The Misunderstanding
by Kelly Modzelewski

Well, she had done it. Sarah closed the door behind her and stared vacantly into the kitchen. She’d wondered what he’d been doing for three hours every Saturday and four hours every Wednesday night. He had said he was out with the boys but she suspected that from the start. Bert had never been a very social person and this sudden desire to be out, without her, was out of character. And today she had seen the note from Cindy.

Bert had started getting tattoos back in NY but he had really stepped it up when they moved here. His left arm was so covered, it was hard to see any new ones. Upfront, they had all been friends, Cindy his tattooist, her and Bert. Then, Cindy slowly closed her out. She could see what was happening but, like an idiot, she thought at first that Bert was innocent.  But not so. They had been exchanging emails almost daily, emails on intimate subjects, the number one being Cindy’s break-up with her current boyfriend. And they had met last Saturday. When he was supposed to be out with the boys.

She heard the key in the front door turn. Rusty got up from his dogbed and wagged slowly over to it.

“Hey, boy, how are ya?” Bert scratched the big mutt’s head as he came in. “Hi, hon. What was Rusty up to? Sleeping?” It was a standing joke of theirs.

“Better to be lazy than an asshole,” she muttered.

“What?” Bert put his briefcase on the table. “Say, there’s a conference this weekend – in Philly.”

“Really?” Her teeth were clenched.

“Yeah, boss thinks I better go.”

“I see.” Her jaw hurt it was so tight.

“What time the Haywards get here tonight for dinner? Seven?”

“Seven-thirty.” The words barely came out. She watched him sift through the mail, take off his coat and hang up his hat – a neat man, Bert Simpson. She couldn’t complain about his housekeeping habits. She watched him sit down in the recliner and pull the paper to him.

The anger had started somewhere in her limbs, earlier this afternoon when she found the email. It had seeped slowly into her stomach and was now lodged hard into her heart. Something about the inane task of his sitting down and reading the paper – the nerve of him, as if everything  were normal. It was a need to do something, anything, to feel better, that moved her to grab the knife. It was in a blind rage that she actually plunged it with a steady hand deep into Bert’s heart.

By sheer luck she had killed him instantly. She sat down, relieved, almost relaxed. Rusty came over and started lapping at the pool of blood forming down the side of the chair. The clock struck. Seven. Reality rushed back to her like an imploding furnace – she had thirty minutes before the Haywards got there. They never carried a cell phone. Her brain, which had been vapid in its intensity a moment before, surged forward and she started to think.

“Rusty, here boy,” she called and pushed the old dog upstairs. There was no time for remorse. So, what should she do? What do they do in the movies?

She ran to the bathroom and pulled down the shower curtain. Luckily, Bert was small. She wrapped him in the curtain and thanked her Uncle Harry for giving them the huge freezer last Christmas that stood empty in the basement. She grabbed her cleaning supplies and cursed her recent commitment to earth-friendly products. What she needed was Clorox. She reached towards the back – yes, Clorox and Pine Sol. A comforter over the chair, the dogbed pulled over the rug…

After minimizing the damage in the living room she jumped into the shower. The heat felt good, almost earned. She seemed to be even more relaxed than before. Whatever anyone else would think, she knew she had been justified. And she felt confident she could get away with it.

At seven-thirty-five the doorbell rang. The Haywards came smiling into the room and asked where Rusty was. They made the appropriate sounds when told that Bert had to work late and said, of course they’d stay for a little while but no need to do dinner – they could do that another night.

“He’s really been working a lot, lately, hasn’t he?” asked Scott Hayward.

“Oh, no more than usual.” Sarah poured the wine, her hands steady and firm.

“Oh, yes, dear, on the weekends and some nights,” said Cecily Hayward, stuffing a deviled egg in her mouth.

“Yeah. He’s bringing in a whole new type of client, too,” Scott continued. “Last weekend we signed a tattoo parlor on for some insurance.”

Sarah stopped and raised the glass to her mouth, her hand now shaking, the wine spilling down her white shirt.

“Whatever is the matter, Sarah?” Cecily asked. “You certainly looked stunned.”

“Where did you think Bert had been lately?” asked Scott, laughing. “Having an affair?”

“Oh, yeah, right - Bert!” Cecily laughed.

Suddenly Sarah saw in tunnel vision and at the end of the tunnel was her hanging by a rope. Now, there was no way to defend herself or her actions. She had to get the Haywards out of there and get them out fast.

“I’m not feeling well, guys,” she said, her eyes pleading as she grabbed their drinks and shooed them out of the room onto the porch. “These headaches, you know…”

The Haywards looked at each other knowingly. “Yes, darling, we know. Good night.” They paused at the end of the walkway to light cigarettes.

“Think we covered well enough for him?” Scott asked.

“I hope so. He certainly deserves better than her.” They walked away.

In the kitchen, Sarah tightened the knot around the heavy pipe running across the ceiling. She stepped up on the chair, pulled the noose around her neck and stepped off.

Upstairs, Rusty howled at the moon.

BIO: I am a writer in the Boston area. I have written mysteries for many years. I am also a dog and cat writer, including a dog column for a Boston-metro-area newspaper, tips and articles for such sites as www.dogster.com and DogBoston. I belong to several writer's organizations, including SINC. I am an avid fan of the country house murder and proudly admit to having read all of Agatha Christie's eighty plus books. ;)