Bad Move

anybody’s ever written.”

“Even I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You know what I mean. You’re your own worst critic. Is that what’s got you? Letdown?”

“I never said I was down.”

“You just seem a bit off, that’s all I’m saying.”

I didn’t say anything. I had a lot on my mind. Jail, for example. As we drove to General Mart, I found myself looking in the rear-view mirror more than I usually do. I figured someone would be after me. Someone should be after me.

I had, after all, stolen something. But I was not, I told myself, a purse snatcher. Not technically. A purse snatcher was someone who ripped handbags from the clutches of their owners, usually little old ladies who didn’t have the strength to hang on to them and who got knocked down in the process, suffering a broken hip. I had broken no little old hips.

I drove for a while without saying anything, then: “You’re sure you didn’t bring your purse?”

“Huh?”

“Your purse. You’re sure you didn’t bring it along, out of habit, even though you’re wearing that thing on your waist?”

“A fanny pack.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s called a fanny pack.”

I glanced down at her lap. “That doesn’t make any sense at all. It doesn’t hang over your fanny. It hangs over your, well, it hangs over your front. Maybe they thought ‘crotch pack’ didn’t have as nice a ring to it.”

“They also call them waist bags, but that sounds like something somebody with a colostomy wears,” Sarah said. “Do you not like my fanny pack?”

“It’s fine. I like it. I just don’t understand why you decided to stop carrying a purse. You have a lot of stuff. You can’t get everything you need into a little bag like that. You need a purse.” I seemed to be running out of breath. “You should really be carrying a purse.”

“Let me ask you a serious question,” Sarah said.

“Yeah?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No, all I’m saying is, this is a bit of a shock. You live with someone for almost twenty years, you see her carrying a purse every day, which is, like, a hundred thousand days or something, and then, one day, without warning, she decides to go around with a fanny pack. I just, I don’t know, I would have liked a little warning is all.”

Sarah looked at me and said nothing. There was a long pause, and then she said, “You know you just drove past General Mart.”

I glanced around, saw the market over my shoulder, and said, “Shit.” There was one of those concrete medians down the center of the street, which meant I had to go up a full block and make a left before I could turn around.

“I still say there’s something wrong with you,” Sarah said. And then, like a bulb going off: “That reminds me. All this talk about purses.”

“What.”

“In the store, after you left, there was this woman, she started going absolutely nuts.”

“What woman?” But I had a feeling I already knew. A blonde lady, looking at garbage bags, who liked low-fat cookies.

“She was just up the aisle from me.”

“What did she look like?”

If Sarah thought this question was unusual, she didn’t let on. “I don’t know, mid-twenties, thin, blonde hair. Wearing a white suit. She looked kind of familiar to me, actually.”

“You know her?” This was hopeful. With a name, I could get this purse returned right away.

“No, I just felt I’d seen her someplace before. So she goes, ‘Where’s my purse?’ You know, screaming that her purse is missing, and she looks totally frantic, which I guess I would be too if someone grabbed my purse.”

“What do you mean, grabbed it? Did she see someone take her purse?”

“I don’t know. You just assume, I guess. She called down to me, standing by her cart, asks if I’ve seen her purse, like I’m keeping track of her stuff, and I guess I shrugged no, and then she ran to the front of the store, and that was the last I saw of her.” Sarah took a breath, made a funny expression with her mouth, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“So it’s like I said,” she said.

I was making a left at the light and heading back toward General. “Whaddya mean?”

“Well, you’re the one who’s always telling me not to leave my purse in the cart, and that’s probably what that woman had done, and someone happened along and just took it. You only have to be looking away for a second and it’s gone. And the hassle! You have to cancel all your credit cards, get a new driver’s license and God knows what all. And then there’s your keys. You figure, a guy takes your purse, he looks at your license and knows where you live, and he’s got your keys. I mean, most guys probably take the cash and ditch the purse, but there’s always that chance, right?”

“I suppose,” I said, pulling into a parking spot.

“So what I’m saying is, you were right. I guess it was just lucky that today I happened to be wearing this fanny pack, or it might have been my purse that got swiped instead of that lady’s.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky.”

“Are you coming in or waiting out here?” Sarah asked, her hand on the door handle.

Come in or stay out? Come in or stay out? I had this small matter of a strange woman’s purse in the trunk of the car. If I went in with Sarah, there’d be no opportunity for me to get rid of the purse before we came back out to the car, popped the trunk, and Sarah asked, “Whose is that?”

“Let me tell you about my new hobby, honey,” I could say. “I collect handbags now. From strangers. Sometimes they contain valuable prizes.”

But if I stayed with the car, what exactly was I going to do with the purse? I could hide it under the trunk floor, jam it in next to the spare tire. Or maybe I-

“I have an idea,” I said. “How long do you think you’re going to be?”

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. Fifteen, twenty minutes maybe.”

“Maybe I’ll whip over to Kenny’s. You know I ordered that model of the dropship from Aliens? The one the Marines ride to get to the planet’s surface?”

Sarah shrugged again. The mere mention of SF trivia was enough to shut down any further questions. She said, “Sure. Just pick me up at the door here.”

And she was gone. I backed the car out of the spot and pointed it back in the direction of Mindy’s. While I was not yet prepared to come clean with Sarah, I figured if I could find the woman in the white suit, an honest approach was the best one. If she was still at Mindy’s, I’d tell her my wife had asked me to take her purse to the car, and that I’d gone to the wrong cart and grabbed the wrong one. Not the truth, exactly, except for the part about making a mistake.

And it was an honest mistake. There had been no intent to steal anything. When you grab your own wife’s purse, even if, technically speaking, she is not aware of it, surely that’s not stealing. This was like, I told myself, going out to the parking lot, seeing a car that was the same make and model and year of your own. Suppose, just suppose, your key happened to work in this other car, and you got in, and started it up, and drove away, well, that wouldn’t be stealing, would it? Anyone with an ounce of common sense could understand that. And this thing with the purse wasn’t any different, so long as no one noticed that when I left the store I hid the purse under my jacket, and that I had looked about me suspiciously as I dumped it into my trunk, like I was dropping a dead baby in there.

I parked and hit the lock button on the remote key. I didn’t want anyone else making off with my stolen purse. I passed by a kid who was rounding up shopping carts and went into the store, hoping that the woman might still be there. Talking to the manager, perhaps. What I dreaded was that she might have already called the police, but