Chapter 3
On his way to the highway, Paul swerves into a grocery store parking lot.
It’s one of those large, pristine supermarkets you never see in the city, and even though he tells himself he’s stopping because he needs to buy a few things, the itch under his skin tells him he won’t be buying anything at all.
He’s defiant about it, like the store owes him its goods.
Owes him whatever he wants. Just like Tom Stanley owes him Judith’s photographs but would rather let them sit and molder in their boxes.
He takes a few brown paper bags from the stack he keeps in his trunk, tucks them under his arm, and heads for the entrance.
He’s seething as he grabs a cart and pushes it down one plentiful, brightly lighted aisle after another, dropping cans and boxes and produce in as he goes: diced tomatoes, linguine, fresh basil, mushrooms, nectarines, yellow potatoes.
He doesn’t usually go for toiletries, but then toiletries aren’t available in the city markets where he usually shops, so he stocks up on shaving cream, razors, aspirin, and toothpaste on the pharmacy aisle.
It begins easing his fury—all this plenty, filling his cart.
When he has a substantial pile, he heads toward the front of the store.
This is his favorite part. The gutsy part. The part he’s sure most people could never pull off. Maybe he had his confidence shaken by Judith and his new dream shredded by Tom, but he still has this; he’s undeniably good at this—and his pulse is as calm as if he were taking a leisurely walk.
He weaves back and forth behind the busy cash registers for a while, as if deciding which to pick. Then he parks his cart in a line and stays there for a few minutes as they inch forward.
“Oh,” he says out loud, and turns his cart around, pulling out of the line as if he’s forgotten something.
Then he takes a long tour around the back of the store, wraps around to the front, and finds the one closed register.
It isn’t chained off, luckily, so he powers right through it and heads for the door.
No one notices him. No one cares about his full cart of groceries.
He’s done this many times before, and loves feeling both invisible and powerful at once.
It’s electric, and makes him push the cart harder—not because he’s rushing to get to his car; no, he never rushes in these moments.
Rushing would draw attention. He holds himself back, slows down, and is just leaving the last set of double doors when a voice behind him says, “Hey.”
Paul keeps moving, pretending not to have heard.
“Hey.” Louder this time. So loud, in fact, that the two customers who left the store just ahead of him turn and look back. One of them, an elderly woman, raises her hand and points behind Paul to let him know he’s being summoned.
Paul turns slowly around with a blank, confused look on his face.
“Did you pay for those?” The man is about Paul’s age but heavyset, with a green vest pulled tight over his belly and a name tag that reads Store Manager. Paul gives him an easy smile.
“Yeah, I did. I just grabbed these bags so I can pack up the groceries myself,” he says, waving his folded brown bags toward the man. “I’m in a bit of a rush.”
The man squints at him, reminding him of Tom. Tom’s doubt. Tom’s fury. Tom’s denial of what Paul wants. And now this fat little man, challenging other things he wants, things he needs. It’s infuriating, but Paul tries his best to stay cool, seem calm.
“Can I see your receipt?” the manager asks. His face has begun to color, and Paul almost feels sorry for the guy; he isn’t equipped for this, he doesn’t know how to handle someone like Paul. Intelligent, educated, self-assured. He’s way out of his depth and seems to know it.
“Sorry, I never wait for receipts, man,” Paul says, then waves at him as if saying goodbye and resumes pushing his groceries to his car. He thinks he’s done it, but the man doesn’t give up. Paul hears him huffing behind him, trying to catch up.
“Hey. I need you to come back to the store with me. Right now.”
Paul weighs his options for a moment. He could run to his car, push the cart away from him, and hope to peel out of the parking lot with the manager pounding on his windows, marking down his license plate.
Nothing would probably come of it, but that isn’t how he typically handles these close-call situations.
He plays it cool. He talks reasonably. He seems unflappable and slightly amused.
He decides that’s the safer play—even though he’s feeling a spike of anxiety—so he shrugs, turns his cart around, and follows the manager back to the store.
When he steps inside, Paul squints in the too-bright light and tries to smile as shoppers’ heads turn.
Just a mistake, he tries to convey—but the people keep staring.
Paul watches the manager hail another green-vested employee and speak to him under his breath; he goes running to the back of the store.
The urgency of the whole scene is comical, sure, but Paul can’t help being rattled.
When the manager directs him over to the line of cashiers, Paul complies.
“Can you point her out?”
“Who?” Paul asks, confused for a moment.
“The one who rang you up,” he says, looking at Paul with indignant, piggy eyes.
Paul picks a cashier at random—an older, kind-looking woman who smiles as she moves items along the conveyer belt.
She might not recall whether she rang Paul up—or she might look at him and say she did, just to be nice.
Still, Paul feels a swell of nausea as they approach.
He regrets following the manager into the store for this charade.
He could—and should—be speeding back to the city now, puffing on a cigarette.
This isn’t fun anymore. The thrill is gone; he badly wants to leave.
“Maddie, can you verify if you checked this man out a little while ago? Maybe, what, five, ten minutes ago?” He looks to Paul for confirmation and Paul nods, then smiles at Maddie, hoping he’s chosen well.
He hopes she’ll smile back and say yes, she thinks she did.
But her lips stay pressed together as she looks him over.
“No, Harvey, I’ve never seen him before,” she says with weary certainty, and then turns away from them, returns to pulling goods off the conveyer belt.
Paul is starting to panic. He turns to Harvey.
“Look, if it’s that important to you, I’ll take the hit and leave everything here.
Like I said, I’m in a hurry—my fiancée is in the hospital, I’ve got to go.
” Harvey just stands there, looking over Paul’s shoulder with a little smile.
A piggy smile. When Paul turns, he sees a man walking toward them. In uniform. Local police.