He sighed dramatically. "I'll just have to go myself. Maybe when I get back from Florida?"

"Give me a call," she said. They left, as usual, in opposite directions on Kapahulu Avenue. She was like a figure on a j.a.panese fan, slowly unfolding, then snapped shut. Let it be, he thought.

He spent the next few days working on a story about the time he and Morgan found a cache of dynamite hidden by the Weathermen, a radical group in the late 60's. He described the lost note that led them to a deserted house at the end of a road, the cold cloudy December afternoon, the shock of discovering a duffel bag in the crawl s.p.a.ce under the house, the cardboard tubes of explosive, the tangle of blasting caps, and the ominous silence. But, as he went on to write about the FBI, the local lawyer, and the lawyer's wife, he began to lose focus. One thing led to another. Was he writing a story or a novel? Again he realized that he had a lot to learn.

He was worried about money, but he put off looking for a job. He couldn't decide whether or not to go to Florida? How many hours could he work if he became a full time student? One evening, he swung through his door, stood by the blinking red light on his answering machine, and heard Ann say in a sad voice, "Joe, I'm sorry to have to shock you like this. Your father died--yesterday. Please call me if you get in by eleven or so, our time."

"d.a.m.n!" he said. "d.a.m.n."

It was seven-thirty--past midnight, Maine time. He got a reduced fare to Boston for the following afternoon on an emergency basis and began putting things into his Filson bag and then taking them out. He couldn't feel anything. He gave up packing, lowered himself to his mattress, and waited a long time for sleep.

In the morning, he called Ann to tell her that he would be there the next day in the afternoon. She said that she'd give him the details when he got there. His father had died of a heart attack. He told her to keep her chin up and said that he'd call Kate.

"Kate?"

"Hi, Dad."

"Honey, I've got bad news. Your grandfather died--the day before yesterday." She let out a small cry and was silent. "I just found out.

Ann called. I'm going out there for a couple of days."

"Oh, poor Grandpa. I had a dream about him last week. He was standing by the painting he gave me--the one of the woman in the barn door--and he was smiling at me, very loving and kind. Oh . . . " She sobbed, and her voice got farther away as though she had dropped her arms.

"I'm sorry, Honey. He had a good life," Joe said helplessly.

"He pau hana, now," she said.

"Yeah," Joe said. "I call you when I get back, huh?"

"O.K., Dad."

"O.K. Bye, Honey."

"Bye, Dad."

He packed two changes of clothes, a sweater, and a jacket. It was nearly November, practically winter in Maine. "So long, Batman. Hold the fort." It was a relief to trot down the stairs and get moving.

At midnight, Boston time, he emerged stiffly from the plane and walked into Logan terminal. He rented a small car and stopped for the night at the first motel he came to on Route 1.

15

Joe opened his eyes, blinked, and realized that he was in a motel in Ma.s.sachusetts. He drove to Portland and stopped at Becky's on the waterfront. Several regulars were in their usual seats. One of the waitresses had gained a few pounds. Joe ate breakfast and sat over a second cup of coffee, enjoying the voices and feeling that he'd changed since he left Maine. He felt better--tougher and more himself. But he was sad for his father, and he had a sense of loss for things left behind, his Maine life, no longer quite remembered.

He left a big tip and hit the road. Deer Isle is out between Pen.o.bscot Bay and Jericho Bay. It's a romantic place, softer than the rest of Maine. The light is warmer. Probably that was what attracted his father, Joe thought. He took the fast route through Augusta and Belfast. Three and a half hours later, the Deer Isle Bridge came suddenly into view, high, too thin, an arrow shot gracefully over Eggemoggin Reach. Joe could not drive over it without remembering that its sister bridge in Tacoma shook itself to pieces.

By one-thirty he was b.u.mping down his father's road. The barn seemed empty when he stopped in front. Ann came out of the house to meet him.

She was wearing a denim skirt and a black blouse. Her blonde hair was braided and wound behind her head. They had a long wordless hug. Ann had always been nice to him, and he was glad to be there, to be a supportive presence. She sighed and stepped back.

"How nice to see you, Joe. Brendan's here. He flew in yesterday."

"Hi, Joe." Brendan, his half brother, came through the front door. They patted each other on the arms, a compromise between hugging and shaking hands.

"Brendan. A sad day," Joe said.

"Yes." He was eleven years younger than Joe, healthy, blonde like Ann and squarely built like their father. His stylish short haircut, regular features, and white teeth were made for soap opera if his face had been less triangular. His small chin, set in front of a strong neck, gave him a power lifter look. He was wearing chinos and a tight fitting short sleeved shirt with an insignia over one pocket.

Joe stretched. The sky was covered with an even layer of gray cloud. It was unseasonably warm. "Good to get out of the car," he said. "Drove up from Boston."

"I got a flight to Bangor, yesterday," Brendan said. "Mother picked me up." They entered the house and sat in the living room. Something b.u.mped against Joe's ankle.

"Jeremy! Well, well. Jeremy. He looks in good shape, Ann. Thank you for taking care of him." He turned to Brendan. "He abandoned ship on my last visit. I didn't realize it until I was in New Hampshire."

"Oh, he was great friends with your father. And, after a while, he got on nicely with Georgia." Georgia was a fluffy black and white cat.

"Ah, yes, Georgia--a champion mouser." As if to take a bow, Georgia took three steps in from the hall and sat at the edge of the rug.

"Since we're all here," Ann said, "we might as well have a family conference."

"Mother, Joe has been driving all morning. How can he possibly have a conference without coffee or wine?"

"Yes, of course."

"Joe, what can I get you?" he asked.

"Wine."

Brendan brought out a bottle of Pinot Blanc and poured them each a gla.s.s. "Dad," he toasted. They raised their gla.s.ses, drank, and were silent a moment.

"I have something to tell you--or ask you boys." Ann looked troubled.

"I found your father in that small clearing in the woods, on his regular path, the walk he took most days after lunch. When he wasn't back, around four, I went to look for him. Well, you know this already, Brendan, and now you're caught up, Joe--except for one thing that I wanted to tell you both. It was very strange. Your father was lying on that flat piece of ledge. He was stark naked. I knew right away that he was--not alive. I didn't want anyone to see him like that, so I dressed him before I came back." The memory silenced her for a moment. "Why would he be like that? I thought you might have an idea. I don't understand."

Brendan and Joe looked at each other. It surprised Joe to realize that they did understand, that they were, in fact, brothers.

"Mother, you said it was hot."

"Almost like summer, Brendan."

"The sun must have felt good--one last day," Joe said sadly.

"He couldn't have taken his clothes off after the heart attack," Ann said. "Do you think he felt it coming?"

"We'll never know, Mother."

"If he felt it coming, why wouldn't he have come home?"

"I'm sure he would have tried," Joe said. She was struggling with being excluded, or not being included, in a final intimacy. "It's such a beautiful spot," Joe said, "maybe he just wanted to lie there and look at the sky."