A Simple Plan

She hesitated, her face wrinkling with thought. Beyond the window, cars zipped by, one after the other, a steady stream of lights.

'You said you had champagne?'

I nodded.

'Dom Perignon?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Of course.'

'Then that's what I want.'

'All right,' I said. 'That's what you'll get.' I stepped back over to the counter and picked up the newspaper, folding it over the machete. Then I returned to the woman and took her by her elbow.

'If we go down the far aisle, we can avoid the puddle.'

She allowed herself to be guided forward. Her heels clicked loudly against the tiled floor. 'I won't be mussed, will I? I won't do this if it involves touching anything dirty.'

'It's all very clean,' I soothed her. 'It's simply a matter of steadying the ladder.'

We were heading down the far aisle. My eyes moved along the shelves we passed, noting items at random -- bread, croutons, salad dressing, toilet paper, Kleenex, sponges, canned fruit, rice, crackers, pretzels, potato chips.

'I don't have much time,' she said. She brushed at her fur coat, glanced quickly at her wrist. 'I'm already late.'

I was still holding her by the elbow. The machete was in my left hand. I could feel its blade through the paper.

'I'll be up and down the ladder, find your champagne, and like that' -- I took my hand away from her arm and snapped my fingers -- 'you'll be out of here.'

'This is the most extraordinary situation,' she said. 'I can't recall anything like it.'

I returned my hand to her elbow, and she looked up at me.

'You know I won't be coming back here again,' she said. 'This is the last time I'll ever grace this establishment. That's what forcing customers into awkward situations does, young man. It alienates them. It puts them off.'

I nodded, barely listening. Without sensing its approach, I'd suddenly become extremely nervous. I could feel my blood pulsing through my head, thickly, as if my veins were too small for it. We were nearing the end of the aisle. The puddle had spread all the way to the wall, blocking off the doorway. There were boot prints around its edge and drag marks from the cashier's body. The woman stopped short when she saw it, stomping her foot.

'I'm not walking through that.'

I tightened my grip on her arm, moving my body to her rear. I pushed her forward toward the storeroom.

'What on earth are you doing? Young man?'

I stuck the newspaper-wrapped machete beneath my arm and then, gripping her with both hands, half- carried, half-pushed her into the dark red puddle. She made light, high-kneed steps, trying to dance her way through, her feet going tap, tap, tap on the tiles.

'This is outrageous,' she said, her voice rising to a low shriek.

There was a pause while I fumbled with the doorknob. Looking down, I saw her shoes, stained from the puddle. They were very tiny, like a child's.

'I...will...not...stand...being...,' she sputtered, trying to free herself from my grip. I had a solid hold on her jacket, though, a fistful of fur, and I refused to let her go.

'...manhandled...by...a...common...'

I got the door open, slid my hand to her back, and pushed her inside. With my other hand, I shook the machete free from its disguise. The newspaper fluttered down into the puddle.

She was surprisingly stable on her feet. She seemed to sense the body in front of her before she actually realized what it was and regained her balance with two quick steps, one landing beside the cashier's head, the other beside his chest.

She started to turn toward me, her mouth opening in protestation, but then her eyes were pulled downward by the horribly familiar form of the obstruction at her feet.

'Dear God,' she said.

I'd planned on doing it quickly, as quickly and cleanly as possible, just hitting her from the rear, hard, and leaving, but the sound of her voice stopped me. I realized with a shock who it reminded me of. It was Sarah -- the exact same tone and pitch, only raised a bit by age; the same firmness riding beneath the words, the same self- confidence and resolution. I thought to myself, This is how Sarah will sound when she's old.

The woman took advantage of my hesitation to turn on me, and the expression on her face -- a mixture of fear, disgust, confusion -- jarred me into an even longer pause.

'I don't...,' she began, but then fell silent, shaking her head. The room was dark; the only light came from the open doorway, where I was standing. My shadow covered the woman to her waist. I held the machete out in front of me, as if to ward her off.

'What is this?' she asked, her voice shaking a little but still sounding remarkably calm. I watched her as she carefully repositioned her feet, turning so that she could face me directly. She straddled the cashier's corpse, putting one foot on either side of his stomach. The hem of her fur coat bunched up a little, resting against his body.

I knew that I ought to kill her, that the longer I spent there, the more danger I'd be in, but a lifetime's training in the proper social behavior of responding when one is addressed overrode that knowledge. Automatically, without thinking, I answered her question.

'I killed him,' I said.

She glanced down at the cashier's face, then back up at me.

'With that?' she asked, gesturing toward the machete.

I nodded. 'Yes. With this.'

We stared at each other then, for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, though it seemed like much longer. We were each waiting for the other to initiate something.

I tightened my grip on the machete. My mind sent out an order to my arm -- clear, precise, direct. Hit her, it said. But my arm remained in front of me, motionless.

'What kind of a man are you?' the woman asked finally.

The question took me by surprise. I stared at her, thinking. It seemed important that I answer her sincerely. 'I'm just normal,' I said. 'I'm like anyone else.'

'Normal? Only a monster would be capable of...'

'I've got a job. A wife, a baby girl.'

She averted her eyes when I said this, as if it were something she didn't want to hear. She noticed that her coat was resting on the cashier's body, and she tried to reposition it, but it was too long. She glanced back up at me.

'But how could you do this?'

'I had to.'

'Had to?' she asked, as if the idea were absurd. She eyed the machete with disgust. 'You had to kill him with that thing?'

'I stole some money.'

'Surely you could've taken it without killing him. You could've...'

I shook my head. 'Not from him. I found it in a plane.'

'A plane?'

I nodded. 'Four million dollars.'

She was confused now. I'd lost her. 'Four million dollars?'

'It was ransom. From a kidnapping.'

She frowned at that, as if she thought I was lying. 'What does that have to do with him?' she asked angrily, pointing down at the cashier. 'Or me?'

I tried to explain. 'My brother and I killed someone to keep him from finding out about the money. And then