24. Volt #2
The nasturtiums hadn’t fared as well. He inspected them over, pleased that they had perked up, after he’d scaled back on water and moved them to a sunnier spot, though they were still a bit yellowish and sad.
His setbacks hadn’t stopped him from planting more flowers, though. He picked up the next seed packet he was working on, a mixed collection of trailing petunias, and grabbed a tray of tiny connected pots.
Filling it with potting soil, that jittery feeling finally started to ease.
It was just him and the dirt, together with a pile of tiny black seeds no bigger than a grain of sand. He placed them carefully, making sure that no dirt covered them so that the light could reach each one and call it back to life.
It was quiet. Contemplative.
A balm for the tornado in his mind.
He had no idea what he was going to do with all of these flowers when they grew. There were far more than could fit into the planters in front of Prism, and they would die in the low-light conditions of the lounge.
He dreamed, maybe, of bringing them to Wallace each week, fresh flowers for their dates that he had grown himself. He’d love to bring some to Magnolia, too, brightening up her room and leaving something of himself if he had to visit her in the hospital.
He told himself that he hadn’t mentioned any of this to anyone because he wanted it to be a surprise.
But really he just… felt a little silly about it.
He’d bought the packets of seeds on a whim, walking by the display while he was picking up some nails from the hardware store, and then realized he didn’t have anywhere to plant them.
He’d returned to the hardware store for the potting trays and the soil, arguing back and forth with himself a dozen times about whether the expense was worth it, before buying the cheapest options that would do the job.
And now he had far too many trays of seedlings, a truly impractical amount, but he hadn’t wanted to leave any of the seeds behind in their packets.
Did he deserve to while away the hours poking at tiny leaves while Prism was sliding irrevocably into bankruptcy?
He had no idea.
But he loved every little seed, cataloguing the miracle of each leaf unfolding and each inch of growth.
He finished with the first tray and moved on to the second, carefully spreading out the tiny begonia seeds.
This was his last tray he’d bought for the tiny seedlings, and he lingered over it, shaking out the last of the nearly microscopic seeds.
He could keep filling trays of tiny seedlings, but where would he put them when they grew? The rooftop, maybe?
Perhaps if the wind wasn’t too strong. And if he got some netting for the begonias so they weren’t in full sun all day. He would have to ask Angel.
Though that made his little side project feel like something much bigger than a bit of stress relief.
This was just a little experiment. Something cheap and easy that made him happy.
And he still felt a little… protective over it.
He, maybe, just wanted to know if he could do it.
Perhaps, if his seedling survived long enough to outgrow their pots, he could ask Angel about the roof.
He carried the final tray over to the shelf he’d arranged for it, carefully wetting the soil from the bottom and checking the moisture level. He continued on around the room, making sure that none of the trays were too wet or too dry.
He wondered for a moment if he could make a career of this.
But that was silly. He didn’t want to work in a flower shop, when the plants had already been cut from their roots, slowly progressing toward their inevitable death.
That didn’t have the challenge or the joy of coaxing them to grow.
And he was hardly going to move out of the city to a giant farm somewhere.
So he might have a skill, but it was a fairly useless one.
Knowing that he could just putter around all day and let Wallace support him only made it worse.
God, he was mopey today.
He stroked a marigold leaf, releasing its spicy aroma into the air, and inhaled for a moment.
His plant babies were healthy and strong and beautiful. He just had to carry that with him.
He slipped out of the door, locking it despite the fact that both Magnolia and Angel could get in anyway if they had any reason to, and did a quick scan of the lounge and all the rooms.
Four rooms were occupied, one with a customer who was getting happily spit-roasted by two bots, a nice boost for income, and there were three patrons downstairs. Angel had everything under control.
He checked on Magnolia next, pleased to see that she was awake, though he noted with disappointment that the logs showed her skipping lunch.
He told the chefbot to make one of her favorite dishes and brought it up to her.
“Volt!”
Her enthusiasm always brightened her day.
“Hello to the most beautiful lady in the house,” he told her, setting the tray beside her. “I’ve got pasta puttanesca for you.”
She touched his hand, her paper-thin skin barely making an impression. “That’s the whore’s sauce, you know.” She said it with a wink, and he grinned back, even though she’d been telling him the same thing for years.
“Those whores knew what they were doing,” he replied. “Tell me if you like it.”
She toyed with her fork, catching both a green olive and a black one, then raised one shaking hand to her mouth. “Whores taste better,” she commented, like he knew she would.
He’d always loved how she embraced her career, so delighted by her own sexual prowess and the belief that everyone deserved to be paid and treated extravagantly in the world’s oldest profession.
Would she be disappointed in him for choosing something else?
Not that he’d actually chosen another career.
He’d just stopped working.
“What’s wrong, baby?” she asked him.
Part of him wanted to tell her.
But a much larger part of him wanted her to live out her final days in peace, proud of the legacy that she was leaving behind. She didn’t need to worry about their imminent bankruptcy or Volt’s existential crisis.
“Nothing,” he lied smoothly. “Can you still do that thing with your tongue?”
She gamely picked out another olive ring—a few more calories that would land in her stomach—and gave him a saucy look as she balanced it on the tip of her tongue and ran it over her upper lip.
“I taught Jeremy how to do that!” she cackled. “When he was seven.”
Volt pulled up a chair, eager to let the timeworn stories wash over him.
She wandered into the one about how toddler Jeremy used to say “you” when he meant “me,” so he’d announce things like “You want to go outside,” and then someone would say “I want to go outside?” and then he’d say “okay!” and run for the door.
Then the one where Jeremy, aged eight, had explained to his class on the playground what lube was and how you could put it on your feet to slide down the hallway.
The principal had called Magnolia to report this, but she’d just found it hilarious.
Volt had done the math, and if Jeremy were alive now, he’d be in his late fifties or early sixties.
But in Magnolia’s eyes, he was perpetually a mischievous boy with unruly curls, or a naughty teen sneaking off to hang out with his friends, even though he came back each evening and often told his mother exactly where he’d been.
Volt loved the soothing pattern of the beloved tales.
When his stress was running off the rails, there was something grounding in knowing how many challenges Magnolia had triumphed over when she’d first started Prism, then found herself unexpectedly pregnant by a client.
She’d decided to keep the baby, even while managing a new business and a lot of prejudice, and told Volt every time that Jeremy had been a blessing.
Volt only wished that he could have as much courage and joy.
“My Jeremy wanted to build a tree house once,” Magnolia continued, as Angel poked his head in the door.
“Only we didn’t have any trees. But that didn’t bother him.
” She laughed happily. “He’d woken up early and he’d gotten an entire army of bots to carry things up from the basement to the roof.
Brooms, pipes, blankets, holiday decorations…
all sorts of crap. It looked like a junk sale.
And he was instructing away, getting them to build his master design.
Angel got home from whatever errand he was on, and he was so annoyed.
” She giggled, like this was hilarious. Angel shook his head and stepped out.
“He made the bots put everything away, then got contractors to install a fence around the roof the next day.” She shook her head fondly.
“He got Jeremy a little plastic hut on the roof, though. That kid used to live up there.”
Volt checked the lounge and saw that it was completely empty, with only two of the rooms full, so Angel must be at loose ends, too.
He didn’t like to reminisce and would usually gently excuse himself from the room whenever Magnolia got going. Volt still hadn’t figured out how close Angel and Jeremy had been, since so many of the stories featured them both.
Angel never said a word, but then, he was a pretty private person.
Maybe the stories made him sad.
Or it could just be that Volt could recite them word-for-word, and Angel had been listening to them for decades.
Volt thought that made them cuter.
Need anything? he asked Angel.
Just wanted to see if Magnolia ate. He sent a panning video of an endless buffet table, heaped with overflowing platters.
She got most of it down. Volt sent back a photo of the half-empty plate. He’d been reminding her in between stories, and half a plate was pretty good for her.
Angel replied with a string of heart emojis. Thanks for listening to her.
Volt sent back a fond chime. He would happily listen to Magnolia, even if it didn’t encourage her to eat, but this was a double bonus. She needed to keep up her strength, and he supposed he was doing something useful, though it felt more like Magnolia was giving him a gift.