The Dogs of Babel Read Online Free Page A

she’d tried to engage me in one last conversation. I walked out without saying a word.
    I met Lexy less than a year later, and I knew from our first conversation that when she talked it was an easy thing, plain and open, with none of the byzantine turns and traps I found myself caught in when I talked to Maura.
    We met because she was having a yard sale, and I happened to follow her handmade signs from the main road. Going to yard sales was something I had taken to doing after my divorce. I liked the treasure hunt of driving through neighborhoods I’d never visited before, and I liked investigating the small mysteries of the lives of the people I met—how had they come to acquire this particular combination of things (shower radios and ornate liquor decanters, hand-crocheted baby sweaters and limited edition Super Bowl Coke cans long since emptied of their contents), and what had happened along the way to make them decide these items no longer had a place in their home? I found a strange, childlike excitement in the promise that I might discover something I had been looking for for years without even knowing it, and it reassured me, humbled me somehow, to see that other people’s lives, too, could be broken down into pieces and spread out on the lawn for anyone to examine.
    On this particular Saturday, I pulled up in front of a small green house, set back from the street by a tree-shaded lawn. Lexy was sitting on the front steps, reading a paperback. She had dark blond hair, dipping just below her chin, and she was wearing a loose cotton dress printed with a pattern of vines and flowers. She was very pretty—I won’t say I didn’t notice—but I did little more than register the fact and let it go. She was easily eight or nine years younger than I was, and I immediately added her to the “wouldn’t be interested” list that grew longer in my mind with each passing day.
    She looked up and smiled as I got out of my car. “Hi,” she called. “Let me know if you have any questions.”
    An enormous brown dog lay on the grass nearby. The dog looked up at me with wide-eyed interest for a moment, then laid her head once more on her thick paws.
    I browsed the tables that had been set out. There was the usual collection of books and CDs, a worn-looking toaster oven, souvenir glasses with cartoon characters painted on them. I didn’t find much that interested me, but I didn’t want to leave just yet. At the back of the yard, toward the house, I noticed a rack of formal dresses of the shiny, oddly cut bridesmaid variety. A sign attached to the rack read, “Free to anyone who likes to play dress-up. One per customer. Free dyed-to-match shoes with every dress.”
    “Any takers?” I asked, pointing to the dresses.
    “A couple of little girls who took the choice very seriously, and a guy who fell in love with this awful off-the-shoulder floral thing. It actually looked great on him. Sometimes I think bridesmaids’ dresses are actually designed for drag queens.”
    I smiled. “My ex-wife has friends who still won’t talk to her.” I was surprised to find I had said this. Was I flirting? Letting her know I was available? This was certainly more information than I usually gave out to perfect strangers.
    I was afraid I might have put her off—
Warning: pathetic, lonely man on the prowl
—but she laughed. “What color?” she asked.
    “Lavender. With puffy sleeves and a big bow across the back.”
    “Ah, the butt bow. Why do they always insist on the butt bow?”
    “I just don’t know,” I said. I turned away, unsure of what to say next, and began to examine a collection of objects spread on a blanket. A small cardboard box, labeled Square Egg Press, caught my eye. The picture on the front showed a plate of hard-boiled white cubes on a bed of parsley. One of the cubes was cut into careful slices, displaying the square shock of yellow yolk inside. I opened the box and found a hard plastic cylinder with a squat square