The Tiny Wife
A remarkable short novella, a modern fable that is weird, uplifting and romantic all at the same time.A robber charges into a bank with a loaded gun, but instead of taking any money he steals an item of sentimental value from each person. Once he has made his escape, strange things start to happen to the victims.A tattoo comes to life, a husband turns into a snowman, a baby starts to shit money. And Stacey Hinterland discovers that she’s shrinking, a little every day, and there is seemingly nothing that she or her husband can do to reverse the process.The Tiny Wife is a weird and wonderful modern fable. Small, but perfectly formed, it will charm, delight and unnerve in equal measure.
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ANDREW KAUFMAN
The Tiny Wife
Illustrated by Tom Percival
Dedication
For the extremely patient,and exceedingly tall, Marlo
Contents
Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Book Two
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Book Three
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
By the same author
Copyright
Book One
Chapter 1
The bank was located at the corner of Christie and Dupont in downtown Toronto, Ontario, Canada. There were thirteen people inside when the thief entered: two tellers, the assistant manager, and ten customers waiting in line. The thief wore a flamboyant purple hat and brandished a handgun. Having a flair for drama, he fired a single shot into the ceiling. Bits of plaster fell from it and got caught in the fake fur fibers of his hat. Everyone was quiet. Nobody moved.
‘While this is a robbery …’ the thief said. His accent was thick and British, the kind that makes North Americans feel slightly ashamed. He flicked his head and a cloud of plaster dust swept into the air. ‘I demand only one thing from each of you and it is this: the item currently in your possession which holds the most sentimental value.’
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.
