Shorts: "The Grieving Husband" by Ben Boulden

The Grieving Husband Ben Boulden   *     *     *     *     “WE THINK”—I sighed my long-suffering policeman’s sigh—“she died early this morning, Mr. Shaw.” Mr. Shaw crumpled into the oversized recliner positioned in front of the behemoth flat-screen television mounted on the wall. The chair’s springs moaned at his considerable girth. An ugly whistle of air whooshed from between Shaw’s lips. When his eyes fluttered, I thought he would faint. He didn’t; instead he patted his rounded belly, drew a deep breath, and stared up at me with sorrowful cobalt eyes. I waited for him to ask the obvious questions: the how, the where, the why of his wife’s death. When it became clear he wasn’t going to, I asked him, “How long had you been married, Mr. Shaw?” “She was—” Shaw paused to wipe his dry eyes with the back of a hand. I offered him a tissue. He took it and squashed it into a ball and then dropped it onto the hardwood floor without using it. When he regained control—and I was certain now his performance was fakery—he said, “She was my soulmate, mister, uh—is it, officer?” “Malone,” I said. “Detective Jeff Malone.” The grieving husband smiled, brushed a meaty finger across the end of his nose and tried snuffling but there wasn’t enough mucus to make it work. So I asked him again how long he and Jane Allison had been married. He leaned forward, the chair creaking with his shifting bulk. “Geez, it will be—” A suffering smile settled on his face. “It would have been sixteen years next month.” I thought he was going to giggle, but he yawned instead. “I’m sorry,” I said. Shaw glowed at my sympathy like he’d won the Powerball. I flipped to an empty page in my notebook and studied it for a beat, before saying, “Were there any problems in your marriage, Mr. Shaw?” Shaw’s eyes inflated. He gasped with theatrical glee. “No, sir!” he said with righteous zeal. “She—we were wonderful together, err, uh…detective. All our friends said they were envious of us, they really did. They said it all the time and they meant it. We were wonderful together, everyone said we were the best couple they had ever seen….” Shaw’s Trumpian monologue faded away, as though even he couldn’t believe anyone would believe him. And for the first time I noticed a subtle odor in the house. Something like bad breath and feces. A combination that made me ponder Jane Allison’s missing dog. I asked Shaw, “Do you have a dog?” The fat man shook his head. “No—” I narrowed my eyes with a policeman’s practiced skepticism. “—I mean, I don’t have a dog but my wife.” Shaw rubbed his dry eyes again. “Oh, Jane, how can it be you’re gone?” His acting was as bad as the dialogue; like Liam Hemsworth playing Hamlet. I flipped another page in my notebook and asked, “What’s the name of your wife’s dog?” His eyes burned cold. His mouth shut in a tight line. Finally, he said, “Why?” “She had dog treats and”—I pulled a purple and white unused poop bag from a pocket—“and this in her left hand. Like she had been walking a dog but there was no dog with her, Mr. Shaw.” I paused for a moment and listened to a clock clacking in another room. I looked back at Shaw and said in a soft voice, “I thought maybe the dog came home.” Shaw’s mouth opened and closed. He looked like a bloated fish that had washed ashore. After several uncomfortable seconds he blurted, “Fluffy!” “Fluffy?” I said. “Is Fluffy here, Mr. Shaw?” “Well—” His eyes darted toward a closed door at the entrance of a hallway leading into the back of the house. “He—” Shaw looked back at me, a smile blossoming on his face. “He’s been missing all day.” As an afterthought he said, “Maybe whoever killed Jane took him.” If I’d had a partner, this is where we would have exchanged knowing looks, but since I didn’t, I shrugged and asked, “Did you like Fluffy, Mr. Shaw?” “Well—” He stuttered. “He—Fluffy, I mean, has never really liked me.” A bead of sweat popped out on his forehead. “I—I was always good to Fluffy and that little”—he paused to find just the right word—“hooligan made my life hell. His incessant barking, his biting.” Shaw’s glacial eyes caught fire. “Do you know what that devil did?” I shook my head. “He pissed on my pillow three days in a row! Three days in a row! And that damned Jane. That bitch! She just laughed when I complained about it.” “Is that why you killed your wife, Mr. Shaw?”  Shaw mumbled to himself. He sat back in his recliner and crossed his arms. At precisely that moment the door at the back of the room bumped and rattled. Shaw’s face molted gray. “Your wife laughed at you, Mr. Shaw? Is that why you killed her?” “No!” His exclamation was compromised by an unmistakable squeak in his voice. The door rattled again; this time louder than the last. I took three quick steps and pulled the door open. The odor of shit and a hairless terrier erupted from within the tiny bathroom. The dog’s resemblance to Gollum from the Lord of the Rings movies was remarkable. The duct tape wrapped around its snout was all that had kept it from barking. I turned to Shaw. “Fluffy?” Shaw glared at the dog as it growled and pounced on his feet. Fluffy lifted a hind leg and urinated on Shaw’s ankles. Shaw barked, “You little bastard—” and kicked at Fluffy. The dog bounded away with a cacophony of click-clacking on the hardwood floor. Shaw looked at me and said, “You see! You would have too, Mr.—ah, detective, umm…. I’m sorry, but I forgot your name again.” I hunched my shoulders and nodded with sympathy. Shaw said, “That goddam dog.” But the vitriol and menace were gone. “He’s going to piss on my pillow again.” He shook his head and I could see the despair on his pale face. After a moment I said, “Why not just get rid of the dog, Mr. Shaw? Drive him to a shelter and pretend he ran away? Why kill your wife?” “She—Jane would have known what I’d done.” Shaw leaned back into his recliner and rubbed his belly with a mindless hand. In a whisper, he said, “It should have been that dog, but…those dammed cow eyes of his.” Shaw scowled. “I just couldn’t do it.” I arrested Paul Shaw for murdering Jane Allison. As I handcuffed him, he said, “I loved my wife. I really did.” I really believed Paul Shaw thought he loved his wife. I also believed the best punishment for the crime would have been for Mr. Shaw to spend the rest of his natural life with Fluffy. But the court disagreed. Fin

Ben Boulden is the author of two novels, several short stories, and more than 400 articles, book reviews, and columns. His latest book, Casinos, Motels, Gators is available for Kindle, and as a paperback everywhere.

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