"Something heavy . . . with a machine gun."

"Oh, Joe."

"If they're out of those, get the kind with the b.u.mper tires lashed around."

"O.K.--if they have them," she said. "See you Sat.u.r.day."

Joe put a new notebook in his back pocket, and left for the second walk of the day. He found the San Juan Islands in an atlas at the main library. They were small, off the northernmost coast of Washington. He strolled to the Columbia Inn and ate a Reuben sandwich. It would be good to see everyone and to meet Jackson's family. All he had to do was show up in shape and not drink too much. He would buy an outfit that could travel in the Filson bag. A camera. The Edgewater, he thought.

Stay there Thursday, stay on the island Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights, and then go back to the Edgewater on Sunday--that would break up the trip.

He made a list, and then he began to write about Mike and the little girl.

The message light was blinking when he got home. "Joe, are you there?"

It was Mo. "No? I'm afraid lunch will have to wait. My sister has talked me into going on a retreat with her. I'm going to combine the trip with work, and then we're both going to Vermont for my parents'

fiftieth wedding anniversary. I won't be back until Labor Day." She paused. "Maybe we can get together then. Bye." d.a.m.n. Joe had been hoping that she would be a buffer against Alison's attention. He made tea, sat at the computer, and began to enter the cat burglar story.

The next days were filled with writing and shopping. His money was draining away, but Kate's wedding was important. How could he skimp?

The San Juan Islands would probably be cool in September. He bought a silk and wool blend jacket--olive, gray, and brown in a quiet weave. A pair of lightweight wool pants, neutral gray green, a silvery tan Italian dress shirt, and a dark brown tie complemented the jacket. He bought an Olympus camera that had a sliding lens cover and would fit in a pocket. His shoes had been re-soled twice and were ragged. He bought another pair, the same style, trusty Clarks. The outfit was expensive, but he wanted to dress honestly.

"I want to feel like myself," he told Alison on Sat.u.r.day.

"I'm sure your daughter will be proud of you," Alison said.

"The clothes should last--if I don't climb a tree or fall into a vat of red wine." They were headed out of town toward Nanakuli. It was raining on and off; the weather was likely to be better on the leeward side.

"How's your course?" Joe asked.

"Interesting. Zen is so different in its practice--from Christianity, I mean. It makes me want to go to j.a.pan and visit the monasteries, find a teacher. You need a teacher to learn what counts, to become one yourself."

Alison was so positive that Joe found it hard to imagine her having had job troubles. "Why did you get fired, if you don't mind my asking?"

"It was troubling. I did my undergraduate work at a bible college, but I'm well educated, Joe. I have a masters in communication from Columbia and a PhD. The students were trained to go out and do the Lord's work, but they were only getting one point of view in their education. The books in the curriculum dealt with science from a fundamentalist point of view, presenting arguments as though they were objective and unbiased. The students graduated thinking that they were educated when they really weren't. It made them confident and more able to face the work, but I didn't like it. The Lord is not afraid of different points of view, Joe."

Joe had not met any one on such comfortable terms with the Lord. She was absolutely unaffected. "It's funny," she said, "what triggered the final blow up was an editing job I did on an article for the school publication. The writer--one of the trustees--insisted on capitalizing the word 'bible' in places where it was not appropriate."

"Good heavens," Joe said.

Alison giggled. "Really. In the light of eternity, what difference does it make?"

"I think they lost a good person," Joe said.

"I did my best," she said. "I brought lunch."

"Great!" They drove up a narrow rocky valley and ate by the side of the road in the company of two horses. Alison had packed a bottle of wine to wash down sandwiches of red peppers, goat cheese, and watercress.

"You went to a lot of trouble," Joe said. "Terrific sandwiches."

"I should have brought gla.s.ses for the wine."

"We're roughing it," Joe said, pouring more into his paper cup. "I wrote the cat burglar story," he remembered.

"Oh, good!"

"Yeah, I took it to the house in Kahala. An old guy answered the door and told me that the family had sold him the house and moved to California. He was nice. He gave me their address, so I sent the story.

You were right; it was my responsibility. It felt good to drop the letter in the mail. Hope it gets to her." Alison clapped her hands. The horses ears picked up. "I used to work with someone who lived around here," Joe said. "The horses reminded me. Her name was Lovena. Her family took care of horses."

"Where did you work?"

"In a warehouse. She was slim, like a boy, with short black hair and brown skin. She was strong--beautiful, really. I was falling in love with her, but I was married." Alison sighed.

"Lovena was great, very shy and quiet, hard working. Sometimes she talked to me when the orders were packed and shipped. She talked about horses and barracuda and manta rays. I guess there's one time of year when mantas come into shallow water to mate or lay eggs or something.

People can step on them by accident and get hurt." Joe paused, remembering. "When Lovena said 'manta' or 'barracuda,' the words weren't just names; they were respectful. A 'bar-ra-cu-da' was important, important as any life."

"What happened to her?"

"Don't know. I quit. I hated to say goodbye. In fact, the last day there, I asked if I could come see her. She was feeling bad, too. She looked me in the eye and said, 'Yeah--and you bring your wife and that pretty little girl with you."'

"Good for her," Alison said.

"Mmm."

"It looks like the rain might be stopping. Let's find a beach," Alison suggested.

"Yes." Joe corked the wine and called to the horses. "Say hi to Lovena for me, will you?"

Alison drove out to the highway, and they spent the afternoon poking around, reaching the end of the road and turning back. Neither was in a hurry to return to the city. At the end of the day, they were standing in a beach park as the sun slipped toward the horizon.

"I think a front just went through," Joe said. "Wow!" A dark cloud layer caught fire, lit from below by the setting sun. Purple and crimson flares rolled across the bottom of the ragged sky. Two hundred yards away, a painted flagpole split the clouds with a brilliant white line. It was like a crack in the universe, a glimpse of the beyond.

Alison moved closer and they stared at the energy that seemed to pour through the crack.

"Too much," Joe said.

"Oh, Joe." They walked to the rental car in the parking lot and got in.

He reached for her. It was spontaneous and all wrong. Alison was not the right woman. They hugged, their bodies twisting awkwardly in the small seats as they tried to get closer. As they clung to each other, ordinary as cloth, as dogs in a parking lot, Joe was unexpectedly transported with relief. He was a tiny speck in a universe of stars and specks and emptiness. Nothing kept happening to him like a tap in the head, like sh.e.l.ls falling away. He could have howled with laughter or cried in utter grat.i.tude--if it mattered.

"Would you drive?" Alison asked.

"Sure." They rode in silence back to Honolulu. Joe stopped by his building and got out of the car. Alison opened her door and came around to the driver's side. Joe put his arms around her, and she settled her head against his chest. They stood for a moment. "Bye," Joe said. She turned her face up. He took her shoulders in his hands, kissed her quietly, and turned away.

"Bye, Joe."

He waved and walked slowly inside. _Something is happening here but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones_ . . . The Dylan line echoed in his mind as he climbed the stairs. It was true. Something was happening. It didn't feel like love, exactly. Or s.e.x, exactly. He was still shocked by the freedom and relief that had overwhelmed him in the parking lot.

Three days later, Alison cooked dinner for them in her apartment. They were sitting on her couch when Joe tried to describe what he had felt during their hug by the beach.

"Sounds like what the zen people call 'little satori,"' she said.

"I don't know," he said. "I think I've been messed up." His eyes were fixed on the front of her blouse.