could not really afford his services. This was Luellen Palmer, assistant to a fashion photographer. Today, during the ten-minute break before Luellen's hour, the time he usually spent making himself a cup of tea or glancing over last week's notes, he sat perfectly still at his little desk in the corner, pinching the inner flesh of his elbow. Why couldn't he feel this? He pinched his forearm, which hurt, then moved back to the place inside his elbow, the soft fold. No pain, no matter how hard he pinched. In fact, when he released the spot, a bit of his skin came away beneath his thumbnail. Horrifying. "I'm numb," he told himself out loud, then snorted. He quickly dialed his home phone. When Rachel answered, he said, "Do me a favor."
"O.K."
"Roll up your sleeve and pinch the fold of your elbow."
"What?"
"Inside your arm, the other side of your elbow, the anti-elbow. Pinch it for me."
"Yeah, and what?"
"Are you doing it?"
"Sure."
"And can you feel it?"
"Of course I can feel it. I'm pinching my arm. What is your story, Ev?"
"I can't feel it." He was doing it again, phone tucked between ear and shoulder, pinching the other arm with all his might. "It's weird, but I've done both sides now, and I can't feel a thing. My skin appears to be completely insensitive here. Why would that be?"
"It's your big brain," Rachel said. "Sapping your feelings. Most unyusular."
Evan smiled. Until Zach was seven, he'd completely jumbled the pronunciation of many words. Ev missed the
hambgubers
and
hostipals
and things that happened
sunnedly
or that
goed
instead of
went.
It was difficult to remember the boys as toddlers, difficult to reconcile their apparently grownup characteristics with their former naive selves. Ev missed their naivete; he thought of Paddy Limbach's daughter, her little hand in his as they wandered around the Shedd. Maybe he and Rachel should have another baby. Maybe his father's death had made room for another family member, the way Ev's mother's death had made way for his two sons.
And maybe his numbness had to do with the circumstances of his father's death, his questionable expediting role. Perhaps he'd turned himself into a man without feelings. It wasn't his big brain but his tiny heart that explained the lapse.
Rachel said, "You've discovered a new evolutionary trick. You're being selected for something."
"Such as what? Intravenous feedings?"
"Show me when you get home," she said. "Show me where you don't hurt, and I'll fix it."
"Stop my crying or you'll give me something to cry about?" he asked. And wasn't he whining, anyway, just like his most irksome clients, dishonest and dull?
"You O.K.?" Rachel asked.
"Just numb."
Why, he wondered, did he not want to tell her what really bothered him, the other places he'd found where he was also numb? Ev had begun wondering about the deepening malaise he seemed to be suffering. He was unwilling simply to attach it to his father's death, disappointed to think of it as standard male midlife crisis. Some days he didn't have sufficient energy to stand up straight; he just slumped through those days. His life had been a persistent inquiry into the nature of humans, into their various motives and rationales, their checks and balances, their quirks and quarks. He thought he'd even felt suicidal before, but probably only as melodramatic entertainment for himself, thrilling himself with the possibility while understanding his true inability to follow through. Since having children, he'd no longer considered that an option. Now he felt more seriously frightened of the prospect, unable to hold his sons' bereft faces before him as adequate deterrent. He knew himself to be depressed. Shades of paranoia and apathy were afflicting him, lethargy and distraction, regret and anxiety, periods of time that genuinely disappeared without his knowing where.
He'd been out walking just yesterday and suddenly discovered himself literally miles from his officeâsay, threeâlate for
"O.K."
"Roll up your sleeve and pinch the fold of your elbow."
"What?"
"Inside your arm, the other side of your elbow, the anti-elbow. Pinch it for me."
"Yeah, and what?"
"Are you doing it?"
"Sure."
"And can you feel it?"
"Of course I can feel it. I'm pinching my arm. What is your story, Ev?"
"I can't feel it." He was doing it again, phone tucked between ear and shoulder, pinching the other arm with all his might. "It's weird, but I've done both sides now, and I can't feel a thing. My skin appears to be completely insensitive here. Why would that be?"
"It's your big brain," Rachel said. "Sapping your feelings. Most unyusular."
Evan smiled. Until Zach was seven, he'd completely jumbled the pronunciation of many words. Ev missed the
hambgubers
and
hostipals
and things that happened
sunnedly
or that
goed
instead of
went.
It was difficult to remember the boys as toddlers, difficult to reconcile their apparently grownup characteristics with their former naive selves. Ev missed their naivete; he thought of Paddy Limbach's daughter, her little hand in his as they wandered around the Shedd. Maybe he and Rachel should have another baby. Maybe his father's death had made room for another family member, the way Ev's mother's death had made way for his two sons.
And maybe his numbness had to do with the circumstances of his father's death, his questionable expediting role. Perhaps he'd turned himself into a man without feelings. It wasn't his big brain but his tiny heart that explained the lapse.
Rachel said, "You've discovered a new evolutionary trick. You're being selected for something."
"Such as what? Intravenous feedings?"
"Show me when you get home," she said. "Show me where you don't hurt, and I'll fix it."
"Stop my crying or you'll give me something to cry about?" he asked. And wasn't he whining, anyway, just like his most irksome clients, dishonest and dull?
"You O.K.?" Rachel asked.
"Just numb."
Why, he wondered, did he not want to tell her what really bothered him, the other places he'd found where he was also numb? Ev had begun wondering about the deepening malaise he seemed to be suffering. He was unwilling simply to attach it to his father's death, disappointed to think of it as standard male midlife crisis. Some days he didn't have sufficient energy to stand up straight; he just slumped through those days. His life had been a persistent inquiry into the nature of humans, into their various motives and rationales, their checks and balances, their quirks and quarks. He thought he'd even felt suicidal before, but probably only as melodramatic entertainment for himself, thrilling himself with the possibility while understanding his true inability to follow through. Since having children, he'd no longer considered that an option. Now he felt more seriously frightened of the prospect, unable to hold his sons' bereft faces before him as adequate deterrent. He knew himself to be depressed. Shades of paranoia and apathy were afflicting him, lethargy and distraction, regret and anxiety, periods of time that genuinely disappeared without his knowing where.
He'd been out walking just yesterday and suddenly discovered himself literally miles from his officeâsay, threeâlate for
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