Paint, stop worrying, but it doesn’t help. Women are happiest when they have something to worry about.”
Bob looked over for agreement. Simon backed up another step. “Maybe they worry too much, and we don’t worry enough.”
His neighbor opened and closed the shears a couple of times, as if priming them. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Men are on the way out.” He ran his finger along the blade of his shears.
“They are?”
“Haven’t you read about it—the shrinking Y chromosome? A few thousand years, it’ll be gone. Then we just get women.”
A world of women brought on by the ever-diminishing Y chromosome. A peaceful world, of course, no violence allowed. “I guess we males have a few years left in us, don’t we?” Simon glanced at his watch.
“I won’t keep you,” Bob said. “Say hello to that lovely wife of yours for me.”
“I’ll do that. Give my best to Helen, too.”
As he walked toward his front door, Simon pulled out the postcard and turned it over. There was only one word. He stared at it for a while, as if more words would suddenly appear, magic ink activated by the light, perhaps. No more, just the one word, which he had seen before.
He can’t help staring at the bare arm lying on the desk, the smooth curve of the bicep, and the single blue artery on the underside of the elbow leading to a surprisingly delicate wrist. It’s as if the limb has life of its own, not attached to anyone. He would like to run his fingers back and forth against the soft skin. What would be the harm?
“How are you today, Mr. Chambers?”
It is the therapist’s typical opening gambit—general, imprecise, determinedly nonthreatening, a question to make it seem as if they are just two acquaintances meeting here for a friendly little chat, not a scouring of his soul. “I feel the same as always, I suppose.”
“Fine,” she says. But what if by the same he means a terrible state of existence? She should certainly explore that. “I’d like to get some background information from you before we continue. How old are you?”
“Is age meaningful?”
“It’s part of an overall picture.”
“Forty-two.”
She writes his age down. “Are you from this area?”
“I’m not from anywhere in particular. I’ve moved all my life.”
“Where do you live now?”
“Wherever I am. I’ve found that’s the best way.”
“It’s not a philosophical question. I’m just asking for your permanent address for my records.”
Name, age, address—does she think this all adds up to an overall picture of him? “I am where I am,” Paul says. He leans up to see her note sheet, the pen poised above the empty space, waiting for him to make sense, to answer the damn question. “Does that cause you a problem, my not having a permanent address, because if it does, you can put in Truth or Consequences.”
“Truth or consequences—that’s a provocative response.”
“New Mexico.”
“Excuse me?”
“Truth or Consequences is a town in New Mexico. I thought everybody had heard of it.” He watches as she writes in the name. When she finishes he says, “I’ve always wanted to live there.”
Her head jerks up. “You don’t live there?”
He shakes his head. “But I’ve always thought what a reminder that would be every day of your life, living in Truth or Consequences.” She strikes out the name, two parallel lines. If she is an obsessive sort that black cross-out will haunt her, a blot on an otherwise clean page. Perhaps in the evening she’ll redo the sheet, writing in Unknown for permanent address, or Patient Refuses to Say.
“You’re not being very forthcoming with information, Mr. Chambers. I need to get to know you to help you.”
“Can anyone really know another human being?” He can’t believe how sappy that sounded, like the refrain to some folk lyric pretending to be meaningful.
“To a certain degree, yes, one person can know another. In fact, you could say that’s the whole premise of therapy.”
“Such a fragile foundation for one’s profession,” Paul says, “don’t you think?” Philosophers spend whole careers parsing such a claim and come up empty. “But I am telling you all you need to know about me. You just have to listen.”
She taps her free left hand on the desk, staring at him. He stares back, holding his mouth straight, restraining the involuntary smile he knows is waiting on his lips.
“How did you choose me as a therapist to contact?”
“You’re in the online yellow pages. Maybe that’s a mistake, advertising. Anyone can call you up. Even problem patients.”
“Do you consider