Evil Eye by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

mind.
    â€œNot a rowboat, Lizbeth—a canoe. Rowboats are crude. Canoes are so much more—responsive.”
    Desmond took my hand as an adult might take a child’s hand and walked with me to the boat rental. It was the first time he’d taken my hand in this way, in a public place—his fingers were strong and firm, closed about mine. With a giddy sensation I thought This is life! This is how it is lived.
    There was a young couple in one of the canoes, the girl at the prow and the man at the stern wielding the paddle. The girl’s red-brown hair shone in the sun. As the canoe rocked in the waves the girl gave a frightened little cry though you could see that there was little danger of the canoe capsizing.
    â€œI’m afraid of canoes, I think. I’ve never been out in one.”
    â€œNever been in a canoe!”
    Desmond laughed, a high-pitched sort of laugh, excited, perhaps a little anxious. Clearly, this was an adventure for him, too. Squatting on the small dock he inspected each of the canoes, peering into it, stroking the sides as a blind man might have touched it, to determine its sturdiness. At least, that’s what I thought he must be doing.
    â€œThe Indians made canoes of wood, of course. Beautifully structured, shaped vessels. Some were small, for just two ­people —like these. Some were long, as long as twenty feet—for war.”
    The boat-rental man came by, a stocky bearded man, and said something to Desmond that I didn’t quite hear, which seemed to upset Desmond who reacted abruptly, and oddly—he stood, returned to me and grabbed my hand and again hauled me forward, this time away from the boat rental.
    â€œSome other time. This is not the right time.”
    â€œWhat did the man say to you? Is something wrong?”
    â€œHe said—‘Not the right time. ’ ”
    Desmond appeared shaken. His face was ashen, grave. His lips were downturned and twitching.
    I could not believe that the boat-rental person had actually said to Desmond “Not the right time”—but I knew that if I questioned Desmond I would not find out anything more.
    â€œIf I died, it would be just temporary. Until a new being was born.”
    â€œThat’s reincarnation?”
    â€œYes! Because we are immortal in spirit, though our bodies may crumble to dust.”
    Desmond removed his gold-rimmed glasses to gaze at me. His eyes were large, liquidy, myopic. There was a tenderness in his face when he spoke in such a way that made me feel faint with love for him—though I never knew if he was speaking sincerely or ironically.
    â€œI thought you were a skeptic—you’ve said. Isn’t reincarnation unscientific? In our earth science class our teacher said—”
    â€œFor God’s sake, Lizbeth! Your science teacher is a secondary- public-school teacher in Strykersville, New York! Say no more.”
    â€œBut, if there’s reincarnation,” still I persisted, for it seemed crucial to know, “—where are all the extra ‘souls’ coming from? Earth’s population is much larger than it ever was in the past, especially thousands of years ago. . . .”
    Desmond dismissed my objection with an airy wave of his hand.
    â€œReincarnation is de facto, whether you have the intellectual apparatus to comprehend it. We are never born entirely ‘new’—we inherit our ancestors’ genes. That’s why some of us, when we meet for the first time, it isn’t the first time—we’ve known each other in a past lifetime.”
    Could this be true? I wanted to think so.
    As Desmond spoke, more and more I was coming to think so.
    â€œWe can recognize a ‘soul mate’ at first sight. Because of course the ‘soul mate’ has been our closest friend from that other lifetime even if we can’t clearly remember.”
    Desmond had taken out his Polaroid and insisted upon posing me against a