TV. My sister was in such a terrific mood; she wanted to dance with me, and she kissed me on the cheek. She had never done that before. 

During my rebellious stage, I went to jail for stealing a car. Thirty days in a detention center because I was a minor. I can do thirty days standing on my head, I thought. But it was harsh. There are some freaky people in jail—lots of juvenile delinquents. My parents never visited me, but my sister did come one time. She was wearing a purple and pink dress, and it was almost glowing under the fluorescent lights. Some of the guys whistled at her and made rude comments. I told them to shut up. Hey, she’s my sister! I yelled at them. She told me she was engaged and would be moving to New York with her soon-to-be husband. I didn’t see her much after that.

The cell I’d been given was a dirty, gray, boxlike room with two bunks, a toilet, a desk, and a sink. No mirror. No window. I had a cellmate during my time there. His name was Paco; I think he was Mexican or something. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, all he’d say was, The best orange I ever had was in Tucson. That’s it. That was all he ever said. I tried asking why he was in Tucson, or why the orange was so good there, or if he was from Mexico. But all he said was the thing about the orange. I’m pretty sure Paco was a crazy mother f’er, but he was nice to me; he’d give me his spinach whenever we had it on our metal meal trays. Paco wasn’t a fan of spinach.

I went straight into the army after high school. I barely graduated. My father said, Maybe you’ll learn something useful, as I got on the bus. I didn’t even know there was a war going on—I learned that—and they sent me overseas to get shot. And that’s exactly what happened. Right in the leg. Blew up my leg bone and tore a muscle so badly that they sent me home. I didn’t even get to shoot anybody. I had to use a wheelchair and crutches for six months. My mother had to help me put my pants on. I think my father thought I was just being lazy. I went to physical therapy for three months until the government stopped paying for it. 

I met a girl in PT; her name was Livia. She had been hit by a car and couldn’t walk very well. They were teaching her how to stand up on her own when I met her. She had ridiculous blue eyes, like glacier ice, and I loved watching them when we talked. Livia and I got to know each other fairly well during our sessions. A few times I helped her stand up while the therapist exercised her knee. After a while, I asked her out, and she said yes. She told me she had a boyfriend, but he left after the accident. I said, What a jerk! She started to tear up, and those ice-blue eyes looked like gemstones. We went to a steakhouse, but she ordered the salmon. After our date, I tried to kiss her. She said she liked me and all, but not in that way. It took some time, but Livia learned to walk somewhat normally again, and her boyfriend came back. 

I was without work for a long while, but a friend of my father got me a job at his company. They taught me how to build tiny motors and install them in drones. I got pretty good at it, and after a while, they gave me a raise. It wasn’t the most exciting job, but I could wear whatever I wanted, and the coffee was free. One day, my father’s friend came in and told everybody to stop what they were doing. He said the company was in the red and was shutting down, and they’d give us two weeks' pay. We’re moving the operations to Taiwan, is what he said. I didn’t want to move to Taiwan, so I took my check and went home.

Another uncomfortable period of unemployment followed, but I eventually found a job as an electrician’s apprentice doing new home construction. I made enough money to move out of my parents’ place. I had housemates, but they didn’t bother me and I tried not to bother them. On weekend nights, I worked at a local theater setting up stage lighting for their plays. I met Jade there; she’s an actress. We went out for coffee a few times. I wanted to ask her out on a real date because she didn’t seem to mind my wonky leg, but I had gotten more careful with those kinds of things.

When I turned twenty-two, right on my birthday, my father died. My mother said he was having his coffee with his favorite cookies, and his face turned a deep scarlet. She thought he was having a stroke, but it turned out he was choking on a large chunk of walnut. My mother ran to the phone to call an ambulance. My father ran out the back door for some reason and tripped on the watering hose and hit his head on a concrete garden edger. I was on my way over there, hoping to score some birthday cake. My mother was frantically running around the house looking for my father. She called my sister, and both of them were screaming at each other on their phones. I was the one who found my father, his blood staining the patio pavers, not ten feet from his beloved fig tree.

After the funeral, the three of us went back to my mother’s house. My sister made tea and started a peach cobbler someone had brought earlier. I went out back for some fresh air and ended up staring at the illegal fig tree. I remembered the time my father came into the kitchen with a small basket of figs. I think I was thirteen years old. Are these the most luscious-looking figs you ever did see!? he shouted. He washed them and put them in a bowl and placed it on the kitchen table. My sister and mother each took a fig. My father smiled down at me, and my mother kissed his cheek. I stared at the greenest fig in the bowl, imagining a vast grassy field stretching for miles in every direction where I could be running and running and running.

I wasn’t sure why, but the memory stirred a brief rage in me. It made me want to chop my father’s tree down and sever all its branches. I thought of setting fire to it, wishing to see the thing burn in yellow and orange flames. I wanted to slice each fruit open with a knife, spoiling every potential treat. Instead, I plucked three ripe ones off a low branch and brought them inside. One for my mother, one for my sister, and one for me.

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