"I'm Sue," she said.

"Hi."

"Claude is a famous ski jumper, did you know?" She was grinning widely.

"You ski, Patrick?" Claude asked.

"A little."

"I'm from the U.P., did 300 feet at Iron Mountain."

"Yo!"

"No more. Now I go one time a year to the Bear Mountain meet. Little jump."

"You won last year," Sue said.

"Year before, Cher."

"Claude, have you seen Jim?"

"Not today."

She frowned. "Bye, Claude. Bye, Patrick." Patrick watched her leave.

"So who's Jim?" he asked.

"Her boyfriend--alcoholic dude, a nice guy. She likes you." Claude drifted along the bar; he knew everyone. Patrick was beginning to feel at home in the Depresso. Amber had come in twice during the week, once with Willow and once with a builder named Art. She had smiled at Patrick, but she wasn't available--although her smile seemed to indicate that any day she might be. I'm on her list, Patrick thought, smiling back.

He finished the Darwin book and started _An Introduction to Mathematics_ by Alfred North Whitehead. One evening in the Depresso, Sue came over to his table and asked what he was reading. "Listen to this," he said.

"Operations of thought are like cavalry charges in battle: they are strictly limited in number; they require fresh horses; they must be made only at decisive moments."

Sue wrinkled her nose. "Too much." She sat down.

"I mean, this book is a cla.s.sic. What is math, anyway? Right here,"

Patrick said, patting the cover. "Lays it out. You can learn anything you want from books."

"Why aren't you in school somewhere?"

"I was; I quit. It was just a place where they put you in a box--a lawyer box, a doctor box. I didn't want to be in a box. Besides, it was expensive." Sue giggled.

"So, where are you from, Sue?"

"Michigan, same as Claude--except he's from the U.P."

"What are you doing in Woodstock?"

"Art Students League. I model and take cla.s.ses."

"Should have known," Patrick said, "everyone I meet is an artist."

"You seen Jim: tall, cute?"

"I don't think so."

"He's a reader, too. He gets a pile of books and a six-pack, lies on the couch and reads all day." She looked around and sighed. "Later, Patrick." She left, relaxed and alert, like a fox on the move.

The next night she sat at his table again. "It's hot," she said.

"Want a beer?"

"No thanks."

"I get thirsty staring at white all day," Patrick said.

"You want to go swimming?"

"Sure." Patrick surprised himself. "Where?"

"I know a place."

"I don't have a car."

"I've got my roommate's for the night."

When they got into the car, Sue twisted and reached past Patrick to arrange something on the back seat behind him. She was sweating slightly, and he was astonished by her sweet rich smell. "That's strange," he said, "we've got the same smell. How can that be? Same genes? I'm mostly Irish. What are you?"

"Half Polish, half Ojibwa," she said. She drove to Shady and followed the Sawkill creek to a spot where she could pull off the road. She led Patrick through trees and down a steep path to the stream. It was nearly dark as they walked over rocks to a bend where a deeper pool curved along the outer bank. Sue crossed below the pool to a shingle of rocks and boulders and kicked off her sandals. "Here," she said.

Patrick noticed the orange glow of cigarettes on the opposite bank, but he couldn't see the faces behind them. He forgot about them when Sue pulled her T-shirt up over her head and stepped out of her jeans and underwear. "C'mon, Patrick." Her body was compact and tanned; one curve flowed naturally into the next. He stripped awkwardly, thinking that there was a first time for everything, and followed her into the icy water. She swam up and down, diving and surfacing, blowing water, black hair sleek behind her ears. Patrick did a few somersaults and floated, feeling the heat of the day drain out of his body.

"Oooh," she said, walking out of the water and onto the rocks. "Let's build a fire." They broke dead branches, took a few pages from Patrick's pocket notebook, and started the fire with her lighter.

Patrick stood in front of the small blaze; Sue sat on her jeans, her knees drawn up to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Hey t.u.r.d face. Where d'ja come from? UNDER A f.u.c.kING ROCK?" Patrick spun around. He saw a white face in the dark, a man standing behind a low line of boulders, fifteen feet away. "f.u.c.kING IDIOT?" The man's voice was twisted, nearly screaming; his eyes were distorted. He was beefy, too big to mess with. "f.u.c.kING QUEER!" He took a step forward.

Patrick became oddly calm. There was a rock by his ankle, the size of a grapefruit. He slowly flexed his knees and looked into the man's eyes.

Scoop the rock and smash his face, one motion. The man yelled again.

Patrick held his eyes. Time slowed. A stick snapped behind Patrick, and the hair rose on the back of his neck. Sue hadn't moved. He was trapped. He didn't dare turn his head.

"Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here," a voice said behind him. "f.u.c.k him, let's get out of here, go get a beer."

"He's an a.s.shole!"

"Yeah, f.u.c.k him, let's go get a beer."

The white face hesitated and turned away. The two crashed through the woods, swearing and shouting.

Patrick put his clothes on as fast as he could. "I was going to kill him," he said, in shock. "I mean, I knew how. It was already in me."