The Pardon

Nobody saw it coming — or maybe the women did, or prayed for it. Who knows. Cheating the government was illegal: tax fraud, evasion, anything that shorted the state. Cheating a person was illegal too — fraud, scams, even plagiarism if you were ambitious enough. Every kind of cheating was punishable by law — except the kind that broke hearts.

That changed last spring, when marital infidelity joined the criminal code. Adultery was now a capital offense, punishable by death. The only exception — the one mercy the law allowed — was a spouse’s pardon. Love, for the first time, had to be notarized to save your life.

The word death kept ringing in my head like a gong that wouldn’t stop.

How the fuck was this possible? A bad joke? Some population-control experiment? We’ve crossed eight billion, haven’t we? Or maybe it was a gender thing — thin out the men, keep the women. They’re better consumers anyway; they shop more.

I tried to laugh it off, but my throat tightened instead. My wife was asleep next to me, breathing evenly — the picture of loyalty. How nice it must be to sleep soundly, without worrying when your secret will crawl out of the dark. Meanwhile, I paced the room until the rug’s fibers started to come off — rehearsing alibis for a crime I hadn’t even been accused of yet.

I replayed every conversation from the last month — late texts, delays at work, every time she’d said we need to talk and then talked about nothing at all. Was she waiting for the law to pass before she turned me in? She’d look saintly on the news, wiping a tear as she forgave me too late.

Maybe I wouldn’t be punished at all. It probably meant an affair. I hadn’t had one — I’d gone to a hooker. If you’re starving and can’t wait for a home-cooked meal, and you grab something at a restaurant, is that really deceiving anyone?

It was a business transaction, for Christ’s sake. It’s not cheating — I didn’t say I love you to the restaurant meal or bring it home to replace the meatloaf, even though that meatloaf has left a trail of credit-card debt in its wake.

“Do you know Paul Newman?” my wife asked.

“No. Who’s that?”

“You don’t know him? He’s a legend! Didn’t you ever watch Cool Hand Luke?”

Silence. A blank stare.

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

“Oh yeah. My dad was really into westerns. It’s so old. How do you even know about it?”

“Get a load of this,” she said, eyes bright. “He was very loyal to his wife, Joanne Woodward. An interviewer asked him his secret and he said, ‘Why would I go out for burgers when I’ve got steak at home?’”

Too enthusiastically. Why would she tell me this? Did she know? I studied every gesture — her posture, her tone. She looked straight at me with those coffee-brown eyes, chin tilted high, like she was gloating.

She knows. She’s letting me know. It’s a hint, a signal: I’m going to die, and I should settle her credit-card debts before the execution.

I could be waiting for death right now. It could be right around the corner. I could sit here like a sap, waiting for it to strike — or I could take matters into my own hands. I’ll be the perfect husband. No one will ever believe I could cheat.

Perception always triumphs over reason — you see it in every courtroom, with circumstantial evidence.

Yes. I’ll be perfect.

No, wait — that’s too cliché. That’s what most cheaters do. They’re too perfect, so it sets off alarm bells in their wives. They know something’s off, that he’s covering his tracks.

I’ll do the opposite. I’ll be the worst husband. I’ll leave the toilet seat up. I’ll do the cooking — and I’ll use the full-fat butter instead of that low-fat margarine shit. I’ll make a mess so big she’ll have to clean it up.

But then a shiver ran through me. In all my scenarios, my wife still got the best of me. If I left the toilet seat up, she’d just lock the bathroom and tell me to use the gas-station restroom down the street. If I cooked, she’d stop me — not out of love, but because I’d ruin dinner and we’d end up throwing it away. And as for leaving a mess for her to clean, what decade did I think we were living in?

The evening news had started a new segment called Domestic Affairs. They read the names the way sports announcers list scores — steady, cheerful, efficient. Married. Unfaithful. Pardon denied.

“Can you believe people still risk it?” my wife said, buttering toast as if she were talking about the weather. “You’d think they’d learn.”

I laughed too loudly, crumbs catching in my throat. The anchor’s voice went on: something about moral renewal, about stronger families. Every word felt aimed straight at me. I wanted to tell her then — get it over with — but she was humming. Calm. Too calm.

“You know, honey, I love you so much. I love you unconditionally. If you ever did that to me, I’d definitely pardon you. I can’t live without you,” I said with a nervous smile.

The words seemed to go right over her head. She looked at me briefly, smiled, and went back to her humming.

I cleared my throat. “Well? What would you do?”

“Everybody should pay for their crimes and face the consequences.”

“What about forgiveness?”

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean you let someone get away with something bad. This is the problem with society nowadays — they let people get away with everything, and that’s why we have so many vile, corrupt people.”

A lump rose in my throat. My heart raced like a motorbike, thudding loud as a drum. I froze, every muscle locked, until I reminded myself to stay in control — don’t look guilty, don’t be guilty.

She laughed.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost! I’m joking, no one should die for a mistake,” she said lightly.

Inside, I sighed with relief. Outside, I smiled. Day after day, I was consumed by the toppling tower of my thoughts — imagining how I’d be caught, how I’d be executed. For a second I pictured her tied to a chair — not dead, just quiet — so I could think. Then I shook it off. I’m not a monster.

⸻

On the weekend, we went for a morning stroll and came across a cat with a dead bird in its mouth. It limped in circles, still clutching its prize — as if proud and wounded at the same time.

“Aw, it’s hurt. Let’s take it to the vet,” my wife pleaded.

“Why don’t you feel bad for the bird it killed?” I asked — and immediately wondered why. Was I testing her? Trying to see how she’d react if she ever found out about me? Maybe I just wanted to believe she’d forgive me, maybe even divorce me, but at least let me live.

“I’m not heartless to see something in pain and just ignore it,” she replied.

After hearing her, I felt certain she’d pardon me. She said it herself — she’s not heartless. And if she could help a cat, why wouldn’t she help her own husband?

But a part of me knew better. She pitied the cat because it hadn’t hurt her. She wasn’t the victim this time. And maybe that was the difference — maybe mercy only lived where pain didn’t.

⸻

I was alive, but it felt like dying. At any moment my life could end, and I kept wondering what all of it had been for. Condemned and executed as a cheater — what a pathetic way to go. That wasn’t very Christian, was it? Where was forgiveness? And didn’t God decide life and death? I’d never believed in Him, but when you start counting down your hours, you realize life and God may not go hand in hand — but God and death always do.

By midnight I couldn’t stand it. I woke her, shaking, babbling about truth and redemption, about how it wasn’t really cheating, about restaurants and meatloaf and mercy. She listened the way you listen to a voicemail you don’t plan to return — calm, polite, already finished.

She touched my cheeks with both hands.

“Go to sleep,” she said softly. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

I couldn’t believe it. How could I ever have cheated on her? She was wonderful — beautiful, not so much in the physical sense, but a beauty that radiated from within, like a calm sea after a storm. I’d never seen her angry. She did everything with ease, as if nothing could touch her.

⸻

I woke to the sound of a click. My wife was standing at the foot of the bed, a gun pointed straight at me. My eyes widened. My body refused to move. I had to force a voice out.

“H-h-honey, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, but this has to be done,” she said. Her voice was flat, emotionless. “Everyone must pay for their crimes.”

She stepped closer, leveling the gun. A slow, sinister smile crept across her face.

“I think it’s wonderful, don’t you? Instead of dying in the hands of the law, you’ll die in the hands of someone who loves you. Remember — I love you. This is for your own good. Today a cheater, tomorrow what? A murderer? A rapist?”

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING? ARE YOU CRAZY?” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

She smiled like someone smoothing a sheet. The metal pressed cold against my skin. For one slow breath I felt more alive than I had in years — the whole absurd sweep of us, the laws, the warnings — and then the world folded inward.

The shot opened like a black bloom.

The smell of toast hung in the air, obscene and ordinary.