The night started out as one of those predictably bad nights with nothing but pain and anger to chew on and then it got decidedly worse. Or was it better? I suppose that depends on exactly how much anger I had gnawing at my gut. And I must admit there was a lot. It was about 10:00 and I was sitting in an otherwise darkened house with just a floor lamp beside my chair to give me light. I’d been working on my task for several hours, and I was unaware of the darkness beyond the artificial universe that extended just feet from my chair. It suited my mood perfectly. My legs were crossed, and I had a yellow legal pad in my lap where I was making lists and taking notes. I was well into it when the doorbell rang. Looking up, still unaware of the time, I noticed the darkened house for the first time and thought, “Who the heck could that be?” At this time of night, I was pretty darn sure it wasn’t my wife since she hadn’t been home that early on a girl’s night out in months. I set the legal pad on the floor and dropped the pen on top of it. It was then that I realized how bone tired I really was. I wasn’t tired from the work. It was the soul crushing reality of my life that left me drained.

Making my way to the door, I flicked the two wall switches that turned on the exterior and hallway lights. A quick glance out the peepphole in the door showed me that I had two police officers waiting for me, and that is never good.

I took a deep breath, opened the door, and asked, “What did I do now?” I was

trying to be funny, but they didn’t crack a smile. This wasn’t going to be a social visit. “Are you George Bradley?” the first officer asked. “Yeah,” I replied, trying to be pleasant. “Is your wife Jean Bradley?” he continued. right a second time. Can I ask what this is about? I questioned. Have you ever noticed how cops never answer your questions? May we come in? Not waiting for an answer, the officer nearest me took a step across the transom. I blocked his way and shook my head. No, I beg your pardon? He seemed surprised. It was like no one had ever said no to him before.

I said, “No,” I stated firmly. “I asked you a question, so you can answer it or you can leave.” I was rapidly running out of pleasant. He stepped back, but he didn’t answer my question. “Have you been here all night?” the officer pressed. I crossed my arms and looked at him like he was a mess dropped on my porch by that mongrel next door. “Yes, and that’s the last answer I’m giving you until you answer my question. What is this about?” I guess I’d given them enough to think they could make me sweat if they needed to because they finally answered my question. The senior officer spoke gravely. Your wife has been injured and has been taken to Memorial Hospital.

It’s a strange thing that happens to a husband. One minute you’re planning your wife’s destruction and the next you’re worried about her well-being.

What happened? I asked genuinely concerned. They weren’t ready to tell me just yet. “May we come in?” the senior officer repeated. That exhaustion was setting in again. I exhaled, stepped back, and motioned for them to enter.

They did. I pointed to the living room, the dimly lit living room, and they walked in nervously like it was a training exercise in one of those shooting galleries. I flicked the ceiling lights on and took my chair.

So now can you tell me what happened? I demanded. The concern for my wife was wearing off and I was getting upset.

They looked at each other and the one I assumed was the senior officer said, “Sir, we regret to inform you that your wife was shot this evening.” His statement seemed rehearsed and it occurred to me later that he was watching for my response. The guy was trying to read me. I admit the news hit me hard. “Is she okay?” I asked. “Yes, sir. You may remember that we told you she is at Memorial Hospital,” replied the senior officer. I thought for a minute as my head cleared. “No, you said she was taken there. You never said if she is alive or dead. Now answer the question or get the heck out.” I was yelling by the time I finished that.

Again, they looked at each other, and again, much later, I wondered if they were frustrated at not being able to read me, annoyed at their own inability to intimidate me, or just unsure of how to proceed. The senior officer finally spoke. “Your wife is in surgery now. The outcome is uncertain.” To my great surprise, those two sentences hit me like a ton of bricks and knocked the wind right out of me. I started hyperventilating, a response that embarrassed me later. When I gathered my wits about me, the two officers were kneeling by my chair saying, “Breathe, breathe.” And like a fool, I was nodding. My wife was shot.

The wretched woman was shot. Who besides me would want to do that? Did I just say that out loud? The two officers were still telling me to breathe, so I assume not.

Is there anything more you can tell me?

I managed to ask. With my own brief crisis behind me, they both stood and resumed the same stance as before, but they were more forthcoming now. The senior officer explained, “Your wife was in a motel room with a gentleman friend.” As near as we can figure, his wife must have gained entry somehow. She probably just knocked on the door and he answered it without looking. Anyway, she emptied most of her clip into him and saved the last few for your wife.

Fortunately for your wife, his wife doesn’t seem to be an accomplished marksman. A few of her shots went wild, but others found their mark well enough.

The boyfriend is dead, but they think your wife may make it. Wow. Once they finally start sharing information, they really let you have it all. That’s when it hit me. So, you’re here to see if I was involved? I asked. Their expressions gave up none of their thoughts. We know who did the shooting. the senior officer replied. But there is always the question of additional involvement.

Plus, we need to know that your wife is safe to come home when she’s ready. I think that must have been the moment when I first smiled that entire night.

She’s been safe the past few weeks, so I don’t know why that should change now, I remarked. They both looked at me like I didn’t get it. On impulse, I decided to give these two a little gift. I reached down to the side of my chair and the two officers tensed visibly. The younger one even put his hand on his weapon. “Don’t wet your underwear, kid. It’s just an envelope,” I said. I handed them the Manila envelope I’d had sitting by my chair and continued. I saw my lawyer today. She gave me a list of things to do, and ironically, she told me to make some more lists. With that, I reached to the other side of my chair and held up the legal pad where I’d been making notes on the divorce. The senior officer opened the envelope and began to examine the photographs I had of my wife having intimacy with a man I’d never met.

You fellows want to tell me the name of the man she was with? I asked. The senior officer spoke without looking up.

It looks like you already know. They were lost in fascination like two boys who just discovered adult videos on the internet. That was when the junior officer spoke up for the first time.

“Boy, they really look different without the holes in them,” he blurted out. The senior officer reprimanded him in front of me. Then turning to me, the senior officer said, “I’m sorry, sir.” That was inappropriate. He’s new. I just nodded.

I had bigger problems to think about now. My cheating wife was in the hospital. She might make it or she might not. I suppose the divorce was on hold for a few days or weeks until we knew how things would work themselves out.

After repeating that I’d been home all night and remembering a very fortunate call from my brother that helped to establish my alibi. They repeated their admonition that I was not to harm my wife when she returned. I saw no reason to elaborate, so I just repeated my earlier response, and they seemed satisfied.

When they were ready to leave, I rose from my chair and showed them out. I turned out the lights as I walked back to my chair, sat, and began to assess this new information. She’s been shot. I never saw that coming. As much as I hated her for what she’d done, I never wished her dead. I wanted her to live a lifetime of regret, weeping at night as she lay alone in her bed, untouched by a man’s hand, as if that were going to happen. I had started the night very deliberately doing the work that my lawyer had assigned me. It was a great way to take my mind off the questions that have been haunting me ever since I realized that my wife was cheating. Now, I knew who, but I still had no idea why.

Our marriage had its difficult moments to be sure. She was one of those people who always seemed to be annoyed by something. There were times I could swear she went in search of something to be unhappy about. I had never fully realized that until the preparations for divorce put distance between us and I started to gain perspective. Whatever compelled her to destroy her life had now made me a suspect to some degree in a murder case. The pieces started falling into place, and it was then I realized that I was not alone in this vile mess of lies and betrayal. I called my lawyer’s private cell. And she picked up on the fourth ring.

This better be good, Sheila warned. Or so help me, I’m sending you a bill you’ll still be paying off with your social security checks. Sheila Goldstein was a shark, and I found a strange sense of comfort in her take no prisoners attitude.

Who would have known that a divorce lawyer would have a sense of humor? I replied. Who says I’m kidding? She shot back. I need you to reach out to a criminal lawyer who works nights, I told her. I heard a crash on the phone. Tell me you didn’t do something stupid, Sheila exclaimed. No, but someone else did, I explained. I just had a visit from the cops. The jerk’s wife caught up with them and shot them both. He’s dead and she’s in surgery. The wife needs a lawyer, and I’m betting she doesn’t have one.

Listen to me, Sheila said firmly. Tell me you had nothing to do with this, and for God’s sake, say it like you mean it.

I had nothing to do with this, I stated.

Now, say it like I’m supposed to believe it, she demanded. I’m telling you the truth. I had nothing to do with it, I insisted. The cops were here and they told me about it. I think they were thinking the same thing you’re thinking, but I had nothing to do with it. Okay, so why is this your problem? Sheila asked. It isn’t, but I guess misery loves company. If we hadn’t had that come to Jesus discussion in your office, it could well have been me. I just want to help her. I heard a hard deep breath on the other side of the phone. Okay, Sheila conceded. Do you know where she is?

You mean Helen Smith? I asked. Was your wife sleeping with another woman’s husband? Yes, I mean Helen Smith, Sheila snapped.

I don’t know where she is, I admitted.