"Elevator's nearing the lobby, pal."

"I do this for a living," said Purdy. "I know when the lobby comes."

"Sorry."

"They are all the same except for one girl, or woman, though, really, at this point, girl. Her name is Nathalie. Nathalie Charboneau. Scholarship kid. They meet in the library, the rich boy and the scholarship girl. In the smoking lounge of the library. That dates this, doesn't it? Anyway, they meet. They talk. They smoke. They keep talking. She's reading Schopenhauer. She tells the boy about Schopenhauer. He explicates some economic models he's been studying. They don't really converse so much as listen to each other. They like listening to each other. They agree to meet for coffee. She tells him a bit more about herself. She's from the area, a few towns away. It's a crappy town, the kind of town the town the college is in would be if there were no college in it. She lives in a crappy apartment above a crappy pharmacy with her mother and sister. Her bitter mother. Her junkie sister. But not quite those things."

"They fall in love," I said. "I think I remember her."

"You don't remember her."

"I think I do. I think I remember her, or saw her once."

"Trust me, you don't remember. You never saw her because I-I mean, the boy, not me, the boy-"

"Whoa, there, storyteller!"

"Fuck this," said Purdy, jerked back in his seat. "I thought you could do this for me. Help me."

"I'm sorry," I said. "Really. Please. Finish."

Purdy stared wordless out the window. The river glittered.

"Melinda's pregnant," he said.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks," said Purdy.

"Aren't you happy?"

"Yes."

"The drugs worked. You didn't have to go to Mars."

"That's true."

"You're going to love fatherhood."

"I don't need the line," said Purdy.

"Sorry."

"Let me finish my story."

"Your pitch."

"Yes," said Purdy. "My pitch."

It took a while. Maybe it had been designed for a very slow elevator. Or maybe it was really a story, no joke.

The rich boy, who of course became Purdy as the telling continued, fell in love with the scholarship girl. They had no secrets from each other, but Purdy kept her a secret from everyone else, from his country club set and his jet-set club and even from the faux-bohos he visited to cure his insomnia. The clubs and sets would never accept her, especially in lieu of one of their own. The arty types would, but in a manner that would be despicable, and he also might run the risk of losing her to somebody, like the ridiculous but faintly charismatic Maurice, or, more precisely, something, such as Billy Raskov's tremulous hunt for authenticity. Even Constance's revolutionary socialist pigtails seemed a threat.

"Shit," I said. "You were even more mysterious than I could have guessed."

"It wasn't a game," said Purdy. "I really cared about her. But I was too callow to handle it. She didn't want anything to do with my friends, though, so it was easy to just disappear together. We spent some time with her family. Her mom was sweet. Her sister was a little whacked. Of course, it ended after a few months. I didn't see it then, but the time limit was built into it. I'm not sure if that makes sense."

"I think it does."

"Whatever. She dumped me. Sent me packing. Did it wonderfully."

"What do you mean?"

"It was no-fault. She was sending me back to my kind. It felt like science fiction. You must return to your planet. Please tell them of us, we who live in crappy towns and struggle to get by."

"I'm on that planet right now."

"But you're not quite a native, are you?"

"But she was on scholarship. She was going to get out. Better herself, right?"

Suddenly I wanted to see this girl, this woman, Nathalie, place her somewhere I had been, the House of Drinking and Smoking, one of those theory seminars, the refectory, but I couldn't find her anywhere. How was that possible? How could you evade all overlap? I guess that was one of Purdy's gifts.

"I didn't know it then but she was planning to drop out," said Purdy. "Her sister was sick. Nathalie was going to have to take care of her, work. Her philosophical investigations would have to wait."

"Sad."

"You say that with such haunting conviction. So she sends me back to my galaxy. None of you ever know about any of this, but it eats me up for long time. I feel as though I've failed at something crucial. And I miss the hell out of her, at least for a while. But that fades, of course."

"It does, doesn't it," I said. I was ready to nudge this conversation back to vague and more comforting terrain, the creeks and dales and low rolling slopes of universal disappointment. Something about this story, its specificity, bothered me, more so now that I seemed part of it, part of the future of it, or why else would I be hearing this?

"Time goes by," said Purdy.

"Having no alternative."

"Don't be cute. Time goes by. Nathalie recedes in my mind."

"What about you in Nathalie's mind?"

"How the fuck would I know? Just listen, Milo."

"Okay."

" 'Recede' is a weird word. This isn't so easy. So linear. But I do, on some level, just ball up the memory of my time with her, throw it on the sentimental-education heap. Then, a few years ago, I got a letter. It was sent to the company, before I sold it. She'd read something about me in one of those new-media magazines. Of course, the article she mentioned was already years old. I was a business hero in that issue. If she'd read the takedown they wrote later, maybe she wouldn't have contacted me."

"That piece was bullshit."

"No, it wasn't, Milo. But thank you. Still, it doesn't matter. Anyway, the letter wasn't very long. Chatty, even nostalgic for a while. Then she caught me up. She was living somewhere upstate. Working in what sounded like a sweatshop. Taking classes somewhere inane. Still reading Schopenhauer. I remember she used to say she read Schopenhauer because he hated women so much. She said it was instructive. But the letter. There's a kicker at the end of the letter. She has a sixteen-year-old son. Do I need to elaborate?"

It took me a few seconds but he did not need to elaborate.

"But how could you be-"

"Trust me, I submitted the kid to tests."

"What was it like when you met him?"

"Who?"

"Your son."

"I never met him. Nathalie wouldn't let me. Didn't tell the kid anything, either."

"That's ridiculous."

"It's fair enough."

"No, it's not. Nathalie should have told you."

"It was her call. A dumb call, given my resources, but hers to make. Anyway, I started sending them money. Set them up. Lee handled it all for me. Lee Moss. Lee's the only one who knew about this. Except for Michael here, of course. Lee was my father's lawyer, a mensch. But he's been very sick. Cancer. Pancreatic."

"That's one of the worst. A killer."

"Yes, the ones that kill you are definitely the worst. Anyway, Lee's still doing a bit of work around the office. Putting things in order. He noticed that the last few checks were never cashed. He tried to contact Nathalie. When he couldn't find her, he called around up there, found out… well… found out about Nathalie."

"Found out what?"

"That she was… it's hard. It's really weird how hard it is."

Purdy pinkied away a tear. There was something actorly in the gesture, but at least it seemed improvised.

"She died, Milo."

"Died?"

"Car crash."

"Oh… I'm sorry."

"Yes. Well. Thanks. Or…"

"Melinda doesn't know?"

"No."

"About any of it?"

"I just never saw a reason to tell her. Maybe I could have told her before. But I didn't. Now it's too late. She's kind of into the whole trust thing."

"So, you want to keep a lid on your history."

"Isn't that what we all want?"