Coe Review

screaming children again, Darla tries to say some things about her own life,
about the happenings with her. She says that she might still love her husband,
or could certainly try again, but nothing makes much sense anymore. Not
since the death of their daughter.
And his weight, Fern says. It must be difficult.
Yes, Darla says. His weight.
When they reach the parking lot, Fern digs into her purse and scribbles on
the back of a receipt. Here's my number, she says, and then laughs, something
horsy, a neigh. The baby's kicking. You wanna feel?
I guess so, Darla says, and while she does so, while she spends a quieter
moment palming the woman's taut belly, Fern tells her about a dream she
had.
I was birthing quintuplets, and I named the first four babies George,
George, George and George, but couldn't decide what to call the last one.
Isn't that weird?
Darla nods that it is.
But that's not the whole of it. Get this. I dreamt it a second time, right
after the first, except this time the babies weren't babies at all. Fern grips
Darla's shoulder so that she understands exactly what she's saying here, the
seriousness of such a thing. In this second dream I give birth to withered
tomato plants. Five total. Four of them named George. Is this a sign of
something? Fern says.
Maybe, Darla says. I don't know. I'm not sure. But maybe.
She approaches Edwin's chair during commercial break, Love curled in
his lap, purring against his genitals. He loves Love. He sleeps with Love. He
plays with Love. Perhaps he's Love's molester.
He looks up at her, his thumb hovering over the key pad of the remote
control as if it was simply a matter of changing this channel they've been tuned
into for months now, or—as is more likely his style—turn it off altogether.
The cat, she says. Can you move the cat?
Love growls and jumps to the floor as Darla crawls onto Edwin's legs,
but of course that won't work because he can't see the TV. She picks a spot
on the floor beside his chair and asks him about the shop where he recently
found a job selling bathroom tiles.
What about it? he says.
Do you like it?
What's there to like?
Anything about it you like is all? I'm trying to make conversation.
He shrugs, yawns, gets up for the bathroom, and after a few moments
she can hear water moving in pipes, booming through the house. When he
S. Asher Sund 85