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I must say it was pretty impressive. Everything looked healthy, orderly, logically-
placed.
In brief, it looked like a significantly-upgraded version of our own garden.
And soon after we arrived back at our house we struck a deal. In essence, Francisco
promised, for a hefty sum, to transform our garden (starting with the small, underpopulated
patches near the driveway) from tawdry to terrific over the next year or two.
During the quick walk-through that followed Michael and I pointed out the plants we
wanted Francisco to replace—and, very emphatically, the ones we wanted him to keep.
“Don't you want to take a few notes?” I couldn't help asking, reflecting on how little I
trust my own faulty memory nowadays.
“No need,” he replied. “It's all in here!” and with that he tapped his bald, sweaty pate.
“Make it beautiful,” I said, drawing as close to his face as I dared.
He smiled blissfully.
“You won't recognize, I promise.”
This forecast proved tragically accurate.
And then Francisco enveloped us in moist, rancid hugs and climbed back into his truck,
which he proceeded to wrangle to and fro in our driveway until at least half our gravel had
been relocated.
Happily our tree chose not to leap into his path this time around.
And with a cheery wave he was gone.
☼ ☼ ☼
Back in D.C. we couldn't help wondering how our little garden project was coming along.
Ever since the major construction phase of our house was completed, we'd gotten used
to receiving very little information about what was going on in our little corner of paradise
when we weren't there (in other words, most of the time), and although we knew we wer-
en't being deliberately kept in the dark, it had led to some frustrating moments. Sometimes
we asked the same question three times and got no answer; other times we got three differ-
ent answers. Most days we felt like our most important job was to
keep sending money, no
questions please.
But since Francisco was new to our team we decided to test his communication skills.
After all, he had allegedly worked at Disney World, where the level of accountability was
surely higher than your typical Vieques construction site. As I recall, Snow White ran a
pretty tight ship.
Who knew, he might even throw a scrap or two of information our way. Luckily he had
a cell phone (unlike many people we'd hired in Vieques through the years), and on occa-
sion he even answered it.
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