Where is Thumbkin? Here I am. Where is Pinkie? We’ve just met. We sit on the couch with her parents and older sister between us. Very old-fashioned. We sneak into the patch of woods behind her parents’ house. They live in Connecticut. We all do, though I’m not from there. I am from farther south, but I’ve moved up to Connecticut for work, which is how I met Pinkie. She is petite, young, pretty. Maybe when you get older, everybody that age seems to be pretty. I think about this looking at pictures.

        The human hand contains 123 ligaments, 48 nerves, 34 muscles, 30 arteries, 29 bones, 29 joints, four fingers, and a thumb.  Not many people spend time thinking about the human thumb. That digit alone is controlled by nine muscles. It’s opposable, which means it can touch all the fingers of the hand. It can press an object against the rest of the fingers, clutch onto it. One object the thumb can be used to press into the other fingers is another hand. For example, the right hand can hold the left hand. This is useful in situations where you are really upset and want to press out the tension to avoid screaming.

        Pinkie and I have been dating for a few months. For fun, we greet each other formally, then hold hands and run into the woods. How are you today, sir? Very well, I thank you. Run away. 

        It’s easy to take the thumb for granted. Here are some things you can do, thanks to your thumb: Zip up a coat. Put on lipstick. Paint a room. Use a sander. Grip a steering wheel. Write a note with a pencil.

        Where is Tallman? We are waiting on the hard couch. Lots of people go by, many in a hurry. Tallman is supposed to be coming to talk with us. It feels like we have been waiting a long time. Other people on other couches look like they have been waiting awhile, but some leave and others arrive. Where is Tallman?

        Where is Ring Man? Here he is, handing me the ring. I am using the thumb and forefinger of my right hand to place it on Pinkie’s left hand. It’s July. Her hand is slightly heat-swollen, and it feels as though it is taking a long time to squeeze the ring onto her finger. Time moves slowly because everyone is watching. Her parents and sister. My parents. Her uncles and aunts from Kalamazoo. My cousins from Bozeman. Friends from Boston. The church is warm, the sun full bore through the stained glass. It settles like the warm breath of God. The church gets hotter and hotter. It feels like we are in God’s hot mouth. The whole world may be like this. The ring is gold. It is the shape of the future. Her finger pushes through it.

        The Greeks invented codes, such as converting letters to numbers. The word cryptography comes from the Greek words for secret writing. In my spare time, I study codes, invent them, break them. I did this long before I met Pinkie, who does not have an interest in codes. She would like me to communicate more clearly and directly. But Pinkie and I have our own codes: A touch to the elbow at a party. The narrowing of eyes. Folded arms. A look over a shoulder on entering a bedroom.

        I hang up a picture of Pinkie and me on the wall along the stairs. In the picture, we are on the beach at Martha’s Vineyard, where her parents rented a cottage for the last two weeks in August. It is mid-day. Her brother took the photograph with my camera. She and I are in swimsuits and t-shirts, our heads bent together, the water behind us. Our hair is shaped by sand and salt water. This was the summer we married. I plan to add one picture each year, starting at the bottom step. The stairs and the floors are one reason we bought the house. They need some work, but they will be beautiful wood floors. I am refinishing the floors and the stairs and the rail and wall skirtings, polishing them to a high finish.

        There is a coffee machine around the corner, and a café somewhere in the building, but I don’t leave the couch in case Tallman comes while I am gone. Pinkie’s head is in her hands. She won’t smudge her makeup because she has none on. Where is Tallman?

        I’m reading a newspaper article in the Sunday paper, in the science section. Pinkie and I have been married for eight months. The kitchen is freshly painted. We chose bright yellow, and I did it last weekend. That’s one of the things Pinkie likes about me—I’m handy. I hang pictures. I change the oil and filter in the Toyota. The sun lights up the kitchen. Listen to this, I say to Pinkie, who is drinking coffee and reading the World section. I like to watch her read. She concentrates very hard, or seems to. Her expression is nearly disbelief, as though she wants to be persuaded. I like her mind. I don’t much like watching her drink coffee. She slurps. I read her the article out loud, which is something she doesn’t like when she is busy reading herself.

        “You know,” I say, “according to this article, a university professor has been granted 239,000 dollars to study the human thumb.”

        Pinkie grunts, her eyes still on her section of the newspaper.

        “Apparently,” I add, “there is no complete map of hand function.” I continue this way, summarizing or reading full passages. Pinkie sighs and waits.

        When I finish reading the article, she plays that game where she put her hands behind her back then puts each hand in front, holds out each finger and names it to the tune of Frere Jacques. She ends the song with her little finger: “Where is Pinkie? Here I am.”

        Then she says, “Now, please give me 239,000 dollars.”

        It’s funny. Maybe you had to be there.

        Where is Pointer? There she is. She is sitting behind a desk, talking to Tallman. She has used her finger to direct him to Pinkie and me, where we sit on the hard chairs.

        For example, I can’t imagine refinishing a wood floor without the use of my thumbs. Refinishing wood is a rather time-consuming process. You have to take off the old finish, which may be varnish. You can use paint stripper or some other chemical. They sell all kinds, but they pretty much all have strong toxic fumes, except for the safer ones which take a long time to work. Then you scrub with steel wool and methylated spirits. Then you sand. Some of the sanding can be done with an electric sander, but you shouldn’t use a belt sander because it is hard to apply pressure evenly. I use a random orbital sander. It takes a long time. And I still have to hand-sand narrower areas. I put 100 grit sandpaper on a sanding block and move it back and forth.

        The midwife calls to check on Pinkie. I am writing down numbers. She tells me it isn’t strictly necessary to do this. I take a break but start again. There is a column down one side of a piece of notebook paper, then down the other, and the next. This goes on for pages. Six minutes, nine seconds. Eight minutes, 15 seconds. Seven minutes, 43 seconds. Pinkie takes a bath. I sit outside the bathroom, my back against the door. Tell me when it’s done, I yell. I write down the number. Pinkie goes to the bedroom. I follow, write down numbers. Is there a pattern? Pinkie says it is time to go. We have a knapsack, nearly packed, a few items on top—three CDs, some hard candy. I push them into the bag. My hand trembles. I have trouble zipping up the bag, my coat. Hurry up, Pinkie says, doubling over, clutching her belly.

        Bennett's fracture is one example of a known thumb injury. It is an intra-articular fracture of the base of the metacarpal in which a volar ulnar fragment of bone is held in place by the anterior oblique ligament while the rest of the metacarpal bone is displaced by the pull of the attached ligament.

        I have finished the floors. We put area rugs in the dining room and living room. But we’ve left the stairs and the upstairs hallway and the large entryway bare. It is so smooth we run and slide in our socks. The entryway floor reflects the hanging pendant light. We call the entryway “the pool.”

        “No running by the pool,” Pinkie yells as I slide into her.

        There are some flaws, some scratches and cracks and holes. Once you refinish the surface, though, the flaws are part of the wood. At first I was a perfectionist. But who looks that carefully? Who looks down when they walk?  Smooth and beautiful, Pinkie says. In bed, I run my fingers across her skin, the skin of her shoulders and arms and legs and belly. Smooth. Beautiful. A sudden vertical scar on her belly. I run my thumb up and down it.

        One in four women experiences a cesarean birth. It takes about three quarters of an hour for the procedure. About five minutes is devoted to delivering the baby. The rest is to repair the mother. Emergency cesareans usually involve a vertical cut, not the horizontal one that is typical of a planned procedure.

        The next picture I hang on the stairs is Zoë at three months old. Pinkie calls it a cheesy photograph, and I can’t disagree. In the maternity ward, they gave us a bag of baby-related items—a bib, a few disposable diapers, sample diaper cream, coupons for baby food, and a certificate good for several free photography sessions at the local department store. They bring you in for the free photograph to hook you on buying others at ridiculous prices. We know this. We are prepared. We will only take the free photograph, we say. We commit to it. We pay $230 for photographs of Zoë, of Zoë with me, of Zoë with Pinkie, of the three of us. They are embarrassing, and when the glow wears off, a few hours after we buy them, we hide them all in a drawer except the one of Zoe by herself, which I hang up in the stairwell. It looks like a staged, department store studio shot. But even Pinkie can’t resist how beautiful Zoë looks. Zoë sits on a pink blanket, smiling. She is smiling because I am next to the photographer jumping and making funny noises and faces. She seems to be sitting up by herself but really Pinkie is holding her up, her hand hidden beneath the pink blanket Zoë is sitting on.

        Where is Tallman? Here he is. He is rubbing his eyes. It’s late. He is very tall, with short dark hair just starting to gray in flecks throughout. His shoulders are slumped from fatigue and from having to deliver news to shorter people day after day. He is looking at me, then at Pinkie, then at me. He is gesturing with both hands.

        I am a motorcycle. Zoë is on my stomach. She is eight months old. I am on my back, my hands up, thumbs sticking out away from one another. She grips them like handle bars. I make engine noises. We’re driving away. We’re not going anywhere. Pinkie sits in the corner, in the rocking chair, in shadow.

        Falls are the most common reason parents bring their children to the emergency room. You can see them in any ER. The car will pull up to the entrance, and the mother will have the door open before the father can come to a complete stop. Head injuries are the most dangerous. The mother will hold the child in her arms and run into the hospital screaming help. More than 2.5 million children injure themselves each year as a result of falls. The father will have to decide whether to find a place to park in a visitor’s lot or leave the car and risk having it towed. Finger, hand and wrist injuries can also occur. He will have to think to himself whether he is unfeeling if he worries about the car being towed. Falls resulting in deaths are rare. He will have to think to himself what will happen later if the car is towed. Children under four account for eight out of ten fall injuries. The father will come into the emergency room seven or eight minutes after the mother and will scan the room for her. A third of ER trips for children under 14 would be prevented by the use of such safety products as window guards, straps, and gates or by the correct supervision by a parent.

        Zoë is taking a bath in the claw foot tub. It is a deep tub, so we do not put a lot of water in it. She is only 11 months old. Pinkie rubs soap on her belly, her legs, puts some in her hair. Zoë giggles and plays with her ducks. She got them as a gift when she was a baby, a big mother duck and three little yellow ducks. When she is not in the bath, I put them on the back rim of the tub, the mother in front and the baby ducks following in a row.

        It seems like Tallman is apologizing, but he’s not. It is not his fault. He is expressing sympathy.

        Where is Zoë? She is near the top of the stairs, in her socks. Where is Daddy? He is in his office moving towards the phone, the door open to the hallway. “Be careful, Zoë,” he says, his eyes on the phone as he reaches for it. Where is Zoë? He rests the phone on his shoulder, turns his head. “Zoë?”

        Free falling bodies accelerate through the air at 9.8 meters per second, per second. This is often approximated at 10 meters. Though if you drop a piece of a paper and a pencil simultaneously the pen is noticeably faster, while the paper slips and wafts on currents of air due to aerodynamic drag, and if you are fast enough you can reach out a hand to grasp it mid-air between your thumb and fingers.

        I keep both of my hands gripping the steering wheel at 9 and 3. Usually I drive with one hand. Usually Pinkie asks me to keep both of my hands on the wheel. She is in the backseat, murmuring over and over, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Today I grip the wheel as tightly as I can. Squeeze. I want my thumb and finger to meet in the middle of the wheel’s thickness. The trees and lights and telephone poles go by slowly, a dream where the air has turned syrupy, and there is somewhere you have to be.

        More than 16 million people seek medical help for a hand injury each year. The hand is the second most common site of childhood fractures. Most hand injuries among children are sustained at home. Children can injure their hands as a result of some of the following: touching a hot stove, tumbling from a bicycle, dropping a heavy object on fingers, or falling down stairs when a parent is in a hurry to answer a ringing phone because it might be someone important, and goddamn it the dog is barking and there’s dinner to think about. Rotational trauma will probably produce a spiral or oblique shaft fracture in a younger child and an epiphyseal fracture in an older one.

        Pinkie is applying lipstick. It is taking her a long time. Her hand is shaking. She holds the lipstick between her thumb and two fingers. She slips, spreads liptick on her chin. She wipes it off, tries again. She drops the lipstick, which hits the counter near the sink, then bounces onto the floor, rolls under the clawfoot bathtub that I found at a junk store, brought home, and re-enameled. She bends over to get it but bangs her head on the rim of the tub and slumps to the ground, her back against the tub. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she says. She is crying. I hold a tissue between my thumb and forefinger. It hangs between us. I could hold it this way for a long time, my arm supported by the lip of the tub.

        Tallman is still talking. I look at his hands when he holds them still, which is not often. He has clasped them momentarily together in front of his body. I imagine these hands sewing, suturing, cutting. I expected hands that were lithe, slender, elegant, the hands of a classical pianist. His are stumpy, covered with dark hair, odd hands for a tall man. I ask Tallman to repeat his answer. Pinkie interrupts. Pinkie asks why I keep asking Tallman about the thumb, why of all things I am focusing on that detail, why I ask for statistics, why it matters, what is wrong with me, do I not understand that this is not what is important, she yells while Tallman looks away.

        It is July again, cool, light drizzle on and off. I take Pinkie’s hand, but she pulls it away and turns her head. Her parents and mine are here, our friends, her relatives from Michigan, mine from Montana. We’re outside. The priest is speaking. . I squeeze my hands together instead, like one hand is muffling the screams of the other.

        The tub is empty. I sit on the floor, my back against it. Where is Pinkie? Here is a note she wrote with pencil. It is a short note, but dense. There is a second message in it, in code. It slips from between my finger and thumb. Where is Zoë? I sit on the floor, my back against the tub. I can see myself in the mirror. The floor is smooth. Behind me is the mother duck, the three babies trailing after. Run away. Here I am.

	About the Author: Bryan Walpert received his MFA from the University of Maryland and PhD from the University of Denver. His first short story collection, Ephraim’s Eyes, is forthcoming late this year from Pewter Rose Press. An American, he teaches creative writing at Massey University in New Zealand, where he won the 2007 Royal Society of New Zealand Manhire Award in Creative Science Writing for Fiction. His collection of poetry, Etymology, was published in 2009 with Cinnamon Press.

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