Joe's position was that educated people know at least one subject well
enough so that they realize (by comparison) when they don't know
another. This was heavy for fifteen, but Max was game. "The idea is to
know when you don't know what you're doing; then you can go ask someone
or buy a good book and find out," Joe explained. Maxie nodded
agreement, winnings crumpled firmly in one hand.
So, go find out what a story is, Joe told himself. He began reading
books on fiction, but they weren't much help. For a change of pace, he
looked up Arthur Soule on the Internet and discovered that a book he'd
written on Roman taxation was still available. Joe ordered it, and when
it arrived he found it interesting and clearly written. There was a
small picture of Soule on the book jacket--patrician with a large jaw
and thinning hair. Mo was a chip off the old block.
A few days before Kate's wedding, the phone rang as he was heading out
the door.
"Hi, Joe."
"Mornin', Mo . . . That's a snappy opening," he said. "Maybe we should
have a radio program."
"But it would have to be in the morning," she said. "When I work."
"Me, too. Good point."
"O.K., that's settled, no show. I was wondering if you might want to
come over for lunch."
"Sure."
"I have an ulterior motive--two, actually. Leaky faucets."
"Say no more. I was born to plumb."
"See you around noon, then?"
"Yup. Wait a minute, where?" She gave him directions to a small street
on the Ewa side of Manoa Valley. "No problem," he said putting the
phone down. "Trouble in Gotham, Batman. Lady needs help." He rubbed his
hands together. This was a test, no doubt about it, a dragon to slay.
He had left his slayer channel-lock pliers in his truck, however, along
with the rest of his tools. They now belonged to Maxie and were
somewhere in New England. He walked to the shopping center and bought a
toolkit cased in aluminum with foam cut out for each individual tool.
It looked like a briefcase. He went to Sears for a package of faucet
washers and some thread sealer.
"Joe Burke, executive plumber," he announced at Mo's door.
"Well, come right in." She looked rested. He took off his shoes and
advanced into a clean living room furnished with a long couch, an
armchair, a wooden rocking chair, a gray rug, several expensively
framed photographs, and two floor lamps. Orchids hung by a large
window. Lush greenery rose steeply behind the house.
"Nice, mighty nice." The house was small, built above and behind a
separate garage that fronted the street. Steps led up to a porch and
the door through which he'd entered. The air was cool and quiet. The
house seemed to breathe in a wooded space just large enough for it and
for the walls of vegetation on either side that separated it from its
neighbors. A sense of privacy lay in the living room like an expensive
gift.
Mo led him into a neatly organized kitchen. "I know who he is." Joe
pointed at a photograph of her father that hung above a table.
"Ah yes. My father. Do I look so much like him?"
"Very similar in the eyes and mouth." What else was there?
"Professor Soule," she said.
"I read his book," Joe confessed. "Pretty good writer." An expression
both arrogant and helpless flashed across her face. "Clear," Joe added.
"Yes. He's a worker." Her expression neutralized. Joe put a hand behind
his ear.
"I don't hear any dripping . . . "
"Let me show you. The kitchen doesn't drip all the time; the bathroom
is the worst." Joe leaned over the bathroom sink, thumped it, and
listened to its heartbeat.
"Operation iss required." He opened the aluminum case.
"Snazzo, so shiny," she said staring at the tools. "I'll fix the
salad."
Joe shut the water off and began dismantling a faucet, eventually
reaching the washer, held by a brass screw. He replaced both washers in
the bathroom and both in the kitchen.
"As new," he said, washing his hands.
"Wonderful." She carried a dark salad bowl one step down into a dining
room that had a tile floor and large windows. "I eat in the kitchen,
usually, but when I have company it's nice to be out here. Should we
have more light? It's sprinkling again." She switched on a paper globe
suspended over the table.
"I don't know . . . I like the natural light." She switched it off and
lit a sage colored candle. "There, that's better. We had this end of
the porch extended and made into a dining room. When it's clear, you
can see across the valley."
"Who we?"
"It was Thurston, really. It was Thurston's house. We lived together
for eight years. He ran off with his secretary to Texas."
"Oh."
"Ran isn't the right word. Thurston didn't run anywhere; he was rather
deliberate, actually. He gave me a deal on the house."
"That was good," Joe said.
"I didn't want him to go . . . Men just can't keep their thing in their
pants," she said angrily.
Joe remembered that silence was golden. Mo reached for a baguette of
French bread and broke it sharply. Joe took a piece and investigated
the cheese.
"Chevre?"
"Yes."
"Finest kind. Yummy salad." Fresh olive oil, Manoa lettuce, avocado,
scallions, a hint of lime or maybe Meyer lemon--delicious with the
crusty bread. "Vino?" She nodded and he poured them each a glass of
Sauvignon Blanc from a half empty bottle. "Here's to your cozy place,"
he toasted. Mo raised her glass and sipped.
"I had fun last week with your friends," she said. "Quite a character,
that Morgan."
"I had a card from them in Kauai. They found Hamura's." Mo listened as
she chewed salad. "Yeah, we go way back," Joe said. "What did you think
of Edie?"
"Dynamite," Mo said.
"She got me thinking about writing a story. I tried, but I'm not
satisfied." He told Mo about Alphonse. "I've been reading about
fiction. I'm not really getting it."
"Schools can be useful," she suggested. "Sometimes it's good to be
around others doing the same kind of work. I like to go to a seminar
once in a while--the trouble is, it costs so much. Have you heard of
Goddard, in Vermont?"
"I have."
"They offer MFA programs--non-resident, or close to it."
"It's an idea. I'll think about it."
Time slipped by. Mo told stories about summers on Nantucket where her
grandmother had a twelve room "cottage" on the water. So that's where
she developed her beach strut, Joe thought. Mo's father had slyly
dominated the family even though her mother had all the money. Mo was
ambivalent toward her father. She was proud of his intellect and
accomplishments, but she had an inside view of what he had taken from
every one around him and the price he himself had paid for academic
success. She was looking for a way to be like him without being like
him, Joe decided.
Mo tried her new espresso machine. She was having dinner guests the
following evening. Joe visited the bathroom and noticed that she had
left open the door to her bedroom. The bed was freshly made with lilac
purple sheets. A huge white flower by Georgia O'Keeffe waited on the
wall.
He thought it would be nice to listen to music, but he didn't say
anything. He was tuning into Mo's way of inhabiting her space, her
large eyes, quiet, cat-like. He talked about Kate and Max and then fell
silent.
"So how's your love life?" she asked suddenly. Her eyebrows were
raised. She bent forward, making herself smaller.
"Nothing to write home about--if I had a home."
"You're a good looking man, Joe Burke. Just the right amount of gray in
your mustache. Aristocrat. Rebel. How did your nose get that crook in
it, by the way. I've been meaning to ask."
"Oh, that," Joe said, "the rebounding wars--in high school." She had
surprised him. He thought she was moving away from him, and now he
sensed the outlines of an offer, the second one in two months. He and
Mo could be lovers; he would ride shotgun, do things her way, and she
would do her best for him in time left over from her busy life. The
lilac sheets beckoned, but as suddenly as it had come, the offer, if it
had been one, was gone, swept off the table with the crumbs she brushed
with one hand into the other.
She stood and said, "The ladies better watch it. O.K., I still have
work to do today. I've got some orders I'm trying to get out by the
weekend." Again he was surprised, but he went on as though nothing had
happened. She drove him home, his tool case on his lap.
"I'll call you when I get back from the wedding," he said with his hand
on her car door.
"Have fun," she said and pulled away with a thoughtful frown. Joe
walked up the stairs to his apartment. What did she want? What did he
want? He didn't know, he had to admit. Probably that was why the offer
vanished. He'd paid attention to the plumbing and flunked passion.
Joe slung the aluminum case across the room onto the mattress. The
tools, in their foam cushion, didn't even rattle. "I kept my Goddamned
Thing in my Goddamned Pants, Batman!" Batman maintained a dignified
silence.
The next day Joe went to a bookstore and wrote down the addresses of
several graduate schools that offered non-resident programs. At home,
he hunted around on the Internet and found a writers group that
discussed the pros and cons of different programs. Montpelier, also in
Vermont, was well regarded.
He polished up his non-story, wrote a long letter explaining why an
ex-computer programmer wanted to write fiction, signed a check, threw
in some poems for good measure, and officially applied to Montpelier.
He walked to the Moana and watched the sunset. It had been a year since
he arrived in Hawaii. Had he really left Maine? Or was this just an
extended visit that was coming to an end? Joe liked Maine. Portland was
a comfortable little city . . . the Standard Bakery, fresh ale at
Gritty's, lattes at a dozen different coffee shops. He remembered the
small Hispanic/Indian man who pushed a shopping cart down the street in
all seasons, accepting Joe's returnable bottles with a grateful smile,
always saluting as though Joe were a superior.
Should he go back to Maine? Or to Woodstock? He had many old friends in
Woodstock. Daisy. Morgan had passed along her best wishes. Joe looked
down the beach at the lights circling the base of Diamond Head. Did he
want to go back east? It felt better to sit under the banyan tree and
watch it get dark. It seemed a more forward direction, whatever
happened. He decided to say goodbye to Maine and to Woodstock, but he
couldn't. No wonder we say, "See you," he thought. Anything but
goodbye. "Aloha" is a much better word--hello and goodbye, gladness and
grief, love, all of it.
11
The lobby of the Edgewater Hotel was busy. "My home away from home,"
Joe said, checking in.
"We try," the desk clerk said, returning Joe's credit card.
Joe walked to the Elliot Bay Book Company and asked a woman at the cash
register if he could buy a gift certificate. "For a wedding present,"
he added.
"We can do that. How much for?"
"A thousand dollars." This would leave him seriously low, but to hell
with it.
She struggled with the computer. "I lied. We can't do that; the
computer won't take it."
"Two for five hundred each?"
"That'll work," she said.
"O.K., one for Kate Burke and one for Jackson, umm, Arendal. Jackson
Arendal." He would explain that he wasn't trying to tell them how to
split it.
He walked back to the hotel and began writing a story in the bar where
he had watched Fanatuua earn his money. Across the room, a sturdy woman
seated in a wheelchair studied him through thick glasses. Two hours
flew by like minutes; she was gone when he got up from the table.
In the morning, he put on jeans and his best aloha shirt, walked to the
pier next to the hotel, and boarded the Victoria Clipper. The San Juan
Islands are a three hour trip from Seattle, north out of Puget Sound,
across the Strait of Juan De Fuca, and nearly to Vancouver Island in
Canada. The catamaran hummed along while passengers sunned themselves,
took pictures, and moved about the cabins. The captain announced the
islands as Washington's "banana belt," free of the rain shadow cast by
the Olympic Mountains.
Friday Harbor is sheltered by low pine covered ridges. Joe walked up
Spring Street and checked in at the Friday Harbor Inn where Kate had
made reservations. The house she had rented was in Eagle Cove, a few
miles from town. He went down toward the ferry to look for a cab and
was hailed from across the street. It was Max.
"Yo, Max!" They decided to have an ale in a brew pub on the corner.
They sat by a window looking out on the sidewalk.
"Here's to Kate," Joe said, raising his glass.
"Kate." Max was cheerful.
"Is your mom here?"
"She's supposed to show up later," Max said.
"Good deal," Joe said, "haven't seen her for a couple of years." He
wasn't that anxious to see Ingrid, but in Max's presence he lapsed into
old habits. The years might have been weeks, and he might have been
just away on a business trip.
"Wait til you see what I bought," Max said. He handed Joe a photograph
of a farm at the base of a mountain. "It's near Londonderry, in
Vermont. Eight acres at the far corner of this farm." He pointed with
his finger. "Just at the end of this highest field, a piece that runs
up the hill. One of my friends from school owns the farm. My father
came up from Boston and liked it; he gave me the down payment. I made a
tent platform and moved out there last month."
"It's going to get cold," Joe said.
"I'll move into an apartment or a room for the winter. There's a town
road that ends at the farm. I have a right of way from there."
"Can you get in with the truck?"
"Yep. It will take a while to get anything built, but it's a start. And
then--look at this." He handed Joe another picture. At the top of a
clearing, a long log projected out from under a ledge. It was supported
by two shorter logs lashed together in an X. Standing upright on the
end of the log was a prehistoric figure with straight arms and large
rocks for hands. The hands extended out and below its feet. "Stone
Man," Max said proudly.
"It looks like a balancing toy," Joe said. "A balancing giant."
"Yep. He's come down out of the mountains to see what man has done."
Joe looked closely. Stone Man was made of small diameter logs and had a
strong narrow head.
"How did you fasten the head? Is that a rock?"
"It's a piece of slate. I split the end of the log, stuck his head part
way down the split, and lashed it--like a tomahawk."
"Something else, Max! Giacometti goes to Indonesia."
"And Vermont," Max said. "He sways in the wind. The idea came to me
when I first saw the clearing. I knew I had to do it."
"Must have been fun getting it up."
"I built the perch first, got it solid, and then I made a temporary
walkway out of two by sixes, H shaped. We pulled Stone Man out to the
end with a come-along, a couple of inches at a time. It was awesome.
Bunch of guys helped. We had a few brews."
"I'll bet. I like this, Max."
"It'll be cool to see him in winter and then in spring. Deer will come.
Chickadees . . . "
"I'd love to have one of these pictures."
"I have a bunch of them at home. I'll send you one when I get back."
"Been a long time since I've seen Kate's mom," Joe said. "She's married
now. I've never met her husband."
"I got here yesterday," Max said. "Lot of people around, but I haven't
seen Sally. Jackson's folks rented a house, too. Jackson's cool."
"I'm glad they're getting married," Joe said.
"Me, too. So, want to come out with me?"
Max drove out of town, through open country, and along a dirt road to a
house at the top of a heathery field that sloped broadly down to the
water. Hedges enclosed a back lawn where a long table was covered with
a white cloth. Several chairs were positioned on the grass by an
aluminum keg. Kate was in the kitchen preparing the buffet, directing a
small army of friends.
"Dad! Oh, good!" She gave him a hug. "Nice shirt!" She introduced him
to Audrey, Jonathan, Monica . . . Names blurred together.
"A great event, Kate." He cut a piece of cheddar and broke off the end
of a loaf of French bread. He pointed at a quart mason jar. "What's
this?"
"Pear and ginger chutney."
"Yumm." He walked out on the front porch. Jackson was throwing a
Frisbee to a border collie--honey colored, white at the
throat--scrambling and leaping against a background of blue gray water,
boats, and a distant wooded shore. Joe could remember nothing in his
life as assured and as photogenic. He was happy for Kate and Jackson.
This weekend was a parent's reward; he accepted it gratefully. Yet it
was hard to relax. He had social duties, and, besides, he was
increasingly something other or more than a parent.
Jackson rubbed the dog's head and threw the Frisbee as far as he could.
He came over and shook hands. "Congratulations," Joe said.
"Thank you. How was your trip?"
"Fine, that's some ferry! Fast."
"Did you come on the Clipper?"
"Yes."
"She's a hummer," Jackson said. "We drove to Anacortes and took the car
ferry."
"Are your folks here, Jackson?"
"They'll be over later. Have you met . . . " There was more frisbee
throwing. Joe wandered around the house to the back lawn. Kate's old
boyfriend was standing by the keg.
"Hey, Rolf."
"Hello, Joe."
"A great event. Nice to see you. How's the history going?"
"It progresses," Rolf said. "I have written several papers on the early
Scandinavian settlers in the northwest. You might be surprised to learn
that only twenty years after the first settlement . . . "
"Rolf, you fine driver, you." Audrey, or Monica, came up and put her
hand on Rolf's arm. "Cindy and Jake are at the ferry." Rolf nodded.
"And Kate needs a jar of capers."
"A Mediterranean condiment. I'm on my way. Small or large? The capers .
. . The jar, I mean."
"Better get large," Audrey Monica said.
"Well, I shall look forward to hearing about the settlers later," Joe
said, drawing a beer. It was delicious, much like the ale at the brew
pub. Jackson came by, filled a paper cup, and told him that it was from
the brew pub.
"Good stuff, no?"
"Wicked good," Joe said in Maine speak. "Ono," he added in pidgin.
"Hello, there." It was Sally, happy and more tired than he remembered.
She swept up and threw her arms around him, then turned and introduced
a stout man waiting at her side. "Gino, this is Joe."
"Hi, Gino. You are the second Gino I've known. Congratulations on your
marriage, by the way," They shook hands.
"Thank you. It has been, what, six years now?" Gino turned to Sally.
She was rangy and athletic. Gino came only to her ear, but he was
solidly built and did not seem smaller. His eyes were dark and rather
impenetrable.
"Going for seven," Sally said.
"Can you believe our little girl is getting married?" Joe asked her.
"It's time," she said.
"Maybe you'll be a grandfather, Joe, ha, ha."
"Ha, Gino. I hope so."
"Ha. Come Joe, help me with the wine." He led Joe to his car, and they
carried two cases into the house. "One red, one white. Special. I
brought them from Denver."
"Kate tells me you have a wine store."
"Small, yes. But we do all right. People in this country are
discovering wine."
"Hey Joe, is this one of your father's?" Max was standing in front of
an oil painting at the far end of the living room. Gino and Joe went
over.
"For sure," Joe said. He hadn't seen it before.
"Wedding present!" Kate called from the kitchen. "We brought it over to
make the house seem more like home." It was a Deer Isle scene. An apple
tree in full bloom, crowded by woods behind it, leaned over the edge of
a field and a stock car that was missing its hood and engine. The car's
wheels were twisted strangely in the grass. A large yellow 90 was
painted on a blue door. White blossoms lay scattered on the wreck.
"'Memorial Day' is the name of the painting," Kate said coming closer.
"You like it?"
"Pretty good," Max said.
"I think he's getting better," Joe said. "Is he coming, Kate, by the
way?"
"No. He said he wanted to but he wasn't feeling up to the trip."
"Very artistic," Gino said. "And this too." He held up a knight from
Jackson's chess set which was laid out on a table beneath the painting.
He spun the piece slowly between his thumb and forefinger.
"Jackson made those," Joe said.
"Very nice. Do you play chess, Joe?"
"Yes, but . . . "
"How about a game?"
Joe didn't want to play. He had been too well taught, and he wanted to
drink and drift around. "On the porch, yes?" Gino picked up the board
and carried it to an outside table. Joe followed reluctantly. "Wine,
Joe! Wine for chess! The Merlot." He rubbed his hands together
cheerfully. Joe gave up and fetched a bottle and two glasses from the
kitchen.
"Corkscrew," Joe said to himself, but before he could move, Gino held
up an elegantly curved pocket knife and corkscrew. He had the cork out
by the time Joe sat down.
"Families," he toasted. Joe nodded. The wine was soft and bursting with
flavor.
"Oh, boy," Joe said.
"A small estate, a good year," Gino said. He held out his fists, a pawn
hidden in each. Joe pointed, received white, and opened pawn to king's
four. Gino took a sip of wine and began a Sicilian defense. Monica or
Jesse was taking her turn throwing the frisbee for the dog. About ten
moves into a slowly developing game, Gino reached forward, drove his
bishop through Joe's position, and leaned back. Joe was shocked. He
didn't want to look at Gino. He didn't need to; the real man was on the
board. He cleared his throat and breathed deeply. Gino had taken his
knight. It was a forced exchange; he had no choice but to take Gino's
bishop and wreck his own defense. Gino gathered for attack, and Joe
went into full retreat, playing for time, hoping for a mistake. Twenty
moves later he conceded.
"Ah, nice game, Joe." Gino tossed off the rest of his wine.
"We must have another," Joe said, "after I have a brain transplant and
read a few books."
"Ha, ha. Very artistic," Gino repeated, holding up a bishop. Joe
retreated to the kitchen for a piece of bread.
"Jesus Christ," he said to Sally in a low voice.
"You lasted longer than most," she said. "I thought I saw him think a
couple of times." Rolf appeared and clunked a jar down on the counter.
"Capers," he said. "What for?"
"Crab cakes," Kate said. More people arrived. Kate's friends continued
to pile food and dishes on the table in the back yard. One couple
brought an enormous smoked salmon. Jackson's parents showed up. Joe was
happy to see two more people over fifty.
"Hi, I'm Joe, father of the bride," he said extending his hand.
"I'm Gunnar. This is Bonnie." Gunnar Arendal was wide shouldered, a few
inches shorter than Joe. He had a high forehead, blue eyes, a strong
nose, and a trim blonde mustache. His hair was swept back, gray at the
temples. Bonnie was spare, compact, and deeply tanned. Her hair was
dark and short. Fine lines crisscrossed her face. A handsome builder
and a power elf.
"Jackson tells me you're a builder, down in the bay area."
"Yes."
"I did a little of that when I was a kid. I couldn't pick up a bundle
of shingles now."
"They aren't getting any lighter," Gunnar said mildly.
"What do you do?" Bonnie asked.
"Used to program computers. Gave it up. Now I'm learning how to write."
"Oh, what kind of writing?"
"Stories."
"Bonnie couldn't live without her mysteries," Gunnar said.
"It's true," she said.
"Hi, Dad, Mom. You've met Joe." Jackson put an arm around each of them.
"Hello, dear," Bonnie said.
"The food is mostly out," Jackson said. "Beer, wine, hard stuff--help
yourselves.
Joe could see where Jackson got his energy and talent. People make more
sense when you've met their parents. Jackson and Kate would have
problems, Joe thought. Who doesn't? But they were a good match and off
to a fine start. What more could a parent ask?
He staked out a position by the keg and had a sociable time. He kept
expecting to see Ingrid, but she didn't appear. Finally, a couple of
hours after dark, he hitched a ride into town and went to bed. He slept
restlessly and dreamed that a group of beautiful young people were
enjoying themselves on a lawn. He was watching through thick glass; he
couldn't hear them.
12
Joe slept late at the Friday Harbor Inn. He walked down the hill and
ate pancakes in the midst of an argument about a town construction
project. Money. Politics. It was comfortably familiar. He went back to
bed and didn't wake up until noon.
His new clothes had survived nicely, folded at the bottom of the Filson
bag. The shirt was in its original box. He removed the pins, dressed,
and tied his tie several times before he got it right. He took a bus to
the county park. The bus sped through shady woods, up and down hills,
and past horses grazing in uneven fields. It stopped at a resort by a
narrow harbor choked with pleasure boats. Three women boarded. As the
bus left the harbor, they told the driver about a tourist who had died
of a heart attack pedaling his bicycle up that very hill an hour
earlier. "He was in his fifties," one said.
"Too soon," another said cheerfully.
"Grover and Henry are playing golf, but they're walking," said the
third.
The driver stopped at the turnoff to the park. Joe skipped out
gratefully. The grim reaper was sure to stay with the interested
audience. There was a parking lot and a grassy area by the water.
Jackson and several friends were carrying folding tables and chairs up
a rocky path. Joe took two chairs and followed them to a clearing on a
bluff above the water. Chairs were arranged in the traditional bride
and groom groups, a center aisle leading towards the edge of the bluff.
Rows of champagne glasses covered most of a table set up beside the
chairs. Coolers waited auspiciously on the ground behind the tables.
"You guys have thought of everything," Joe said to Jackson.
"Kate could run NATO," he said.
"Probably run it better," Joe said. "Gorgeous view."
"We were camping out here last year, and we thought it would be the
perfect place to get married."
They returned for the last of the chairs. A musician arrived carrying a
guitar case and a battery powered amp. He unpacked and began plunking
away at Bach and Vivaldi. A minister with a neatly trimmed beard stood
by a large madrone oak. He was well dressed, quiet, and
non-denominational to the point of disappearance. Joe, who was finding
himself increasingly fond of people over fifty, engaged him in
conversation. He looked as though he'd been created whole that morning
in the image of the Northwest, but he admitted to being from Vermont.
That was as far as Joe could get. The minister evaded all questions
about his youth, as though he had left a bad record behind--or maybe
just an uncouth one.
"Hi, stranger!" Joe turned to the familiar voice.
"Ingrid," he said, opening his arms. She advanced and held him tightly
for a moment before backing away with a satisfied smile. "You are
looking well," Joe said, "and don't tell me it's because of your happy
sex life."
"It's the Mediterranean diet."
"Olive oil," he said. Ingrid had lost a few pounds, although she didn't
need to. Her thick blonde hair was cut short and away from her even
features. Her expression was practical and good-natured, dominated by
eyes the color of transparent jade.
"You don't look so bad yourself," she said.
"Ah, well."
"More serious," she said, "more gray in your mustache, thinner."
"Time's getting shorter."
"Tell me about it. I'm so happy for Kate."
"Yes, this is a good thing. It is so nice for her to have you and Max
here. Did you see Maxie's giant sculpture?"
"He showed me the picture. I love it. I haven't been over to Vermont to
see his land, yet. So, what have you been up to?"
Joe straightened. "This and that. I'm pretty well settled in Hawaii. I
miss Portland sometimes, but . . . I've been writing a lot."
"Good," Ingrid said. "You always wanted to."
"And you?" Joe asked.
"Same old," she said cheerfully. "Selling quite a bit. I'm down to
teaching one class."
Joe bent over and looked at her earrings. A tiny woman swung from a
trapeze on one ear; an elephant waited patiently under the other.
"Pretty good," he said. "A circus."
"A golden circus," Ingrid said. "I made a series. The clown is my
favorite, but he's too sad for a wedding."
The chairs were filling. Joe took his seat next to Sally in the front
row. Ingrid sat behind them with Max. A bridesmaid, six months
pregnant, wearing a light blue flowered dress, stood prettily on the
bluff, her hands clasped around lace and a bouquet of white roses.
After some minutes of suspense, Kate and Jackson walked down the aisle.
Kate was lovely in white; Jackson wore a smashing gray suit. Sally
wiped away a tear. The minister smiled gravely. Vows were exchanged.
Spectacular rings, made by Jackson and a friend, were pushed on. Kate
and Jackson kissed. Cameras flashed. Simple and touching. A rainbow or
a pod of breaching orcas would have been too much.
They moved to the champagne table and drank toasts before departing in
a convoy for the yacht club in Friday Harbor. Designated cleaners
stayed behind; they would join them later.
In the club, a long table took up most of the main room. Vases of
flowers were regularly spaced along the white tablecloth. Places were
set for at least sixty people, name cards at each setting. In a corner
of the room, band instruments waited by empty stools.
Joe repaired to the bar in the next room. A short intense woman pouted
when he ordered Glenlivet. "That's so easy."
"Are you bored? Want to practice something complicated?"
"No, that's all right." She put the whiskey in front of him with a
quick smile. One Scotch and then wine. If he didn't go back to the hard
stuff after dinner, he'd survive.
Roasted yellow pepper soup was followed by a salad of spinach and
scallops, salmon with a thyme sauce, and risotto with wild mushrooms.
Wine servers patrolled vigilantly. Joe had a conversation about
education with a teacher Kate had met on a vacation in Tibet. There
were sentimental toasts, and then the band began to play. He remembered
that he could dance, and he took a turn around the floor with the
mother of the bride. Sally and he moved easily together out of old
habit.
Time went backwards and then into slow motion as the band worked
through hits of the 60's and 70's. Joe danced with anyone available,
and when no one was available he danced alone. Occasionally, he went
outside on a long porch to cool off in a fine drizzle that was drifting
in from the harbor.
A group gathered around the wedding cake on a table at the far end of
the room. Sally and Ingrid stood together looking mellow and nostalgic.
Gunnar and Bonnie were talking with friends. Max was taking pictures.
It was time to go, Joe realized. He had told Kate earlier that he would
fade away at the appropriate time. He walked through the bar and said
to the woman who had served him the Scotch, "Your little girl only gets
married once." He went out the door and down the steps.
"Are you from around here? Seattle?"
Joe turned and looked back up at the bartender who had followed him
onto the porch. "Hawaii."
"Uh--what do you do?" She was urgent. He remembered that she had been
watching him dance.
"I'm a poet," he said. The words fell through the air like a sentence.
"Oh, a good one, I'm sure."
"There are only a couple of us," Joe said, drunkenly. "I've got to go
now." A musician on break, watching from a corner of the porch, drew on
his cigarette. The glow lit his face, a witness, someone Joe would
never know. "I've got to go," Joe said. He turned and walked into the
dark and the rain, leaving the younger generation and most of his life
behind.
13
Joe was thirsty the next day, fuzzy, but not totaled. Dancing had
worked off a lot of the booze. He caught the Clipper back to Seattle
and sat silently for three hours while images and conversations flowed
through his mind. The wedding had been a great success--well organized,
yes--but mostly because Kate and Jackson were a good match and because
they and their friends all had the same attitude: let's have a good
time; let's do it right. It was a relief after the weddings he'd been
to that were dominated by ancient family feuds and personal problems.
On the other hand, no flying plates, no loud exits, no sobbing? He
wondered if maybe he hadn't missed something. It was too bad that his
father and Ann hadn't been there. Probably, he should call and see how
they were. Kate would check in, no doubt; she and his father had a warm
and easy relationship.
The Clipper docked mid-afternoon, and he checked in at his home away
from home. His mind was too busy for sleep, so he took his notebook
down to the bar and sipped a beer by the window.
"The writer," a voice said in a husky contralto. Joe looked up. The
woman in a wheelchair who had watched him on Thursday was rolling
slowly by.
"Hi," Joe said. Her face was sad and intense. Her eyes were large,
brown, and circular behind round glasses. Her hair was light brown,
shoulder length. Her coloring was warm, slightly flushed, whether from
makeup or not he couldn't tell. She wore a light cotton blouse with
bark colored buttons down the front. Her lap was covered by a blanket
with a Southwestern motif.
She stopped. "I saw you in here the other night. What are you writing,
if you don't mind my asking?"
"Oh, nothing," he said, closing the notebook. "Just notes. My daughter
got married this weekend."
"Ah."
"Want a beer or something?" He felt like talking. She turned towards
the table, and he moved a chair out of the way.
"Thank you." The bartender came over. "The usual," she said. He brought
her a glistening martini. "I like a vodka martini about this time. Was
it a nice wedding?"
"Very. Out on the San Juan's"
"Lovely. Here's to their happiness." It was what Joe had spent the last
two days doing. He drank the last of his beer and ordered another.
"I was working on a story the other night," he offered.
"Have you been writing long?"
"No. Well--depends. I've always kept notebooks. I've written some
poems, and now I'm trying to write stories."
"I used to," she said.
"Write stories?"
"Yes."
"Wait a sec, I'm Joe Burke. What's your name?"
"Call me Isabelle," she said wryly.
"Isabelle! Call me Ishmael. My God, I spent a whole winter reading Moby
Dick. I was working in San Francisco. Read a couple of pages every
night sitting in a circle of lamp light with my back to a heater."
"Nice town--great book," Isabelle said, "although no one can really say
why." She seemed quite experienced, in her early forties, maybe.
"You want to know the trouble I'm having?" Joe asked. She looked
amused. "Writing," he added.
"Sure."
"I can't make the jump into fiction. I use something from real life,
and then, if I leave anything out, I feel like a liar--like I haven't
told the truth."
"Quilt," she said, looking across the gray water. "Patchwork quilt."
"What do you mean?"
"The story is the quilt. Made of patches: this person's face, that
person's love, a cat you knew . . . You make up the quilt--the
design--but the strength of it, its integrity, comes from the patches."
She finished her martini.