passed through inside of him. He sat unaffectedly as his wife made quite a show of weeping, weaving stories of infidelity and constant arguments, that once,
she said, he had even raised a hand to her and hit her on some nights. “Oh but I put up with him,” she sniffed to the audience of young men in blue, as rapt and attentive as the idea of
their responsibilities as protectors of the populace still hung fresh in their heads. “I put up with him; I can’t raise my daughter on my wages alone.” The younger of the
policemen cast his eyes briefly at the wisp of a girl with vacant eyes, fiddling with a color magazine and folding away its pages on the living room floor. A sorrow stirred in him, and lingered
still as they left to return to the station, muttering about the case with his partner as they climbed into the car.
BUT HAD OSCAR’S wife been thrifty, her wages from selling skin care products and jewelry would have been enough to raise her daughter. Oscar had brought this up the night
before, still human, no less withered and stooped then as he was as a plant. It had been his first slip; the first time he had ever bothered to speak his mind, instead of the usual passive grunts
where he would submit, exhaustedly, to his wife’s very loud, very threatening wheedling. It was the first time he refused her, and she had responded, scathingly, “You call yourself a
man? You’re an old, limp vegetable!” But it was only when she mentioned their daughter that the sparks of rebellion died in Oscar, and he felt wilted once again, promising her half his
monthly paycheck, and the recent bonus his boss gave him. He had stroked his chin, mulling over the vegetative insult, watching his daughter with the vacant eyes stare at the television from over
his trembling arthritic fingers, thankful that her condition was an obstacle to realizing that she had a weak, good-for-nothing father. If only he had enough time to stay at home, with this poor
girl whom he loved, but sometimes he wondered if they were both strangers, each one far away and never meeting. He wished to be an ornament then, constant and steadfast, and thought he heard the
heavens expressing their consent, applauding him with the sudden arrival of rain.
THE SEARCH FOR Oscar continued for days. At one point, the company where he worked financed a search for him, with his boss and the CEO coming over for a visit to lend the
poor, distraught wife their sympathies. They had known nothing of his violent behavior, and he had come across, to them at least, as a meek, mild-mannered old man who did his job well, and that had
been all they cared about. They thought it proper to extend an envelope containing a sum of money, passed around the office a day prior with a note about the daughter and her illness, and left with
plump hearts, convinced of the sincerity of their deed.
By then, Oscar had flourished somewhat, his leaves glossy with nutrients. Occasionally, small butterflies would rest with him before continuing their search for prettier gardens, and at night,
the moths hid from hungry bats by lurking behind his leaves. His daughter had at one time climbed onto the windowsill with him and planted an earthworm in his pot of soil, and Oscar welcomed its
friendly intrusion with relatively plant-like mirth.
“Why is she so dirty, Yaya? Did you let her out into the garden?” Oscar’s wife shrieked. She was very rarely home these days, eliciting the sympathies of friends and neighbors,
so adept at it that she gave up her previous job of selling soap in favor of selling tears. The maid, young and new and idle as she was in a house without both her bosses, had taken to letting the
small child loose in the garden while she went neighboring, exchanging chatter with the maids of other households. Oscar would, somehow, sense a deep looming loneliness, for as a plant all things
around him grew more apprehensive, the stillness never betraying signs of life. Ever so
she said, he had even raised a hand to her and hit her on some nights. “Oh but I put up with him,” she sniffed to the audience of young men in blue, as rapt and attentive as the idea of
their responsibilities as protectors of the populace still hung fresh in their heads. “I put up with him; I can’t raise my daughter on my wages alone.” The younger of the
policemen cast his eyes briefly at the wisp of a girl with vacant eyes, fiddling with a color magazine and folding away its pages on the living room floor. A sorrow stirred in him, and lingered
still as they left to return to the station, muttering about the case with his partner as they climbed into the car.
BUT HAD OSCAR’S wife been thrifty, her wages from selling skin care products and jewelry would have been enough to raise her daughter. Oscar had brought this up the night
before, still human, no less withered and stooped then as he was as a plant. It had been his first slip; the first time he had ever bothered to speak his mind, instead of the usual passive grunts
where he would submit, exhaustedly, to his wife’s very loud, very threatening wheedling. It was the first time he refused her, and she had responded, scathingly, “You call yourself a
man? You’re an old, limp vegetable!” But it was only when she mentioned their daughter that the sparks of rebellion died in Oscar, and he felt wilted once again, promising her half his
monthly paycheck, and the recent bonus his boss gave him. He had stroked his chin, mulling over the vegetative insult, watching his daughter with the vacant eyes stare at the television from over
his trembling arthritic fingers, thankful that her condition was an obstacle to realizing that she had a weak, good-for-nothing father. If only he had enough time to stay at home, with this poor
girl whom he loved, but sometimes he wondered if they were both strangers, each one far away and never meeting. He wished to be an ornament then, constant and steadfast, and thought he heard the
heavens expressing their consent, applauding him with the sudden arrival of rain.
THE SEARCH FOR Oscar continued for days. At one point, the company where he worked financed a search for him, with his boss and the CEO coming over for a visit to lend the
poor, distraught wife their sympathies. They had known nothing of his violent behavior, and he had come across, to them at least, as a meek, mild-mannered old man who did his job well, and that had
been all they cared about. They thought it proper to extend an envelope containing a sum of money, passed around the office a day prior with a note about the daughter and her illness, and left with
plump hearts, convinced of the sincerity of their deed.
By then, Oscar had flourished somewhat, his leaves glossy with nutrients. Occasionally, small butterflies would rest with him before continuing their search for prettier gardens, and at night,
the moths hid from hungry bats by lurking behind his leaves. His daughter had at one time climbed onto the windowsill with him and planted an earthworm in his pot of soil, and Oscar welcomed its
friendly intrusion with relatively plant-like mirth.
“Why is she so dirty, Yaya? Did you let her out into the garden?” Oscar’s wife shrieked. She was very rarely home these days, eliciting the sympathies of friends and neighbors,
so adept at it that she gave up her previous job of selling soap in favor of selling tears. The maid, young and new and idle as she was in a house without both her bosses, had taken to letting the
small child loose in the garden while she went neighboring, exchanging chatter with the maids of other households. Oscar would, somehow, sense a deep looming loneliness, for as a plant all things
around him grew more apprehensive, the stillness never betraying signs of life. Ever so
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