Nano

Chapter 1

I woke up before Alix did and lay still, watching her breathe. Her face glowed, sculpted from the translucent wax of sleep, and I thought, What the hell is she doing here? By which I meant here sharing an apartment with a misfit academic like me. That was the most difficult of the Alix questions, but there were zillions more. Alix was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside a body that was impossible for a grown man to view intimately without weeping.

She sniffled when I tickled her nose, twisting away and burying her face in her pillow—universal body language for just five more minutes. I rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. And that was when the day began to take its bizarre shape.

While I was shaving, a sparrow splattered itself against the bathroom window, chasing a bug probably. A few minutes later someone who spoke only Croatian (I think) phoned and wouldn't get off the line. I went to scramble some eggs and cracked open two double-yolkers in a row. Now, your liberal arts academics, as opposed to purely logical types like Alix and me, will read portent into a sequence of events like that, forever on the lookout in real life for the omens and resonances they find in their books. What they don't understand, and what you can never convince them of, is that what happens in this impersonal universe of ours is random. The truth is, probability rules, or, to couch it in the language of some of their favorite ancient philosophers, stercus accidit (cf. Latin manure + happens).

And as the morning progressed and stercus continued to accidit, it took the hard-nosed rationalists that we are to dismiss the sparrow as nothing more than a myopic fist of feathers, the Croat as a simple wrong number, the eggs as acceptable statistical outliers.

Ever calculating, I served Alix breakfast in bed—bagels with cream cheese and raspberry jam, the aforementioned eggs, a cappuccino from our wheezy machine to wash it all down—but she was in an odd mood. She seemed distant, anxious to get out of the apartment, so that her heart wasn't in the little seduction that I instigated. But she's a sport, is Alix. Afterward, sticky with sweat, jam and spent bodily fluids, we showered and threw on some clothes. By now she was wide awake. She could barely wait to shuffle me out the door.

This one's only a few blocks from here, Alix said, stopping along the lakeside path. She had her pencil out and was circling a small ad for a yard sale in the North Suburban Review.

I gazed wistfully at Lake Michigan. In early August the lake was a shimmering Mediterranean blue under the glare of the morning sun. Terrific, I said. I would much rather have confined our stroll to the Lake Shore University campus—in particular the university's private beach. Unfortunately, over the last couple of weeks Alix had developed an inexplicable madness for yard sales. This meant we'd have to leave behind the manicured, rolling campus pathways, the promise of summer coeds buttered and roasting brown on the sand, and, of course, the coolness of the breeze off the lake, and venture into The Town on what was developing into another hot, hot, hot Saturday.

I don't know what you expect to find at these things, I said. With your father's money you can afford anything you want, brand new. Doesn't bargain hunting strike you as a waste of time?

Timothy, it has nothing to do with money. It has to do with people. It's an anthropological thing—sort of.

You're a mathematician, not an anthropologist.

"Whatever. I've developed a hypothesis that a yard sale is a snapshot of the private lives of the sellers. If you stand back and really look at the junk on sale as a kind of holistic statement, you get a feel for the history of the sellers, who they are, the transition they’re going through. It's like peeking into a window at night and seeing what people are really all about."

Only this way they have their clothes on.

And it wouldn't hurt you to get away from your computers for a while. You need to broaden your horizons, develop some human contacts before you turn into a machine yourself.

Why do I have to? I wondered, but her assessment was fair enough. I've always been more comfortable with computers than with people. Except Alix. I was immensely comfortable with Alix. Which was why I wasn't going to spoil her fun. In the year or so we'd been together this wasn't the first time she'd gone off on a lark. Still, yard sales? Why not really scrape bottom and go bowling? And wasn't it just a little suspicious that these passions always seemed to surface just before her birthday? In a few days she would turn thirty-five.

I said, You know, we could have a yard sale of our own, get rid of some of those old chains and leather restraints. The handcuffs with the missing key? And we haven't touched the cat-o'-nine-tails now that we're out of liniment. What would that say about us to the discerning shopper?

Alix rolled her eyes and turned away, a grin curling at the corners of her mouth. She had retrieved her cell phone from her shoulder bag and seemed to be following its GPS map. Her dark hair fanned out in a lazy arc as she headed toward Hilton Road, the main thoroughfare along the western boundary of the campus. Hurry up, it's almost ten. The reading won't be accurate if too many things are sold.

I hung back for a moment to peer at Dr. Alix Fitzsimmons over the top of my sunglasses. (I wear mirrored Ray-Bans because I think they make me look enigmatic. Alix thinks I look like a busboy on his day off.) I admired the geometry of her legs, the way her thighs joined in precise tangent to the arc of her hips before curving with elegant symmetry into her behind. Which, churning away from me now, strained at the fabric of her brief sundress. There was a deep cosmic order here. Every aspect of Alix seemed to echo the precision of her chosen discipline as a professor of mathematics. Sometimes I imagined photos of her gracing Playboy's special edition, Babes of Elliptical Modular Functions.

Chapter 2

In early August the Lake Shore University campus was nearly a ghost town—my favorite time of year, actually: for a couple of months at least you're not tripping over swarms of indifferent adolescents clamoring to be spoon-fed dry facts for the sake of grades. Today, even the summer students were staying cool indoors. For more than a week the campus had been baking, the result of a heat wave that showed no signs of flagging. Broad stretches of lawn sizzled under the relentless sun, and the farther away we traveled from the lake, the hotter it felt.

Just beyond the Brice Quadrangle, Alix slowed. There's Pedro, she said, pointing to where half a dozen men were unloading a flatbed truck heaped with log-like rolls of sod. A swarthy man holding a baseball bat sat at the controls of a large motorized lawn roller. Below him stood Pedro, small and nut-brown, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, a machete propped on his shoulder.

Yo! Timothy, Alix, Pedro called out with an exaggerated look at his wristwatch. It's not even noon. Couldn't sleep in the heat?

Pedro embraced Alix warmly. He turned to me and nearly forgot for a moment that I don't hug. We shook hands.

Pedro Yamamoto, of Mexican and Japanese extraction, was Master of Grounds and Gardens at Lake Shore University. Alix and I first met him the previous summer. One night, staggering home from a wine tasting that had turned ugly, I mistook one of the university's numerous abstract sculptures for a pissoir. Which was bad enough, but zipping up in the dark I stumbled and managed to topple the sculpture—a monstrous totem of welded copper pods like something out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers—into a bed of tulips. Just my luck, Pedro, working late, was there to witness the whole thing. He was furious (about the tulips, not the sculpture). He stood over me like the boss of a chain gang, pulling at his thick Mexican moustache, glaring with those black-olive eyes from beneath their mysterious epicanthic folds, slapping that deadly-looking machete against his palm. Sorry—sorry—sorry— I muttered, terrified, scrabbling on hands and knees in the dirt until the precious flowers were returned to their original condition, more or less.

Afterward, maybe because he felt guilty for being so harsh, Pedro invited me out for a beer. One beer turned into another, and the next morning at six o'clock he and I stumbled into Alix's and my apartment with a huge bouquet cut from the President's Gardens. Alix was remarkably sanguine, considering that she'd been sound asleep. She fixed coffee and pancakes, and the three of us have been friends ever since.

They have you working Saturdays now? I said.

Pedro shook his head in disgust. In loose trousers and blouse he looked like a samurai Pancho Villa. We got dentists coming in Monday and the place is supposed to be perfect. Now I got this. He waved toward an area where raised ridges crisscrossed the lawn, as if something had dug tunnels just under the surface. One of his compadres was piloting the power roller back and forth to smooth over the ridges.

What is it, gophers?

Gophers! Pedro snorted. I don't know what, but no gophers.

Whatever they are, I said, watching the massive lawn roller trundle toward us under its own steam. They won't stay long if they know what's good for them.

What dentists? Alix wanted to know.

Pedro shrugged wearily. The Dental School's got some big deal going. That's what the tent's for.

Beyond Pedro, in the open courtyard in front of the Hayes Center, a crew was busily erecting a huge green-and-white striped tent. A large banner spread out on the ground read DIRECTIONS IN ORTHODONTIA FOR THE 21ST CENTURY. The point of my tongue slid to a rough spot on a back molar and I shuddered.

If it's not crazy professors crushing my tulips, Pedro said, raising an eyebrow at me, "or fraternity drunks puking on my evergreens or dentists in golf shoes, it's some weird bicho chewing up my lawn. What a job, huh?"

We made vague plans for dinner the following week, and Alix and I started off again, heading west, which shattered my hopes that she'd forgotten the yard sale.

****

Two streets past Hilton Road, Alix tapped the GPS map on her cell phone. Should be right here somewhere. She stuffed the newspaper into her capacious shoulder bag and raised her sunglasses away from her pale green eyes to squint at the addresses. I hoped the sale was close. Even in my coolest khaki shorts and a purple cotton T-shirt (bearing the image of the Lake Shore Snarlin' 'Possum) I felt like a roast pig.

The house we were looking for stood apart from the rest. A bastard Georgian Revival among frame Victorians, it had been expensively renovated—windows replaced, original cut-glass panels restored. A wide railed-in porch spanning the front had been completely rebuilt.

As if warning me of an ambush, Alix squeezed my arm and said softly, Two-professional family, youngish. Apparently she was applying her new powers of deduction to the small bicycle on the porch and the two BMWs in the drive, which was blocked off by a sawhorse to keep the yard sale customers from parking there.

Following the arrow on a hand-lettered sign, we cut through a narrow passageway that opened onto a small backyard. Unbelievably, in the suffocating heat, the yard was crowded with bargain hunters picking through junk on tables, junk in boxes, junk arrayed on blankets, junk everywhere.

Alix wandered to the periphery and stood still, eyes fixed. She touched a fist to her forehead like the Amazing Kreskin receiving a mental telegram.

First she concentrated on the miscellaneous pieces of ornamental china, the college mugs (Yale, Barnard), the broken sets of flatware and the lamps with frayed cords. Next she contemplated the dated textbooks and the assortment of tiny clothing gathered into one area. Some of the junk hadn't seen daylight for decades. Nothing escaped Alix's purview.

I was definitely right. Professionals, both husband and wife, she announced with confidence. Two small children.

She quickly added, Materialistic, taking into account, I guessed, the profusion of previous-generation gadgets on display—watches, digital cameras, DVD recorders, calculators, light meters, cordless phones.

Noting that a perfectly good flat screen television was on sale, while a carton containing old blankets and tablecloths was printed with the brand name and model of a much bigger, much better LCD television, Alix said, Recent increase in wealth?

Moments later she announced, Not intellectuals. I turned to see what she was looking at. Several of the novels stacked on a vintage TV tray were by Stehpanie Meyer. Of course, this alone wouldn't be conclusive. A bloated intellectual might very well read about vampires as an emetic. But these were hardcovers. A hardcover was simply too difficult to conceal on short notice—say, when a colleague enters without knocking—or explain away. No. Alix was right. These people were not intellectuals.

And then, synthesizing everything she knew, Alix proudly declared, Lawyers.

Desperate to assert my own deductive powers, I added, Divorcing.

Alix winced at the thought of lawyers divorcing. Reason?

I pointed to a cardboard box stuffed with old issues of Playboy and Penthouse. No man living in the house would allow his adolescent memorabilia to be sold off like that.

"Very good, Timothy. See, you're getting into it."

A radio inside a screened-in porch interrupted its endless droning of golden oldies to make official what everyone already knew: Bad news again for the Chicagoland area, folks. Ten A.M. temperatures: Lake Front eighty-six, an even ninety at Midway and O'Hare. And for those of you travelers out on the road, construction has traffic backed up for three miles in every direction from the Kennedy-Edens junction...

Just then Alix glanced toward a row of desiccated lilac bushes in the corner of the yard. Her eyes widened. She tugged at my arm to start me moving.

What? I said. What is it?

Shhh! Follow me, darling. And let me do the talking.

She led me to where a small boy, possibly six or seven years old, was perched on the edge of a battered red wagon. The wagon was piled with old toys—a plastic jet fighter with one wing missing, a stuffed bear that looked as if a dog had chewed it, a set of Lego blocks, a busty female doll in a one piece zebra-striped swimsuit. It was hard to tell what else.

Hi, Alix said.

Hi, the boy said. He looked away shyly. Chubby, with a surly tilt to his mouth, he was naked except for a baggy blue bathing suit. His wheat-colored hair was damp, as if he'd recently run under a sprinkler.

My name's Alix. What's yours?

Justin.

Justin. Well, Justin, I see you have a lot of nice toys there. Are you selling them?

Yeah, Justin mumbled, his attention threatening to wander at any moment.

I frowned. I wondered what the devil Alix was up to.

How about that dolly there—by the teddy bear? Is that for sale?

Yeah.

May I see it?

Okay.

He lifted the doll by its legs and handed it to Alix. It was cleaner than the other toys, pristine in fact. And suddenly I recognized it—long legs, blonde ponytail, pint-sized haute couture: a Barbie doll. Old, I decided, because its skin had faded almost to white. I knew there were different models and vintages of Barbies, but I had no idea which one this was. And Alix wasn't a doll person. Why was she so interested? She took her time examining it. I watched her pry Barbie's swimsuit away with her thumbnail and peek inside. Kinky. Was this another side of Alix I had yet to discover?

Isn't she pretty, Alix said finally to Justin.

I guess so.

I bet I know a little girl who'd love to have this. How much do you want for it?

With an air of boredom, eyes focused on the milling crowd, the boy said, Three hundred bucks.

I choked, and Alix inhaled sharply.

Three—hundred? Three hundred dollars?

Yeah.

Unsure of the meaning of the glance Alix shot me, I edged closer.

Listen, Justin, Honey, Alix said. "Do you know how much three hundred dollars is? Are you sure you don't mean three dollars?"

Three hundred.

I couldn't control myself. I pressed in front of Alix and lowered myself on one knee. Let me handle this, love. I know kids. Slipping off my sunglasses so that the boy wouldn't miss the sincerity in my baby blues, I flashed my warmest smile. Justin, what grade are you in?

Second.

Second. Wow. What a big boy. How are you doing in arithmetic in the second grade?

Okay, I guess.

You see, I'm only asking because I was wondering if you understood about counting dollars. I took the Barbie from Alix and made a ritual of straightening its skirt. I wanted to go easy, let my natural charm do the work. For instance, take this doll. When this doll was new it cost, oh, say, fifteen dollars. I winked at Alix to intercept any correction she might make to my facts. That's three fives. I spread the fingers of my right hand three times. "Five. Ten. Fifteen. See? Now, three hundred is—"

Justin was becoming agitated. He squirmed and faced me squarely, plump cheeks reddening. Three hundred bucks! he repeated loudly, adding, The price is non-negotiable, like the crafty little snot he apparently was.

May I help you?

A chunky blonde woman, obviously Justin's mother, stood behind us with her right hand braced against her hip. Her left hand (showing a slight depression on the bare finger where a wedding ring might have spent some time) was occupied swiping perspiration from her brow. Dark stains spread across her denim work shirt from one armpit to the other, and though the sale had been going on for less than an hour, a hefty wad of bills peeked out from the pocket of the apron at her waist.

Ah, yes, ma'am, I said, rising to my feet. Good morning. I was just trying to explain a little arithmetic to Justin here.

Justin is excellent at arithmetic. He's in an advanced math class.

Of course. Of course he is, but in this particular case—

Justin, what's going on? she said.

They want my Barbie, Mom. I told 'em three hundred bucks, like you said.

His mother shrugged. Seems simple enough to me. Justin says the price is three hundred, it's three hundred.

Look, Mrs.—

Excuse me, darling, Alix interrupted. I think three hundred is very fair. Let's not say another word. Before I could stop her she had rummaged in her bag and dealt out three hundred dollars in tens and twenties from a shockingly thick bundle.

Justin's mother stood with her arms folded as Alix counted the money into the boy's moist hand and exchanged it for the Barbie.

Nice doing business with you, Alix said.

I shot Justin my practiced wry smile. Just out of curiosity, were you thinking of becoming a used car salesman when you grow up?

No, I want to be a personal injury attorney like my mom.

That was going to be my second guess, I told Alix on the way to the street. "And not a lawyer, an attorney."

I could tell Alix was stifling a strong urge to remind me that, with nothing but the yard sale junk for clues, she had already deduced that the parents were lawyers.

Chapter 3

Alix and I meandered in silence for half a block, past the close-set houses, past the drooping elm and ash trees. The street seemed completely roasted. Everywhere undersized air conditioners whirred and clattered, sweaty rumps poking out from every other window. A cocker spaniel slouched past in slow motion as it tracked a gray tiger cat that wasn't moving much faster. Even the birds' songs were logy and insincere.

I broke the silence first. All right, love, we're alone now. You want to tell me why you gave that little proto-shyster three hundred dollars for a used plastic doll?

She produced it carefully from her bag and inched up its one-piece, zebra-striped swimsuit until Barbie's narrow WASPy ass was visible. Look at that, she said.

Yeah. Nice and tight. I see why the feminists are up in arms.

She tapped a fingernail beneath a small line of markings. Nineteen fifty-nine. She's an original Barbie, and in mint condition as they say, maybe a little faded with age. Entire books have been written about her. Not that it matters, but I'll bet if I looked it up I'd find out she's worth a thousand or more.

I took it and studied it from different angles. Wow, I'm excited, I murmured flatly. So that's why you wanted it? For the satisfaction of cheating a surly second-grader out of a few hundred bucks? Not that that's such a bad thing. The idea of snookering the little cretin gives me a certain satisfaction.

If I thought you could understand, I'd explain it.

I clutched at my chest. Ouch. For your information, I'm a lot more sensitive than you give me credit for.

"Au contraire, mon cher, I credit you with as much sensitivity as any creature driven solely by intellect and libido can have. She sighed and began again with a conciliatory grin. All right, Timothy, can you understand that it might have bothered me that my parents wouldn't let me have a Barbie when I was growing up? They thought it was too—I don't know—anti-feminist."

I harrumphed (which isn't as easy as you might think—try harrumphing and getting it right the first time). "Actually I can understand. I can just picture it. There you were, poor little rich girl with a room full of expensive trash of every description from F.A.O. Schwarz, and all you really wanted was a humble Barbie like all your working-class friends had. And naturally you never got over the pain. Today, when you saw that Barbie, something snapped. The same gut-wrenching longing came crashing over you like a tidal wave, and you knew you had to have it, you just had to—"

Damn you, Timothy Legend.

Alix gathered her hair tightly behind her head in a Barbie-like ponytail. Swishing it away from her neck to keep cool she stalked ahead in silence.

Oops, I thought. There were precious few subjects that Alix had no sense of humor about, and this, unfortunately, seemed to be one of them. But what I'd said was true. While she was growing up, her father was off around the world overseeing his shipping lines—Transatlantic Fitzco, one of the largest—and her mother had managed to divide herself among a dozen charities and social clubs without a spare sliver for her daughter. Alix spent a lot of time alone reading—and, it is rumored, getting into serious trouble (which she was maddeningly reluctant to talk about). On the upside, she emerged a very well-educated little rich girl. After her mother's death (rubber-chicken luncheon, failed Heimlich) her father began to heap money on her out of a deep sense of guilt. Even now he continued to stuff her bank account.

Which, it suddenly dawned on me, was probably what this was all about, because every year for her birthday...

Moving briskly, Alix had put a dozen yards between us. Slow down, love, I called out. It's too hot. I caught up with her at the corner and took her hand. I'm sorry. We crossed the street. "Can we talk