hopeful, seeing all the spades and trowels hung up in shiny rows, all the big bags of lawn cures stacked neatly on the floor. Standing by the hoses were a man and a woman, a married couple somewhere in their early thirties, I’d say. They were discussing a coupon the woman held. Well, the woman was discussing it. The man was yelling about it. Apparently the woman wanted to go to another store to get the hose, because it would be cheaper there. The man was acting as though she’d suggested eating poison. “It’ll take us fifteen minutes to get there!” he said. “Time is money, you know. Has that ever occurred to you?” The woman stood still, looking into his face, her own empty of expression. This kind of thing was not new to her. “I just thought …” she said. The man grabbed a hose, flung it into their shopping cart. Then he stormed off toward the checkout lane. I was happy to see that one of the wheels of his cart had been damaged, so the thing made a very loud, rhythmic, clacking noise that caused other shoppers to stare after him, smiling.
The woman stood there watching him go, the coupon at her side. And I thought, okay, Nan, this is the time you get to do something. Remember, Martin, when I called you from the airport and told you about the man who was yelling at the woman there? She was sitting in a plastic chair in an empty row, her head down, and he was pacing back and forth, just screaming at her, calling her a bitch, saying she was stupid, what the fuck was the matter with her? He went on and on and she never looked up. Her hair was long and blonde and parted in the middle, very fine, like baby hair. Her hands were in her lap. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t doing anything. Everyone around was upset, you could see people start to do something, then walk away. I had a notion to go up and poke the guy with my umbrella, saying, “Leave her alone!” but he was so huge and muscular and angry—and clearly a little crazy. I looked helplessly at other people across the room, who were looking helplessly at me. And then I thought, Martin will know what to do. I called you and you said to get the hell away from them, it wasn’t my business. You said not to speak to the man, to remember I was in New York, the guy would probably shoot me if I asked for the time.
After I hung up, I put my umbrella under my arm and started toward that couple. I wasn’t going to mind my own business. When I got close to them, though, I saw that a security guard was coming toward them, too. I thought, oh good. The security guard talked in low tones to the man and the man nodded as though he were ashamed. Then, as soon as the guard was out of sight, he started in on the woman again, and although he had lowered his voice, his fury had clearly escalated. I thought, later, she’ll really get it, because someone told the security guard to go over there. It will be her fault, just like everything else is her fault: a button that falls off his shirt, slow service at a café, the level of humidity. The woman’s legs were crossed, and as still as the rest of her. Her ankles were long and slender, thoroughbred-looking, and there was a tattoo around one of them, like a bracelet. It looked like roses and thorns. And I remember thinking, First, we’ll get rid of that tattoo. But then my flight was announced and I walked away. And I have always regretted it.
So when I saw this incident at the Kmart, I thought, not this time. I’m not walking away this time. For one thing, the husband was short, a half-bald guy, nerdy-looking in his checked pants and knit shirt. I figured, if need be, I could probably punch him out.
I nodded to the woman and she, embarrassed, nodded back. And then I said, “Would you like a ride home?” She looked at her husband, standing in line and glaring across the room at her. Then she looked back at me. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. But not home, if you don’t mind.” I said, “No problem. I’ll take you anywhere you