The Last Equation of Isaac Severy(66)
She followed the source of the lamplight to the rear of the house, where what had once been a back porch was now a den. A desk stood at one end of the room, piled high with papers and books, and a sofa at the other. The sofa looked as if it had been hollowed out at the center, no doubt from having been used as a bed. Her suspicions were confirmed by an alarm clock sitting on the floor.
“Sit there,” Paige ordered from behind her.
Hazel took a seat on one end of the sofa, careful to avoid the sinkhole. She straightened her spine a little: she was no longer going to be intimidated by this woman.
The dogs collapsed onto a rug in the center of the room, little Podge curled inside Hodge’s legs.
“So you’re here about my son.” Paige poured dark tea into both cups.
“Yes, actually,” Hazel said, a little thrown. “How did you know?”
Her aunt handed her the sugar bowl, pouring some milk for herself. “For most of my professional life, I was paid to know all the potential answers to subjective questions outside the normal bounds of statistics: Will candidate A’s smart wardrobe alienate working-class voters? Is candidate B’s corny sense of humor endearing or off-putting? Will revelations of mental illness in candidate C’s family garner sympathy or scare people off? The question here being: Why is Hazel, who has never particularly liked her aunt, paying said aunt a surprise visit on a Sunday evening? Only one answer makes sense.”
“Impressive,” Hazel said, stifling her annoyance. “Do you know how I can reach Alex?”
Paige took a seat at her desk, swiveling to face her niece. “Alex has a habit of slipping off the grid—gets that from me. You must want to find him somewhat urgently, otherwise you would’ve simply called. Have the two of you become entangled somehow? Perhaps you’ve developed some confused feelings for him. He’s not a blood cousin, after all, and you didn’t grow up together. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened in this family, but I suppose I’m straying into speculation.”
She glanced at Hazel and took a satisfied sip of tea.
Hazel tried to ignore the burning sensation at the tips of her ears and a sudden desire to upend the tea table and kick her aunt’s chair out from under her. There was also a brief clip of Hazel emptying the contents of the teapot onto her head. “You’ve really thought it through, haven’t you?”
“Please, this isn’t a Poe mystery; it hardly requires a C. Auguste Dupin level of detection. It took me a few seconds. Most people go around thinking that life is magical and mysterious, filled with all kinds of unknowns. Bullshit. Once you decide the universe is knowable, all kinds of answers become available to you.”
“I guess I don’t go around thinking that way.”
“Of course you don’t. Very few people are blessed with a methodical brain. Like everyone else, you probably stumble through life getting into trouble, debt, and heartbreak.”
Hazel had no intention of betraying the accuracy of this statement. Instead, she looked around, taking in the study as a depiction of her aunt’s blessed brain and lonely life. She wondered if there might be some visible clue as to Alex’s whereabouts, but on the shelves lining the room, there was no evidence of family at all. No photographs, no mementos. There were only three-ring binders—hundreds of them—all grimy white, each labeled alphabetically, A through J, in colored marker. Was this the never-ending book project?
Aware that she looked to be snooping, Hazel forced her eyes back to Paige. “I really don’t want to waste your time. Do you have any idea where Alex might be staying?”
“He and I don’t speak.”
“Do you at least know if he’s still in the country? If you had to find him—”
“Have you heard a thing I’ve said?” Paige snapped.
In response, Hazel stood abruptly, not caring to hide her frustration. “Thank you for the tea.” But after returning her cup to the tray, curiosity won over, and she glanced back at the binders. “Where are K through Z?”
Paige tapped her forehead. “Up here. When it’s complete, The Book of Probabilities will clock in at around five hundred sixty-five volumes.”
“You have a ways to go, then.”
Her aunt smiled, almost sadly. “I have a secret for you. It will never be finished. I will die before I ever get near Z.”
“If you can’t finish it, why write it?”
Paige readjusted her toadstool mass. “Because what else is there to do but work on what one is good at?”
Hazel wondered how her aunt was making any money on this, but wasn’t about to ask. Besides, Hazel knew something about living your life with complete disregard for profits. At least her aunt had something to show for it.
“You know”—Paige wagged an arthritic finger at Hazel—“your generation could stand to live in the pursuit a bit more. You’re all rushed to get to the end. To succeed. Alex is the same. He can see only the end result and is totally incapable of appreciating mathematics for its own sake. If there is no tangible reward at the end, he sees the work as pointless. It’s an empty way to live, in constant pursuit of the trophy. It’s the reason he has failed.”
“Well, he’s still young,” Hazel said lamely, more in defense of herself than of Alex.
“His probability of succeeding as a pure mathematician drops precipitously with each passing year, and his chances of succeeding at applied mathematics aren’t much better. Plus, he has a lazy brain.”