The Portable Veblen: Shortlisted for the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction 2016

But Paul wouldn’t even turn, as if being watched by a squirrel meant nothing to him.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, examining the alien stone, for which she’d never yearned. “It’s so big. Won’t I smash it into things, won’t I wreck it?”

“Diamonds can’t be smashed.”

“I can’t wreck it?” she asked, incredulously.

“You can’t wreck anything. You only make things great.”

Her body quickened, like a tree in the wind. Later, she would remember a filament that passed through her, of being glad she had provided him happiness, but not really sure how she felt herself.

“Yes?” the man said.

The squirrel emitted a screech.

“Is that a yes?” Paul asked.

She managed to say it. Yes. Two human forms became as one, as they advanced to the sidewalk, the route to the cottage on Tasso Street.

Behind them, the squirrel made a few sharp sounds, as if to say he had significant doubts. As if to say, and she couldn’t help translating it this way: There is a terrible alchemy coming.

SUCH WAS THE engagement of Veblen Amundsen-Hovda, independent behaviorist, experienced cheerer-upper, and freelance self, who was having a delayed love affair with the world due to an isolated childhood and various interferences since. At thirty she still favored baggy oversized boy’s clothes, a habit as hard to grow out of as imaginary friends.

That night in her cottage the squirrel paced the attic floor. Rain pelted the rooftop and a low-pressure system whipped the tall trees the town was named for. When his acorn lost its flavor, the squirrel hurled it in a fit of pique, and Paul banged on the wall from below.

You want a piece of me? Only bottled-up jerks bang on walls from below.

The squirrel had his resources. All he had to say was End the attachment and the leaves would fall. It was an important job in autumn to visit all the ones he’d planted and stare down their boughs. End the attachment. The trees went bare. The days grew short and cold.

THAT NIGHT IN BED, she fell upon Paul with odd ferocity, as if to transform or disguise the strange mood that had seized her. It worked. Later, holding her close, Paul whispered, “You know what I’ll remember forever?”

“What?”

“You didn’t say ‘I’ll think about it’ when I asked you. You just said yes.”

She felt the joy of doing something right.

Overhead came a Virginia reel of scrapes and thumps, embarrassing at this juncture, as would be a growling intestine under the sheets.

“Do you think it’s rats?” Paul asked.

“I’m hoping it’s squirrels.”

“This town is infested with squirrels, have you noticed?”

“I’d rather say it’s rich with squirrels.”

“The rain’s driving them in,” Paul said, kissing her.

“Or they’re celebrating for us, prancing with joy.”

He butted her gently. “My parents are going to be blown away. They’ll say I don’t deserve you.”

“Really? No way.”

“What’ll your mother say?” Paul wanted to know.

“Well, that it happened fast, and that she’ll have to meet you, immediately if not sooner.”

“Should we call and tell them?”

“Tomorrow.”

She had an internal clock set to her mother’s hunger for news, but sometimes it felt good to ignore it.

“What about your father?” Paul asked.

“Hmm. He’ll just say we’ll never be the same.”

“We’re old enough not to care what our parents think, but somehow we do,” Paul admitted, philosophically.

“That’s for sure.”

“Because they allowed us to exist.”

She had once concluded everyone on earth was a servant to the previous generation—born from the body’s factory for entertainment and use. A life could be spent like an apology—to prove you had been worth it.

Pressed against him, aware of the conspicuous new ring on her hand catching on the sheets, she jolted when he uttered in his day voice: “Veb, those noises don’t bother you?”

Not wanting to be mistaken for a person who resides obliviously in a pesthole, she explained, “I have this strange thing. If someone around me is bothered by something, I feel like I’m not allowed to be bothered.”

“Not allowed?”

“It’s like I’m under pressure from some higher source to remain calm or neutral, to prevent something terrible from happening.”

“That’s kinda twisted. Do you spend a lot of time doing that?”

She reflected that leveraging herself had become a major pastime. Was it fear of the domino, snowball, or butterfly effect? Or maybe just a vague awareness of behavioral cusps, cascading failures, chain reactions, and quantum chaos?

“It’s instinctive, so I don’t even notice.”

“So we’ll never be able to share a grievance?”

“Oh! I’ll work on it, if sharing grievances means a lot to you.”

He sniffed. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to dislike the sound of gnawing rodents near our bed.”

“True.” She laughed, and kissed his head.