The Tiny Wife. Andrew Kaufman

      With a wave of his gun the thief directed the bank personnel to come around the counter and get into the line where the customers waited. At the front of this line stood David Bishop, a penguinesque man of forty-five, who trembled slightly as the thief came so close that the brim of his purple hat brushed against David’s bangs.

      ‘Well?’ asked the thief.

      David reached inside his jacket, removed his wallet, and pulled out several hundred dollars.

      ‘You expect me to believe that money is the object currently in your possession holding the most sentimental value?’

      David Bishop became confused. He continued to hold the bills high in the air. The thief placed his gun against the man’s left temple.

      ‘What is your name?’ the thief demanded.

      ‘David. David Bishop.’

      ‘David David Bishop, rip the money into little pieces and throw the pieces into the air.’

      Pausing briefly, David did as the thief demanded. Pieces of money fell to the floor.

      ‘Now, David, think. You have a lot riding on this. What is the most significant, memory-laden, gushingly sentimental object currently in your possession?’

      David Bishop pointed to a cheap-looking watch on his wrist.

      ‘Convince me.’

      ‘My mother gave it to me – years ago, when I left for university. I’ve just gotten it fixed and started wearing it again.’

      ‘Now that’s more like it!’ the thief exclaimed. He took his gun from David Bishop’s head and the watch from his wrist. ‘Now go over there and lie on the floor.’

      David Bishop complied.

      With a wave of his gun the thief directed the next person in line to step forward. Her name was Jenna Jacob. In her right hand were two diamond earrings. She put these in her pocket, searched through her purse, and removed two wrinkled photographs.

      ‘Very cute,’ the thief said. ‘How old?’

      ‘Ten and thirteen.’

      ‘You will never be more aware of how much you love them than right now.’

      Jenna Jacob nodded and, without being asked, joined David Bishop face down on the floor.

      My wife was next in line. I wasn’t there, of course, but she told me this story so many times, told me all these stories so many times, and with such rich and inclusive detail, that I not only feel as if I was there, but I’ve even begun to believe it. I remember how Stacey straightened her posture before stepping forward.

      ‘You look so much like my brother,’ she said. This was true. The thief had the same crook at the bridge of his nose, and pale blue eyes that spoke of both arrogance and desperation.

      ‘Sorry, but that doesn’t exempt you.’

      ‘You know, you don’t have to do this.’

      ‘Maybe. But, more likely, I do.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘You’ll see.’

      ‘Does it make you happy?’

      ‘It gives me meaning.’

      My wife nodded and then fished around in her purse and pulled out a calculator.

      ‘I was using this in my second-year Calculus of Several Variables class when the man who’d become my husband sat down beside me. I used it to help him with his homework. Much later I used it to figure out the night we got pregnant, and the day I’d give birth. I used it to calculate our mortgage and whether we could afford a second car or a second kid. There has not been an important decision in my life that I’ve made without it,’ she said.

      All these things were true. That calculator really was the object that held the most emotional significance for her. It went beyond the things she figured out with it – my wife loved math. It made sense to her. It made the world make sense to her.

      She sighed deeply as she put the calculator in the thief ’s outstretched hand. ‘Any way I can get it back?’ she asked.

      ‘I’m afraid not. How long?’

      ‘I got it in first year.’

      ‘No, your