Coe Review

did Dr. Renard. We didn't tell them they were pretty or ask them what they
wanted to be when they grew up. It was not what they wanted.
Though who is to say what anyone wants at all?
But wait. I am getting ahead of myself.
There was nothing lascivious in Dr. Renard's gaze, nothing untoward in
his actions, only a slight violation of an implicit country law. He talked to
Lloyd like he was more than a careful and skilled man, like he was an artist.
He treated each child like a prodigy. And when we took our leave, he was
late in walking out the door because he stood for several moments, talking
softly, inaudibly, in Dora's ear, leaning into the door frame of the bathroom
which Lloyd had hewn years ago so simply, without any casing.
Dr. Renard. That man, he was like a charm machine.
He looked into Dora's face for what seemed to me a long time. I
remember Joe cleared his throat, trying to break the moment. Mr. Voss said,
"I suppose we'll be on our way," and walked out on the porch. "Doctor!"
I finally shouted, unable to contain my irritation. His eyes fluttered over
Dora's face one last time, as if they were the flitting yellow butterflies which
drank daily from the fireweed, and then he turned and looked at me with
surprise. His face was arranged in an open welcoming, his eyes wide, his
mouth curved, as if he was just meeting me for the first time.
Back on the boat, nobody said much, and when we docked, the doctor
smiled, turned toward us, running one hand through his hair, and said, "It
was pleasure, gentlemen. A real pleasure." He pumped our hands until his
clean fingernails were smeared with the guts of our catch. Joe and I watched
in disbelief as he walked back, carrying his dry rod, and climbed into a white
sports car. The plate said RENARD. He peeled out of there, spraying
gravel dust all over our fish.
Dr. Renard never went fishing with us again. I might never have thought
of him if not for what happened.
When I think about it, which is often, I am aware that I have never met
anyone like Dr. Renard. No doubt it was the same with Dora. He had a way
of talking to you that left you with a wound. When he stared at your face, it
was like a needle, gently, slowly, steadily, going in and out.
"Sushi?" my new wife asks, holding the fish out to me. A few drops of
water fall to the kitchen floor.
"Better not," I answer, wrapping my arms around her, trying to
understand her newness. "We're having dinner with Nancy and Joe,
remember?"
"I thought it was just drinks," my wife says, scratching her thigh under
her skirt so I can nearly see her ass. Tonight, when I see my old wife, I will
Elizabeth Eslami 105