"Why aren't you teaching in a university somewhere?" Joe asked him.

"You know Bob Dylan's line about the difference between hospitals and universities?"

"No."

"More people die in universities. Also . . . " He did a quick soft-shoe shuffle. "I drink, so be it." A trace of amus.e.m.e.nt crossed his face.

Mitsuhiro, Dylan, and Mr. Bojangles; one, two, three. A silent ump pumped his right fist. Joe was gone.

"Let me buy a round," Joe said. About four beers later he got into the truck, blinking. "Jesus, Batman, Ten Mile Creek, h.e.l.l of a place!" He made it to a motel and called it a day.

The next morning he had a big breakfast. The grip of the Northeast was loosening. Driving all day was beginning to seem natural. "Roll 'em, Batman," he said, "Bach first. Then, we'll move on to Gabby Pahinui, get into w.i.l.l.y Nelson, and The Grateful Dead. We've got a delivery for Kate." The truck was running great. Traffic was light. Ohio went by, and Indiana, like a dream.

2

Madison, Minneapolis, Fargo, the long run over to Missoula, Spokane, Seattle, finally. Joe parked by Ivar's and stretched, tired but satisfied. He was meeting Kate for lunch where they could look across Puget Sound.

A few minutes later, Kate appeared from behind a group of tourists.

They had a reunion hug.

"How was the trip, Dad?"

"Pretty good. Took the northern route, right straight across. Let's eat." They were in time to get a window table.

"So, long drive," Kate said.

"I was up for it. It's nice to see the country that way once in a while--you forget how big it is. Those high rolling plains in Montana are something else. They'll have snow in a couple of weeks. I could use some new tapes and a book or two."

"You know the place: Elliot Bay Book Company."

"Yeah, I thought I'd check it out this afternoon. I'm going to get a room at the Edgewater and be Mr. Luxury for a couple of days."

"You could stay with me. Audrey's on a trip for a week; it wouldn't be any ha.s.sle."

"Thanks, but I don't want to be in the way . . . I'd take some home cooking, though."

"How about tomorrow night? You could meet Jackson."

"Sounds good. What happened to Rolf?"

"Oh, Rolf. We have lunch. I love Rolf, but he doesn't really want to live in this period. That's what he calls it, 'This period.' He's happier in bookstores reading about early Scandinavian immigrants."

"I was just reading about a Swede who was making cider with a hand press he bought for a quarter when he was 12. It was in the paper this morning. He'd been married 50 years. Said his wife was Norwegian but she was taking pills for it." Kate laughed, a full wraparound laugh.

She had her mother's coloring--chestnut hair, light brown eyes, and rosy cheeks.

"You'll like Jackson; he's very different."

"I'm sure I will. I liked Rolf--he was appealingly gloomy."

"Jackson's an artist. He gets mad when I say that; he says he's a craftsman. You should see the things he makes: jewelry, furniture--he can make anything."

"Speaking of art, your grandfather gave you a painting. It's in the truck."

"Oh! Is it good?"

"I like it. I don't know if you will."

"Oh, Dad! Don't be such a parent. If you like it, I know it's good."

The fish sandwiches arrived, and Joe watched the toddler with an ice cream cone in Honolulu, the girl veering her bike into a Maine hedge, the teen-ager leaving home, the Seattle executive as she took a large bite. "Mmmm," she said with her mouth full, "mmm--Ivar's."

"Have you heard from Maxie lately?" she asked.

"Not for a couple of months. He's still in New Zealand."

"I had a card from Auckland in August," Kate said. "Sounded like he was having a good trip."

"How's your mom doing?

"Fine. She's got a new job working for a mineral exploration outfit.

Have you seen Ingrid?"

"Not recently," Joe said. "She's doing well, at least she was the last time I saw her. She's been selling her jewelry, and her cla.s.ses keep her busy. Same as ever. She has a new boyfriend."

"Oh good. I love Ingrid. She always sends a Christmas card and tells me how Maxie's doing." Kate had known Max since he was eight. They had become brother and sister even though there was no blood relationship.

They had been especially close when Kate lived with Ingrid, Max, and him during her high school years. Kate had been lucky, Joe thought, to have had two mothers, or a mother and a half. His own mother had died when he was seven. It was long ago, but he could remember well enough that he'd never liked her very much.

After lunch Joe watched Kate walk with long strides toward her office, hair bouncing on her shoulders. Strong, he thought proudly. He checked in at The Edgewater, lay down on the bed, and didn't wake up until four.

The days were getting shorter. A salty breeze drove layers of cloud across the sound as Joe walked down Alaskan Way to the Elliot Bay Book Company. The ocean was to his right, but he was headed south instead of north as he would have been on the east coast. It took days in Seattle to stop thinking that he was going the wrong way.

The bookstore was well lit and cheerful. A tall woman with dark hair and hammered silver earrings was browsing in a corner. She wore a caramel colored T-shirt that showed a black elongated figure above the name "Caffe Ladro." Her shoulders were wide; the cotton draped comfortably around high flat b.r.e.a.s.t.s and fell a distance to her hips.

She appeared to be in her forties. Joe hoped that she didn't have blue eyes.

Two types of women got to Joe immediately. One was black Irish, blue eyed. He looked into those eyes, something slipped, and he was calling for fire, night, and Vikings to ax. The other was blonde with translucent skin, full breasted and silent. The blondes were anima projections. When he was 24, he'd had a disastrous affair and afterwards discovered the explanation in a book by Jung. A man loses touch with his female side and then sees an unlucky woman who resembles the inner image of his lost self. POW, he is on her, has to have her.

Irrational trembling, dry throat, pounding heart, out of control-it's an anima projection. Women do it too, of course, the other way around.

"Yes?" the woman asked. She had brown eyes.

"Oh, G.o.d," Joe said. "Excuse me. I was thinking about anima projection."

"Psychology's in there." She pointed to another room. "This is cooking."

"Ah, yes, well . . . " Joe turned away. The floor was slick with banana peels. He made it around the corner and took a breath. Too old for this, he said to himself.

He drifted through several rooms and found _Economics in One Lesson_ by Hazlitt, a book he'd heard about for years. He was interested in the economy because his small savings were mostly in the stock market. He picked up a copy of _Trader Vic -- Methods of a Wall Street Master_ by Victor Sperandeo. By the time he chose a tape of slack key guitar by Cyril Pahinui, Gabby's son, it was dark. On his way out, he averted his eyes from the cooking section, but he needn't have; the woman was gone.