Well, all right! Joe thought. He left and walked toward the Holiday Inn. Every once in a while, things work out the way they should. He felt his resolve to keep going. It was in him like a fist. "I, too, am a hard man," he said.

16

Sunny Honolulu . . . Joe was relieved to be back. He wrote to Kate, enclosing her inheritance check and explaining his father's stipulation concerning the money. "No problem," she e-mailed back, "we're out every weekend looking at houses." Joe paid his Montpelier tuition and put some money in the bank, but he couldn't resist buying 4000 shares of a company that he'd been following on the Internet.

An Italian, whose father was well-known in the steel business, had developed a new type of composite steel. Stainless steel tubes were packed with crushed recycled carbon steel and then rolled under heat and pressure, bonding the whole together. The resulting composite, or cladded, steel had the outer resistance of stainless but was much cheaper. There was a huge market for non-corroding rebar to be used in concrete exposed to the weather, particularly in marine environments and in roads that were salted during the winter.

The Italian joined forces with a British financier who had a good reputation. They entered a joint venture with a Korean firm that subsequently withdrew support for reasons that had nothing to do with the quality of the product. Their venture went bankrupt, but the two hung in there and repurchased the mill that they had established in Wales. They issued stock for operating capital and began to produce test quant.i.ties of the new steel. Joe bought the stock at .75, roughly the value of the existing mill and property (if the .75 were multiplied by the number of shares outstanding). His thinking was that he was getting the life's work of the Italian for nothing and that the product was bound to catch on eventually. For a small added expense, the life of a bridge could be effectively doubled. The Brit had a track record of success. He owned a significant fraction of the company, and hadn't sold a single share. The company would either license the process to a steel giant or be bought outright. Joe was fairly sure of this. The question was when. He had learned his lesson with Southwest Precious Metals, and he bought for the long haul, an investment, not a trade.

"Definitely fun," he said in the direction of Maine and his father whom he thought of as still being somewhere near the barn.

On Thanksgiving, after his second annual dinner of parrot fish and black bean sauce, Joe returned home and pushed the play b.u.t.ton on the answering machine. He heard piano chords, an intro, and then Isabelle's rich low voice. "Joe, where are you tonight?" A few bars of melody followed. "Joe . . . " She broke off with a strained laugh and hung up.

"Uh, oh," Joe said. She sounded drunk and far away, as though she were trying to sing across an ocean. He didn't think that she was on the island. "Good thing," he said to himself. But he was sad for her. The old Johnny Cash song went through his mind: _You've got to walk that lonesome valley. You've got to walk it by yourself_ . . . She was in trouble for sure. The phone rang. He hesitated and picked it up on the third ring.

"h.e.l.lo, Joe."

"Jason?"

"Yup."

"Jesus, I thought it was someone else. Glad it's you. Long time! How are you?"

"Fine. I'm pa.s.sing through, thought I'd give you a call and see if we could get together."

"Sure, great!" They arranged to meet for an early breakfast as Jason was flying out the next day.

In the morning, Joe spotted Jason at a corner table in the Ilikai.

"You're looking good, man." Jason had a strong build when he was in high school. He'd put on additional bulk and projected an air of invincible solidity. His hair was closely trimmed; his clothes were casual and elegant.

"You too," Jason said. His blue eyes twinkled. "What's it been? Twenty years?"

"Close to it," Joe said. "I love that tape of Chesapeake Bay chanteys, by the way."

"We had fun with it," Jason said.

Joe slid into a chair. "It was nice hearing your voice--got me across North Dakota and Montana last year."

"Just a foc'sle tenor," Jason said and explained that he was on his way home from Singapore--a conference on Data Protocols for the 21st Century. "We gave a paper," he said. "My colleague flew back the other way; she has family in Amsterdam."

"My, my," Joe said. "I was just an in-the-trenches programmer, designing small systems." Jason nodded sympathetically. Joe was confused. The best banjo player he'd ever heard was returning from an international data conference? In high school, Jason was a football player and a star in the drama club. "I quit programming," Joe said.

"It was burning out my brain. I never much liked it anyway."

"I know what you mean," Jason said.

"How did you get into the info game?"

"One thing leads to another," he said. "You pitch in, give a hand, go with the flow." He expanded as he talked. His jaw was set as he carved into his Mauna Kea, half a papaya beneath eruptions of granola, fruit, and yogurt. "Keeps me in toys," he said, relaxing.

"Good deal," Joe said. "I wouldn't mind some toys. I'm on the way to becoming a starving artist--writing things." Jason shook his head admiringly. "You get back to Woodstock, much?" Joe asked.

"Oh sure, holidays now and then. I got your address from Morgan."

"How's he doing? He was out with his lady a while back--Edie. She was nice."

"I met her," Jason said. "Good things come in small packages." He frowned. "I saw Daisy in the village. I know you and Daisy were tight."

"True," Joe said.

"I guess Wes isn't well. Could be bad."

"Oh?"

"Daisy wasn't optimistic."

"d.a.m.n," Joe said. "My father just died."

"My mom died," Jason said and looked like himself for the first time.

"I liked your mom," Joe said.

Jason sighed. "Yeah. It's a c.r.a.p shoot from here on, guy."

Joe was sorry to see him leave. Jason had carried his talent for theater into the business world. He had taken on the role of front man and image projector. His job was to walk the walk, talking the talk, while his colleagues fried their brains in the midnight hours. No doubt he'd done it with his usual wholeheartedness; he'd earned his toys. And if the banjo was in the back seat, took second place, what difference did it make so long as he was contributing and doing his best?

Too bad about Wes, Joe thought. Daisy was strong. "Hang in there, Babe," he said. He sent them a Christmas card, a beach scene by a local artist. A large Hawaiian woman in a flowered dress lay on her side in four inches of water. Three small children, playing on her, held fast as a tiny wave broke before them.

Joe kept to his routine, writing each day. The steel company dropped to .62 on light trading. He thought about buying more, but he held back.

For his father's painting, he chose a linen mat and a natural cherry frame. He hung the painting over his table and watched the light moving from outside the frame onto the green leaves and into the woods behind.

"Might as well have the best, Batman," he said.

He put the drawing of his mother above an unfinished pine bookcase that he bought to hold the books that had acc.u.mulated on the floor. He bought two towels, a set of 300 count sheets and pillow cases, and a Le Creuset saucepan. He stopped short of buying a real bed, although it was no longer unthinkable.

He received a package of stories from Montpelier, written by the ten students in his a.s.signed workshop group. One account of a young and world--weary gay woman was sweet and clear. Most of the students seemed to be in their twenties or thirties. His back gave him a scare one morning as he bent over to tie his shoes, but he stood up slowly and the pain went away. He bought a yoga book written for people with back problems and began to exercise.

He spent the holidays alone. Kate and Jackson were visiting Jackson's parents. Max was busy. On Christmas Eve, he strolled through Waikiki exchanging ironic smiles with other missing persons. In one of the hotel lobbies, a Filipino with a deep tan sang, "Roasting chestnuts on an open fire . . . "

Two days later, Joe slung the Filson bag over his shoulder. His apartment was clean, festive even, with Christmas cards taped to the kitchen door frame. "Back soon, Batman," he said.

17