by branch, or by root

Hello from the Everglades, Roy says, when he calls.

He’s a simple man, born in a Leave It to Beaver household.

Oh, thank God I got you, Roy says, when he calls. Is this your line? That other man is impatient as all get-out.

I am comforted by the endearingly gentle twang in Roy’s voice.

Hello from a boat, Roy says, when he calls. Are you jealous? I’m gonna put my wife on because I don’t know what the hell it is you sent me and I just opened a beer.

Roy retired from working in orange groves. On his 401(k), I loved that the statements were written in red-orange font. I imagine him getting home, his hands smelling like navel oranges, and I wonder if he hates them or loves them after years of tending to them.

His mom, who is also a client, sends me Christmas cards with her incredible photography glued on the cover, punctuated by perfect penmanship. I met her when she was 81, yet still at 94, she has never once asked me if I plan on having children. Instead she says, “And how is your little dog?” with half-interest. “Half” because I’ve witnessed her boot her daughter’s Jack Russell terrier out of the kitchen of a meeting, and my heart broke in mourning for the distraction of dogs.

That sounds just wrong, Roy says, when I tell him what the word per stirpes means. Not the meaning, he adds gruffly, just the word. Sounds wrong.

I say it aloud to myself on the drive home.