"There," she said. "Now, Joe. Now. Now. Now." He cried out and spurted over his chest and neck. "Ahhh," she said as he fell back. She took his hand and pushed it over the warm sperm. She lifted her nightgown and pulled his hand to her stomach. "Make me beautiful," she said, writhing and slippery. She pushed his hand to his chest and pulled it back again. "Make me beautiful," she said in a smaller voice, "all over."

Joe tried. He pa.s.sed out.

In the morning, he awoke to the sounds of animated conversation. He lay with his eyes closed waiting for his brain to unscramble. His head was pounding. Gradually, he realized that he was in bed next to Isabelle and that she was watching TV. He was in bad shape physically, but he felt freer than he had in a long time. "Top of the mornin'," he said lifting his head and opening his eyes.

"I was just going to wake you up," Isabelle said. He had to blink and focus. She was pale and looked upset. Her arms were folded in front of her, shielding her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I've ordered breakfast. Room service will be here soon, so I'm afraid you'll have to go now. I eat breakfast and then I do my work."

"Oh, O.K., throw me out. All I have to do is--find my room. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Joe."

"O.K." He staggered up and figured out how to put on his pants. Socks and shoes took a little doing. "Picking up speed . . . " She kept watching the TV. "Isabelle?" She turned her head and shushed him with one finger to her lips.

"Just go, Joe," she said tightly. She meant it.

"But . . . " he didn't even know her last name. "Isabelle, I'm in the book. Give me a call." She smiled. Joe couldn't tell whether she was glad that he wanted her to call or whether she was forgiving him for things he didn't understand. He wanted to hug her, but he knew that he shouldn't. She changed channels. He blew her a slow kiss and left.

The room waiter pushed a stainless steel cart past him in the hall as he tried to remember his room number. He thought it was 437. He didn't want to go down to the lobby and admit to the desk clerk that he was too messed up to remember his room number. He took the elevator up one floor. Go for it, he told himself, and slid the card into the lock. A green light flashed. Yes! He entered his room and considered the bed, still made. What the h.e.l.l, might as well keep going, he thought. He showered and lugged the Filson bag down to the restaurant where he ate a waffle with strawberries, drank coffee and two gla.s.ses of water. He a.s.sessed the situation.

You're in Seattle, Joe.

Airport.

Take bus?

Save money.

It was a smiley morning. The waitress and the desk clerk were in good moods. The trolley driver was singing. The sun was shining; that must have had something to do with it. He got off the trolley at the end of the line and caught a city bus to SeaTac. He was hours early and had saved thirty bucks by not taking a taxi. He snoozed and s.p.a.ced out all the way to Hawaii and home.

"Hi, Batman. Where's the party?" Batman maintained a tolerant silence.

Joe took two aspirin and slept for fourteen hours.

14

Friday morning Joe walked to the farmer's market and bought onions, bok choy, lettuce, and carrots. The prices were good; the locals were cheerful; it was a good deal for everyone. It was late September, and there were fewer tourists around. A lone conga beat tumbled and surged across Kapiolani Park. The smell of grilling teriyaki drifted across the gra.s.s. Small c.u.mulus clouds blew out to sea.

Joe sat on the last beach before Diamond Head, a place where he and Sally and Kate had often come on weekends. An older man--the age Joe was now--used to park his car and carry a rubber raft to the water. His dog would jump into the raft, and the man would push it out, swimming slowly, until they were a hundred yards offsh.o.r.e. He would climb into the raft and write in a notebook while his dog rested and kept watch.

The deeply tanned man and the black raft floated up and down, a dark silhouette on the glinty ocean. Occasionally the man paddled to keep from drifting too far down the beach. Probably 80 now, if he's still alive, Joe thought.

"Time to get serious." The words appeared like a banner in Joe's mind.

To his surprise, he had told the woman at the San Juan Yacht Club that he was a poet. The words were true as he spoke them. He had defined himself, for better or worse. Whether he wrote stories or poems didn't matter--he could do both. What mattered was to get to work.

Isabelle was on to something with the patchwork quilt. The faces and feelings that he described were important, but--as patches. He needed to carry his writing further and work on the quilt. Isabelle? He shook his head feeling a slight flush. She was a sharpie, no doubt about it.

She got right to him. But she was well down the alcoholic road. She didn't have to work. She didn't have children. Joe couldn't see what would bring her back. It wasn't the drinking, so much, that put him off. It was the lack of pride or purpose or will power that the drinking implied. Just as well, he thought, that there was an ocean between them.

"You could define adult life as the struggle not to drink too much," he said to Mo at Hee Hing's the following week. He was telling her about Isabelle, leaving out the s.e.x.

"There's too much to do to feel awful all the time," she said.

"Quite right. But some people don't get hangovers; they're just a little fuzzy in the morning. Ingrid was like that. I can't take it.

Tea, that's the stuff," he said, drinking from a small round cup. "So, what have you been doing?"

"Oh, the usual," she said. "I've been over to Kauai a few times. I got a decent shot of the cook at Tops."

"Jade Willow Lady," Joe said.

"Yes. I'm framing a large one for my next show--whenever that is."

"I'm anxious to see it. I forgot to tell you: after we talked last, I checked out graduate schools and applied to Montpelier. They accepted me for the semester that starts right after Christmas."

"Congratulations!"

"Yeah, pretty good, huh? Joe Burke, software b.u.m, goes for an MFA. But I'm not sure I should."

"Why not?"

"Pretty expensive," Joe said.

"What would it cost?"

"$3800 a semester, times four." He frowned. "I've got enough to get started, but I'd run out before the second semester."

"There's loan money for graduate school," Mo said.

"I guess. It doesn't make sense from a financial point of view; I'll never get a teaching job. But I think I could learn something."

"You have to make a commitment," Mo said firmly.

"The winter residency is in Florida. For 'housemates preference,' I requested older women of independent means."

"They can be difficult," Mo said. "How come Florida? I thought the school was in Vermont."

"The summer session is in Vermont. I think it was a faculty decision.

They leased a hotel in the panhandle." Joe scratched his head. "I don't know. One way of looking at it is that part of the money would pay for a vacation in Florida. It's way over near Alabama. I've never been in that part of the state."

Mo placed her chopsticks neatly across her plate and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She began to fidget.

"Well, onward," Joe said. "You want to go exploring sometime? Look at things?"

"Mmm." She looked out the window. "I'm awfully busy for the next while . . . "