Yellow Mama E zine

The weight of guilt 

Albert N. Katz

       When George awoke, he was alone. He had a momentary panic: Michelle? Where was Michelle? 
          He stumbled out of the armchair where he had fallen asleep when the heat and humidity had overtaken him. There was a note on the hallway table near the front door: “Gone to the grocery store” with a time added “2:20”. 
          It was almost five! She was gone coming up to three hours! 
         The unease that always lurked began tingling. Whenever it started, he knew something was wrong. 
          He glanced out the window. The car was parked where he had left it. So, she hadn’t taken it. It was possible, of course, that she’d walked to the nearest market. But no one in their right mind would walk in this heat, would they? Not when they could drive in an air-conditioned car and be back to their air-conditioned home in less than forty-five minutes! 
         He considered various scenarios but returned to the same one: something was happening that shouldn’t be! The unease was now fully awake, buzzing through him. 
        On an impulse and weather be damned, he decided to walk to the market, just to give her a hand with the bags. She knew him well enough to understand he was checking up on her. She’d sigh and give him “that” look. She knew what he was doing. And he’d pretend she didn’t.
        It had been that way ever since George accidentally read the note from Jack. A hot day thirty years ago, much like today. When he confronted his wife, the answer came quickly, too quickly for his liking, and it seemed too rehearsed. “Oh, it’s nothing. He’s just a foolish old friend who loved me once upon a time. But I never loved him, just you.” she gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. 
          She was lying. He’d seen them. He’d seen her arms around his neck. He’d seen her lips reach for Jack’s. He’d seen Jack’s hand run down her back. He’d heard her. “I love you,” Her voice was hoarse. “I'm going to take you away from here,” Jack said as he pressed her closer to him. “Away from George.” Saw nodded and whispered, “Yes.” 
        So many years and three children later, the evasion in her eyes when she lied about Jack was etched in his memory. So too was the panic on her face when he warned, “Don't ever lie to me again. Ever!”
          Though she claimed she never had, he knew otherwise. He never hit her. Nor did he ever raise his voice when he had a little chat with a husband or a male acquaintance who seemed too close, too intimate. He didn’t need to say much. Not even a direct threat.  “I don’t want you to ever talk to my wife again.” Carrying a baseball bat helped. Gentle persuasion, he called it. And one chat was sufficient. Soon dinner invitations dried up and fewer of her friends dropped by.              Their husbands, never. They were invariably “busy”. 
         Jack, on the other hand, required more direct action. “Accidental death” the coroner ruled. “An unfortunate fall on wet and uneven pavement.” 
         Michelle knew better of course. He’d come home drenched the evening Jack’s body was found. He could have dried himself off before she saw him, but he wanted her to know. She had cheated and lied. They knew they were equally guilty as hell for what had happened. Thirty years had passed but neither of them ever mentioned that evening or Jack’s death. Sometimes he caught Michelle staring at him. He knew she was thinking of the “accident”.  Wondering.
        Every time she was away longer than he considered suitable he’d gone to search for her.      Afterwards, he endured the explanation she offered and the expression on her face: confusion mixed with anger and fear and resignation. Of course, he always accepted her explanation. They always sounded sincere. Too sincere—but sufficiently plausible. 
         Each time the tingle receded, but it never died completely. It just waited, ready to pounce.  
         He started down the street.  In the heat at his age and with his spinal stenosis acting up, he calculated it would take about twenty minutes to get to the market. He was halfway there when he saw three people coming his way. His wife and who?  His pace quickened and he began to breathe heavily with the exertion. On approaching he saw she was with their new neighbors Frieda and her husband Otto. He slowed down. 
         His wife wasn’t pleased to see him, but Frieda grinned widely. “What a nice surprise! We bumped into each other at the store and with this heat, we went to the café for lemonade and a chat.  It was lovely.”
         “When I saw Michelle hadn’t taken the car, I thought I’d come and see if she needed a hand carrying the bags.”
         “That’s so sweet! I wish my Otto was as thoughtful.” Frieda gave her husband a sidelong glance.
         Michelle sighed that familiar sound, and threw him that familiar look. “Yes. George is almost too attentive.”
         The four of them walked in silence for a few minutes. Frieda and Otto reached their street. He watched as they left. He’d have to drop by and have a chat with Otto. He seemed a little too friendly with Michelle. Given his age he wouldn’t have to bring along the baseball bat.
        She waited until they were out of range. He could see the mixture of sadness and anger in her face. “You needn’t have come, you know.”
        “I know, I know. I was concerned. You didn’t take the car in this heat.”
         He knew she didn’t believe him.
         She sighed again. “I needed some time to myself, that’s all. Sometimes you give me so little space.” They reached their front door. “I went for lemonade with our neighbors. Nothing else!”
        He couldn’t keep himself from wondering if her explanation wasn’t too practiced, didn’t come out too readily.
        “I know. I’m sorry.” But he knew she didn’t accept his apology; knew she was thinking of Jack and the “accident”. Knew she was aware that soon when she made plans with the neighbours, Otto wouldn’t be free. 
        What did she say? The key turned in the lock, and a hot gust of wind whisked her words away. He thought he heard, “You’re a monster, George. A monster.”   

THE END

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​      After 43 years working as a cognitive scientist and professor of psychology, Albert N. Katz (he/him), retired from academia and started a literary career. His neo-noir, crime, or mystery stories have appeared (or slated to appear) in magazines such as: Black Cat Weekly, Close to the Bone, Illustrated Worlds Magazine, KRL, Mystery Tribune, Punk Noir, Starlite Pulp Review, and Yellow Mama. Other stories have appeared in various mystery- or crime-themed anthologies.  

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     KJ Hannah Greenberg is eclectic. She’s played oboe, participated in martial arts, learned basket weaving, and studied Middle Eastern dancing. What’s more, she’s a certified herbalist, and an AP College Board-authorized teacher of calculus. 

Her creative efforts have been nominated once for The Best of the Net in poetry, once for The Best of the Net in art, three times for the Pushcart Prize in Literature for poetry, once for the Pushcart Prize in Literature for fiction, once for the Million Writers Award for fiction, and once for the PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay. To boot, Hannah’s had more than forty-five books published and has served as an editor for several literary journals.

Check out her latest short fiction collection, An Orbit of Chairs:

https://www.amazon.com/Orbit-Chairs-KJ-Hannah-Greenberg/dp/B0CWMMM73T

 Within its pages are two tales originally published at Yellow Mama: "Alive Another Day" and "Light Notes."

Channie's new art book, Life's Colors, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FGCTHJ6Z, just launched (hit "read sample" button). It contains images originally published by Yellow Mama.

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