Free Scissors by Stephane Michaka

sensation of harmony that his own garden, despite all the work he’d put into it, had never inspired in him.
    “Naturally,” he said aloud. “You’re a florist. That’s how you earn your living. You’re a real pro.”
    And he began to weep.
    He contemplated the Greek’s garden, but it was his own ruin he was looking at. It was the futility of his efforts.
    Robert noticed a small shed on his left, not far away. It contained tools, bags of fertilizer, and some clay pots. The shed adjoined a greenhouse with tinted glass panes like those in stained-glass windows. On a panel in the back of the greenhouse, there was a painting of a woman. She was wearing a blouse with an open collar and gazing at him. Robert told himself she looked like Emma, but it was hard to see at that distance.
    He didn’t go closer to check. He knew that whatever he did, devastating thoughts would torment him.
    The florist, as it turned out, was nowhere to be found. Tears ran down Robert’s cheeks, but he knew the Greek’s absence was beyond his control. There was nobody for him to hit, no rival to eliminate. No way out. He’d reached the end of himself.
    He wiped away his tears, retraced his steps, and after banging into the laundry contraption, got out of there fast.
    As she was going home from work, Emma had a bad premonition. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the highway, but the drive seemed longer to her than usual. Robert worried her. Ever since he’d dedicated himself to gardening, he hadn’t been the same. His obsession with medicinal plants indicated—she was certain of it—that some grave malady was afflicting her husband.
    Why had he stopped writing? Did he want to be a horticulturist? The idea made her giggle and inadvertentlysound her horn. She gripped the steering wheel and went on thinking. Even if he busted his butt for years on end, Robert would never be a patch on …
    Her thoughts turned to him. She regretted having allowed him to paint her portrait in the greenhouse. If by some awful chance Robert ever came across that painting, she refused to answer for the consequences. She’d told Nikos so. “You don’t know Robert,” she’d said. “You’d best keep a rifle within reach.” Nikos replied that he owned almost as many guns as flowers. Emma had shivered when she heard that.
    She pressed down on the accelerator. No, this Nikos, he hadn’t been a very good idea. She’d gone too far. And then there were the kids, Cathy and Victor. Would they forgive their mother if she told them the whole story?
    For the first time, Emma glimpsed what had pushed her husband toward drink. Delight and remorse. Guilt. She felt full of understanding for him. But fear of the irreparable continued to torment her.
    She parked in the driveway and rushed to the house. For a moment, she thought she had the wrong keys. Had he swapped them? Had he had the locks changed? These hypotheses vigorously exercised her mind before she finally managed to turn the key.
    A pair of overturned sneakers—Robert’s—lay on the carpet in the hallway. She ran to the living room, calling out for Cathy and Victor. Why them? Why didn’t she call Robert? He was the one she was worried about. Robert, the children, the house … they were all part of a single whole. She’d never felt that so strongly.
    Cathy and Victor stood at the sliding glass door with their backs to her. The two of them were staring out into the garden.
    She couldn’t see what they were looking at.
    Cathy shifted her eyes toward her mother and said, “What’s got into him? Why is he doing that?”
    Emma went closer, put a hand on her son’s shoulder, and looked out.
    There was no more garden. The soil had been turned over. In the entire yard, nothing green remained.
    What she saw was a coarse and dismal expanse, marked here and there by earthen mounds. Under those mounds, the roses, the columbine, and the petunias lay buried. The medicinal plants hadn’t been spared, either. Petals