A Quiet Saturday Night (Part 2 of a short story)

By Paul Clark (aka motomynd)

And so they went from the Builders Depot parking lot to wander Lots of Stuff. And she looked at aisles of curtains, and rugs, and her son looked at toy cars, and finally chose four he deemed worthy of some of his birthday money. And then her son and husband went to the back of the store, to look for a solar-powered light with a stout steel stake that she had seen in an ad. She went the opposite way, for toiletry organizers and a new rug for the bathroom.
    Fifteen minutes later, she was calm again, had a black-and-white rug and shiny black organizers that would work perfectly in their newly tiled bathroom, and she went in search of husband and son.
    Pushing her cart toward the dimly lit back of the store, heading toward the public restrooms and the spring items waiting for the same weather she craved, she heard the words. They were so quiet, she wondered if she really heard them at all.
    “This is a bad idea.”
    She froze. Who was that? The voice sounded vaguely familiar, yet it was so hollow and emotionless she couldn’t place it.
    She heard a laugh, a strange, hollow laugh. Numb, barely breathing, she peeked around the corner.

The man who had come out of the dark in the parking lot stood with his back to her. She almost laughed; he was 21st century Latino, yet here he was wearing his pants so low his underwear showed: 1980s gangsta style. Slightly ahead of him, and just a little to his left, stood a slight-built woman, maybe 20 or so, petite like her own teenage daughter, dressed all in black, wearing a beret and unlaced ankle boots. Beyond her stood her husband, facing them. Behind him, their son peeked around his dad’s waist. She noticed her husband had found the solar light she wanted; he was casually turning it in his hand.
    The woman in the beret spoke calmly, but sullenly. “We need some money, and you don’t want your grandson to get hurt.”
    Her husband glared at her. “Actually, he’s my son.”
    “No way. You’re too old.”
    “Yeah, I hear that a lot.”
    “We need money.”
    “You need to get the hell out of here.”
    “Or what?”
    “Or you die. You dare threaten my son? Get the hell out of here or you die.”
    “Daddy, that’s not a good word to use.”
    “You’re right, buddy. Just like it wouldn’t be nice for me to take this solar light stake and drive it right through someone’s throat.”
    “Dad, would you do that?”
    “Sure, if I had to.”
    Frozen in place, his wife knew she should scream, knew she should dial 9-1-1, knew she should do something. Anything. But she just stood, hands white-knuckled on the handle of the shopping cart.
    Her son broke the spell. “Mommy? Is that you, mommy?”
    The man who had come out of the dark started to spin around, toward her. The woman began to spin, turning her back toward the boy’s father. She tried to yell a warning, but it was too late; the boy’s father already had her by the hair and had the solar light stake at her neck.
    “Run! Or you die!”
    With that he shoved the woman forward, sending her stumbling against the man who had come out of the dark. They ran, right past the boy’s mother, wide-eyed like the woman had never seen. They ran as fast as a woman could run with her boots untied, as fast as a man could run while trying to hold up his pants.

“Well, there’s a birthday to remember,” her husband said, sounding as natural as if he was ordering coffee at Starbucks. He picked up their son. “Hey, buddy, think we should buy this solar light for next time our next-door neighbors give us a hassle?”
    “Yeah, dad. High five on that! I bet that would shut them up.”
    Checkout was a blur. Walking to the car, through the darkness, in the freezing rain, was a blur. Her husband unlocked the car, guided her to the passenger seat, put their son into the backseat, then put their rug and organizers and snacks into the trunk. In the mirror she saw him put something in his pocket and take a long look around before leaning into the car and strapping their son into his car seat.
    “You okay, buddy?”
    “Yep, but I’m hungry. Let’s go home.”
    Halfway home she turned on the radio and cranked up the volume.
    She turned and smiled at their son then leaned close to her husband: “Are you okay?”
    “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
    “Because you could have been killed! You could have gotten our son killed!”
    “Me? All I did was go shopping at some stupid store for some stupid house stuff. How the hell is anything my fault? I wanted to take you to Miami for your birthday, remember?”
    She pulled away, crossed her arms, stared out the side window.
    “So,” she asked finally, “it would have been my fault if something had happened?”
    “Well, I guess it would have been the fault of those two idiots, or the people who raised those two idiots. But technically, it would sort of be your fault, because if we had been in Miami, we wouldn’t have been here.”
    And then he laughed. A natural laugh. A laugh that said he really liked the way that all sounded. His wife seethed as she stared out the side window.
    They came to a red light. Her husband pushed the button and rolled down his window as a car pulled up beside them. “What on earth?” she asked. Turning toward him, she saw his .45 caliber semi-automatic in his right hand. He held it across his lap, low, out of sight, but aimed out the open window. When the light turned green, he sat still, until the other car pulled away.
    “What on earth?” she said again.
    “That car had been behind us ever since we left the store. Didn’t know if they might be up to something. No biggie, I guess.”
    “You would have shot at them? With our son in the car?”
    “You would rather I let them shoot at us? With our son in the car?”
    She crossed her arms again and looked out her window the rest of the way home.

Copyright © 2019 by Paul Clark