Fruit Trees

One summer I worked in a plant nursery and became friends with an old West Indian man who visited irregularly with our potted apple and pear trees. He was an admirer of fruit trees, and his presence alone transformed that clutch of trees into a grove. When I could I liked to join him him in there. Once he told me that in Jamaica he had tried to grow an orchard, but when half his trees bore fruit and half didn't, he cut down those that were barren. It turned out that they were male trees, and the following year his female trees were deprived of the joys of motherhood. He explained to me that now they grow male and female together in one arboreal abomination, and breed them to bear fruit much faster than they normally would. I was resonating to the suggestions of a dark metaphor in all this when he intimated that he could establish a romantic connection between me and his fat, giggling daughter, who was eating an apple. She looked to be about fifteen years older than me and shyly willing, but I declined.