The Exhibit of Woman Scorned

Jason and Scarlet made me do it. A homicide–a crime of passion, as the judge ruled–was perfectly justifiable in my eyes. My neighbors agree. They’ll tell you, you see, especially Diane, with her shiny, red nails; her brightly colored track suits; and her curly pixie cut. She’s visited me a few times in prison.

Diane knew everything. She knew how Dave’s teen grandkids visited every summer break and stole oranges from Mr. Pott’s front yard. She knew how often Joey checked his mailbox: once a month. It overflowed with white envelopes, weekly ad circulars, occasional small packages. And she even knew how Betty DoorDashed coffee every morning before driving off in her tatty ‘95 Lexus. And if she didn’t know something for certain, she’d say, “I just have an inkling.” She had one about Jason and Scarlet.

It was Jason who slipped up, you know. My beloved, predictable Jason. He had his routines, you see. Routines I never thought twice about: his 30-minute morning runs, his daily dose of black coffee in his Red Sox mug, his tuna fish for lunch, his museum visits on Sundays. A creature of habit. Habits of this creature that eventually caught up with him. 

I found out in the most anticlimactic way, really: checking the mail on a Tuesday. We’re no strangers to opening each other’s mail. Normally, it’s bills, coupons, or flyers about upcoming museum events. Jason always got those, along with brochures and magazines about the museums he loved the most.  This was nothing out of the usual, except this time it was.  I found a thank-you note addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Sanders. That couldn’t be right because I’ve never been to the Clarksdale Museum of Modern Art. 

Dear Jason,

Thank you for completing our feedback survey and for entering our raffle. Congrats on being one of our winners. Enjoy this one-year membership pass to the Clarksdale MoMA that includes free entry, discounts on merchandise in the gift shop, access to our digital collections, and so much more. Please activate your pass within 30 days. Thank you for your continued support of the arts. 

Sincerely, Phoebe

P.S. You and Scarlet make a beautiful couple. I enjoyed meeting you two.

You don’t just see something like that and look at it once or twice. I flipped the note over, read between the lines as if they could tell me more of what I wanted to know. You and Scarlet. Our next door neighbor, Scarlet. The-local-children’s-librarian-Scarlet. The Scarlet who always made a big batch of chocolate chip cookies for the annual neighborhood block party. The mousy and sweet Scarlet, who wished everyone a good day. 

At last year’s block party, Diane and I saw Scarlet and Jason talking with each other. But everyone was talking to everyone, so it wasn’t strange. I couldn’t see any flirtatious behavior between them, but Jason wasn’t much of a flirt to begin with.  I didn’t suspect anything, but Diane did. 

“I have inkling about them, Julia. It’s always the cookie-cutter ones that you don’t expect,” she said. “My husband was like that. I thought he was a good man, the best one I’d had. Until I found out he had an affair with one of the choir singers at our church. I only found out because she turned up at our door a crying mess. She was pregnant.” 

I was shocked about that news. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Diane. But Jason wouldn’t do anything like that to me.” 

How wrong I was. 

After I got the mail, I went inside, handed Jason his opened envelope, and finished preparing dinner, as if my life hadn’t been completely sliced open to the bone. It was fish that evening, a slab of salmon, freshly filleted from the town’s seafood market. Crisp celery, onion, and bell peppers lay on a cutting board, ready to be diced. Jason didn’t say anything for a while, you see, as I began with the onion. 

“I saw her at a museum one day after work last year,” he said, like it’s the most normal thing to say. “The whole thing started from there. Innocently, at first, like two friends. Until it became something more. We exchanged e-mails to keep in contact. It’s how we planned dates. We went to different museums outside the city and never went anywhere twice.” 

I went for the celery next, harshly chopping. 

“Why her?”

“She cared about the small things I enjoyed.” 

I’ll admit I poked fun at his likes sometimes, but it wasn’t often, you see. I was only joking. And no, I don’t really care for museums, but I still went with him occasionally. I never thought we had any deep-rooted issues in our marriage. We’ve been together for almost seven years. It’s not like we fought about things. We were as solid as couples came. 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” 

“I figured you wouldn’t care, Julia.”

How wrong he was. I would have stopped teasing him or went to more museums with him, if it meant that much, you see. I’m not a careless person. I can see how I pushed him into her arms, but that still doesn’t give him the right to have an affair.

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” 

That’s when I grabbed the bell pepper, cutting haphazardly, any which way. What did he fucking mean?

“Were you going to leave me?”

“I thought about it a few times. I told Scarlet I would, but she enjoyed having her space and didn’t want us to become anything serious. I respected that. We were going to continue until it fizzled out.”

Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself in front of him, the knife pointed at his throat. It was all a blur really. He tried to circle away from me but ended up against the counter, trapped.

“Put the knife down, honey.” 

Honey. He didn’t get to call me that. Sweat expanded across his forehead, like sprouts of condensation on a window. He told me to put the knife down again. His voice broke, fearful. He leaned further into the counter, gripping onto it.

“Please…”

Oh, I put the knife down all right. In the center of his face downed palm. He screamed aloud in pain. I felt liberated, awakened. He was somewhere I could put my scorn. Then I stabbed him once more, in the arm this time. And then in different areas of his body, again and again and again. Until he was a bloody heap at my feet. His blood warmed my hands, splattered across my clothes. 

Because I didn’t have the wherewithal to hide a dead body, I called the cops, told them what I did. Of course, I was arrested. Of course, I made local and national news. Of course, Scarlet was interviewed, judged for being a homewrecker, but she never apologized for it. I guess I could respect her for standing in her own shit. I told Diane he had it coming. “Right on, sista,” she said.

I’m no saint, but I was the one absolutely wronged here, you see.