The Last Lychee Tree
A short story
2010
Leonard sat on his screened-in porch and watched the steam rise from the street. The blacktop was so hot that rain evaporated when it hit the pavement. He eyed a large green iguana staring from his perch on a mildewed coral rock in the front yard. These reptiles had taken over the Keys, and he wasn’t sure if it was eyeing him out of curiosity or fear. Leonard was a passionate fisherman, and although he didn’t know much about plants or trees, he knew these beasts were devasting the local flora.
“Maggie,” he yelled. “Bring me my machete.”
She ignored him, having heard this outburst before. He kept the machete in the shed behind the house. She was convinced his requests were a feeble attempt to both aggravate and amuse her since the only thing he had ever killed with it was tall pampas grass. A devoted wife for more than two decades, she balanced work and homemaking and tolerated her spouse’s quirks because he was a devoted and loving man. Her only sadness was a childless marriage as a result of Leonard’s azoospermia.
He continued. “You know, in the islands, they eat those critters. They say they taste — “
“Just like chicken, I know,” she said, peeking out of the screened door. Her hair was full of curlers. With the door cracked, their chocolate lab, Gunner, bolted…
