Retribution

They said for years that he never really loved her.

When she died – an intruding gust of winter in their warm, happy lives – he seemed distant and hard where others expected tears. He made the funeral arrangements in a monotone, sober voice. He spoke with the doctor and listened attentively. And amongst her surviving family this cemented, once and for all, that they did not like him.

Not two years later, his abstinence and exile, at the rage of her family, ended. Remarried. Some of them came to the wedding simply not believing he could forget their beloved so soon. Others came out of the human need to see evil.

He sold the house she had shopped so diligently for. He took that job in Canada his uncle had always offered. The traitor moved away.

The years crawled along and they would not forget their beloved, or the wicked man who cast off her ghost – and their happy years together – so easily. When her name came up, or when memories of her swam to the surface of that dark, impenetrable sea, they would curse him with the clench of their throats or the ice in their eyes.

The day came when a poison mercy rained upon them, when her brother told them with a lilt in his voice and a tilt to his head:

Last week, the traitor awoke in the dead of night. He slipped on his shoes. His new wife never smelled the gasoline nor heard the strike of the match. The police found him in the street, calmly watching the riot of fire.

And they pretended like they did not care about this murderous penance of an innocent man.