The Strangers by Paul Pekin   

 At first the husband, busy moving groceries from the cart to the checkout counter, doesn't notice that anyone is talking to his wife. Then he does.  He forces a smile.  Well sure, he knows he's got a good looking wife. 

 But there's something about this guy in the checkout line that seems, well, different.  For one thing he's wearing army camouflage fatigues, looks like he's ready for jungle warfare.  For another, he talks a bit too familiarly. Who introduced him to this woman?  That's what the husband is thinking. 

 Oh well, some things we have to put up with.  

 So it's a stranger in camouflage fatigues.  A husband.  A wife.  A conversation nobody ordered.  

 "A woman once hit me just like that," The camouflage guy says.  He's talking about some kind of a minor accident that's going on out in the parking lot.  Several ambulances are parked out there although, so far as anyone can tell, nobody appears injured.  Just another bit of confusion to spice up big city life.  Didn't even draw a crowd.  

 "She wanted me to pay for it," the camouflage guy says.  "She had this little scratch on the side of her car.  Hell, I could see it was old.  I told her.  Lady, I told her.  You don't want to start with me. I give her fair warning, that I did.  

 The husband is still unloading groceries, frowning now.  His pretty wife seems to be listening to this camouflaged stranger.  She's digging in her purse for her Fresh Value Card.  The cashier has to run it over that scanner thing before today's sale prices can kick in.  

 "But she started with me," the camouflage guy says. "She called the police.  I found out where she lived.  You know what?  Something happened to her car that night.  Somebody broke all her windows out.  I wonder who could have done it?"  

 "Honey," the husband says.  "Didn't we need milk?"  

 The pretty wife turns and smiles at him.  "We're going to get it in the other store, remember?  It's a dollar cheaper."  

 "Really!"  the husband says. "Maybe we ought to open up a new bank account."  

 He's smiling when he says this, trying to make a joke, you see.  He doesn't want his wife talking to that camouflage stranger, and I don't blame him.  

 "I don't let people shove me around," the camouflage guy says to the pretty wife.  He's right in her face with his talk..  "They're not just dealing with anybody when the deal with me.  My ex-wife, she's another one.  She thought she knew all the tricks, took the kid, hired that lawyer.  You know something?  Somebody poisoned his dog.  I wonder who could have done that."  

 "Honey," the husband says.  "Do you need any money?"  

 "I've got the check book," she says.  

 "The thing with me is, I'm not afraid," the camouflage guy says.  "When you're a murderer," he says, "you don't have to be afraid.  Let the other guy be afraid, that's what I say.  That lawyer, let him be afraid.  What do I have to lose.  I've been there.  It's all been done to me already.  Now it's someone else's turn to be afraid."  

 For a minute it almost looks as if he's going to touch the pretty woman's arm.  The husband makes a helpless move, but the aisle is too narrow for him to reach her.  

 "She's trying to turn my kid against me," the camouflage guy says. "Her and that lawyer of hers.  She should know better.  She knows who she is dealing with.  She can't go anywhere I can't find her.  How's she going to do that?  I have all the time in the world.  Suppose it takes five years, ten years.  How will anyone ever know?  They won't know, that's what, and if they do, so what?  It'll be too late for her.   Too late, Sweetheart!  

 Now that the shopping cart is empty, the husband shoves it clear through the aisle, and takes his place at his pretty wife's side. Immediately he begins talking to her, what do you think, should we have the steak for supper, or just heat up a pizza, maybe we should go out, hey, isn't there a game on tonight, did we get a paper today?   He's just talking, you see, anything that comes into his head, and she's answering him pretty much in the same way, and finally the camouflage guy gets the message and drifts off.  He has his own shopping cart, partially filled with bagged groceries.  At last he pushes it out into the parking lot and is gone.  
 "Jesus," the husband says.  "Did you hear that guy?"  

 "I was trying not to," the pretty wife says.  

 "He said he was a murderer!"  

 "I didn't hear that.  I wasn't listening."  

 "Jesus.  A guy like that.  It's a wonder someone hasn't murdered him." He puts an emphasis on the word "him."  

 This nice couple, the man and his pretty wife, get their groceries together and head out into the parking lot.  As the electric door swings shut behind them, I hear them still talking about murder.  

 So I go home and talk about this to my wife.  She's a pretty woman too, and intelligent, you bet she is intelligent.  She makes, oh, I won't tell you how much, editing this journal for dental hygienists (did you know that 70% of all Americans over the age of fifty have periodontal disease and should seriously consider gum transplants?).  She works, as I say, but I don't.  Blame it on health problems, sure, at my age who should be surprised?  

 "Guess what I heard in Dominicks today?"  I start.  Then I tell her this story, more or less as I told it to you.  Then I tell her about this Ray Bradbury story I once read.  I can't quite recall the entire plot, but it had to do with a man who could predict murder.  He would spot a stranger and he could tell by the stranger's behavior that that person was a prime candidate for murder.  "Don't you get it?" I say. "This camouflage guy, he's a prime candidate for murder."  

 "And?"  she says.  "You don't expect that nice man to go out and murder that camouflage guy, do you?"  

 "Not him," I say.  "But what about that lawyer?  Or that woman?  Or that ex-wife?"  

 So we talk about it for a bit since we're good friends as well as man and wife and we talk about a lot of things.  It's just talk, you see. That's what ninety percent of this world is, when you stop and think about it.  Just talk.  

 It's the next day, the very next day, that I'm in Walgreens and I see that same couple again, the husband and his pretty wife.  In fact they're right behind me at the prescription counter.  I'm in there all the time with my prescriptions.  I'm almost tempted to talk with them, ask them about that camouflage guy, but then I draw back, shy, I guess. I'm one of those people who'd rather observe life than live it.  I don't mind admitting that.  

 The husband and his pretty wife are talking about last night's basketball game.  I find this interesting, not only does he have a pretty wife, she watches the game with him.  "Don't you think," he says, "That Ruffin plays a little bit like Dennis?"  

 "Except that he's sane," she says.  

 "So far as we know," the husband laughs.  

 Meanwhile, here comes another guy down the aisle, an old guy, older than any of us, or maybe not older, just in worse shape.  He's limping, painfully limping, and using a cane and he's bent over.  He comes straight up to that husband and his pretty wife and starts talking just as if he'd been invited.  

 "So what did you think of that execution on tv?"  He asks. 

 The husband looks at him blankly.  

 "On tv?"  

 "Yeah.  That woman who shot her husband.  Down in Texas."  

 "I don't think that was on tv.  And if it was, I wouldn't want to watch it."  

 "She got what was coming to her!"  

 I turn my head and see the husband and his pretty wife exchange glances.  

 "I don't follow executions," the husband says.  

 "I say an eye for an eye," the guy with the cane says.  "She shot that man and buried him in the wishing well.  What do you think of that!"  

 "Well, that was bad," the husband says.  "But maybe she had a reason."  

 "She had a reason all right!  She wanted him dead.  I say put her in the chair."  

 "Actually they use the needle in Texas," the husband says.  

 I can see his wife is not enjoying this conversation 
.  
 "On television," the guy with the cane says.  "Yes! It should be.  Put her right up there where we can see her.   Put her in that chair and throw the switch."  

 At this point the pharmacist brings my prescription.  By the time I've paid the bill, I see the guy with the cane has wandered off.  He's limping down the aisle, clearly his bad knees are bothering him.  I almost start to say something to the husband but he suddenly is whispering to his wife.  

 "I was going to tell that guy about Vioxx," he whispers, loud enough for me to hear, not loud enough for the guy with the cane to hear.  The guy with the cane is now examining a bottle of Advil.  "The way he limps.  I felt sorry for him.  Then he starts in on that woman in Texas."  

 "She was a bad woman," the wife says.  

 "On television?  We're supposed to watch that on television?  To hell with him.  Let him find out about Vioxx himself."  

 I step out of the way and let them present their prescription.  It's odd, I'm thinking, two days in a row.  

 That night I once again tell my wife the whole story.  

 "Not on television," she says.  "They'd never show anything like that on television."  

 "Of course not," I say. "But maybe they should.  Maybe people wouldn't be so happy with these executions if they had to see them."  

 "Oh, yes they would," my wife says.  "You just don't know people the way I do." 

 Well, I'll admit that.  She's a pretty smart woman.  It's just a coincidence, she tells me, that I see the same couple two days in a row, and both times they are talking of murder.  

 Perhaps she's right.  But my first wife used to say everything comes in threes, and what do you know, this one does.  

 Because, you see, the following Sunday my wife and I are all the way up in Morton Grove sitting in the Barnes and Noble coffee shop, and there they are again, this time about four tables away, the same husband, the same pretty wife.  My wife is sipping her grapefruit juice.  I have coffee and one of those cranberry scones. I look over, and I see them, and I think, this is not possible, Chicago is such a huge huge place, a coincidence like this is very unlikely to happen.  

 My wife is looking at a book she plans to buy.  

 "There they are," I whisper.  

 "There who are?"  She whispers back.  She likes to deliberately tangle up her grammar, does it, she says, to relax after editing all that dental hygiene.  

 So I have to back up the story a bit until she gets it.  Obviously, this couple is much more interesting to me than to my wife.  

 When I get to the part about the Vioxx, she touches my arm.  "Okay, okay.  I've got it."  

 "This may sound stupid," I tell her. "I almost feel as if I should introduce you."  

 We both turn and carefully observe the husband and his pretty wife. What's most odd is how much this couple resembles us.  Same age, same color hair, same style clothing.  He's in dark jeans, running shoes, and an open collar shirt.  She's in light jeans, a dark sweater with the sleeves pushed up.  

 "We could do that," my wife says.  

 "No," I say, almost too quickly.  "Better not."  

 We turn back to each other.  
 "Now what," she says.  "Shouldn't somebody come up and start talking about murder?"  

 Before I can figure out an answer to this, I see a woman with a red bandanna around her throat enter the coffee shop.  She's a middle aged woman, well dressed, her hair dyed a very bright blonde, and I can see at a glance that she is mad.  Anyone can see it.  Her eyes are mad. You've seen it yourself, you know you have.  

 I touch my wife's arm.  "Here it comes."  

 Sure enough, the mad woman goes straight to the table where the husband and his pretty wife sit.  There are lots of open seats in the coffee shop, open tables too, but she chooses this one, and sits right down.   

 She doesn't excuse herself either.  

 "I saw you in the doctor's office," she says in a voice loud enough to be heard clear out in the book store.  

 "Oh, did you," the pretty wife says.  I can see the husband making little husband-like signs that she should not answer this woman.   But it's to late.  She's taken the bait, and they are in the trap.  

 "Not you," the madwoman says in an even louder voice than before. "Your husband!  I saw him in the doctor's office last week!"  

 The husband takes a deep breath.  "I believe you are mistaken," he says in a deliberately quiet voice that carried much better than he ever intended through the suddenly silenced coffee shop.  

 "That's what everyone believes," the woman says.  "That's what they want me to believe."  

 Quickly, the husband picks up a book and pretends to read.   The pretty wife follows suite, but it's too late.  Clearly.  

 "I see," the madwoman says.  "You're both in it with him."  

 "With whom?"  The pretty wife murmurs, keeping her eyes carefully focused on her book.  

 "The doctor!"  The madwoman cries.  "Do you think I can't see that?  

 "You're mistaken," the husband murmurs, even softer than before. "We've never even met your doctor."  

 "I am not mistaken," the madwoman cries, leaping to her feet.  Now she addresses everyone in the shop, the young woman behind the counter, the couples sitting along the window, the people waiting in line, a security guard who hesitantly has appeared in the entrance, and of course my wife and me.  

 "Don't make eye contact," I whisper.  

 "Don't worry," my wife whispers.  

 "Who is doing that whispering?"  The madwoman cries.  "Do you think I can't hear that whispering?"  

 Fortunately, she has not spotted me or my wife.  She whirls. "Whispering!"  Then she spots the security guard.  He's a young white man with very short hair that sticks out in all directions.  

 "Oh!"  She says.  "You've called the police!  A poor woman has so frightened you that you call the police?  Do you think I'm going to pull a gun out of my purse and start shooting?"  

 She raises her purse as if to show that it indeed is large enough to carry a guy–and more.  Several customers rise up and quietly start for the door.  

 "You do think it, you do!"  The woman cries.  "And I should!  Yes, I should!  You're all in it.  You think I don't know that?"  

 Now the security guard has disappeared.  So has the young woman who was making cappuccino behind the counter.  So have the people who were sitting along the window.  Several tables sit empty with cups of untouched coffee on them.  

 The madwoman is desperately trying to make eye contact with someone, anyone.  I touch my wife's arm.  She nods and begins gathering up her books.  

 "You all deserve to die!"  The madwoman cries.  "Everyone of you!"  

 When we reach the parking lot I see a Morton Grove squad car pulling up before the store entrance.  The officer is a young woman with her hair tied back tightly.  I start toward her, meaning to tell her that her call is in the coffee shop, but I see she is not in the mood to talk. She hitches up her gun belt, puts on scowl on her thin face, and pushes into the store.  

 "It's probably nothing," my wife says.  

 "Nothing," I repeat.  

 It's not like a storybook, not like a movie, I'm thinking.  It's just life.  
 That being the case, I can't tell you what happens in the coffee shop after we leave it.  Not even what happened with that husband and his pretty wife. But few minutes later I do see them one more time, just as my wife and I are getting into our car.  

 He and his pretty wife are across the lane, getting into a Chevy Cavalier of their own.  

 "Oh, there's your friends,"   My wife says.  She waves and I grab her arm.  

 "No," I whisper.  "For God's sake no!"  

 Just like that, my heart is filled with terror.