"The quilt's the thing," she said offhandedly. "You have to care about
it." She swiveled her chair and held her arm in the air. "Another
round," she said. "On me."
He agreed and considered what she'd said. "A patchwork quilt. I can see
it. What do you do now? Are you writing?"
"Not much. I've been working on songs."
"Oh great," Joe said. "I wish I could play an instrument."
"I have a keyboard that I take with me."
"Take with you? Do you travel a lot?"
"I keep moving," she said. "Do you live in Seattle?"
"No, Hawaii."
"Long flight," she said.
"I love it there. Have you been?"
"Once. I stayed in the Royal Hawaiian. Sunsets. A woman in white, like
a queen, who sang ballads."
"Yeah, Emma--something, I can't remember. She's famous there. I live in
Honolulu, but I don't get to the Royal Hawaiian very often. Can't
afford it." Isabelle flicked a wrist dismissively. "You're not missing
much."
"You're right about the sunsets. Wonderful." They drank to Hawaiian
sunsets.
"So, Joe, you heading back soon?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, Isabelle." He was beginning to like her. "Come on
over; we'll have a drink and listen to the Queen sing _Aloha Oe. _" She
held his eye for a moment.
"Maybe I'll do that. I'm going to Banff next--for the music festival.
This is a nice time to be in the Canadian Rockies."
"You want something to eat?" he asked. They ordered two salads. Joe
switched to wine. Isabelle started laughing more. Apparently she had
all the money she needed to live in hotels, traveling slowly around a
familiar route. It seemed like an hour, but it was probably two hours
later when she pushed back from the table.
"Time to move," she said.
"Hey, it's been fun." He was letting go after the long weekend and was
sorry to see her leave. She smiled slightly.
"How about a nightcap, Joe?"
"Sure." She reached into a small bag and handed him a key card. "I
really have to go back to my room now. Why don't you come over in about
twenty minutes? There's some Chardonnay in the convenience bar."
"How are you going to get in?" he asked.
"I have another one of these cards--keys--whatever you call them. Room
336."
"O.K." She wheeled away and Joe leaned back in his chair. It was dark
outside. Rain trickled down the windows softening the harbor lights. He
was tired of being alone. He stared at the harbor and savored the
feeling of companionship, a circle of two in league against a rainy
night. Was it Marx who said that the smallest indivisible human unit
was two? He couldn't remember.
He knocked and entered when Isabelle answered. The wheelchair was empty
at the end of the bed. He walked past the bathroom and stopped by the
bed. Isabelle was under the covers, propped up against several pillows.
She had changed into a white nightgown and brushed out her hair. "Good
timing, Joe. I'm ready for a glass of wine."
"Coming up," he said, embarrassed. He opened the bottle, poured two
glasses, and brought one over to her. There was a small table and chair
in a dark corner of the room.
"Oh, Joe! Come here so we can talk." She patted the bed beside her as
though he were a cat or a little boy. "Take off your shoes. You might
as well be comfortable." He obeyed slowly. There was a dream like
quality in the room, a scent of honeysuckle. She pointed a remote
control and skipped through radio stations until she found jazz.
"Adult music," he said, balancing his wine and sliding next to her.
"All music is adult," she said, "with the possible exception of disco."
"Even country," he added.
"Especially country. 'Take this job and shove it."'
"Ha. You're all right, Isabelle." They touched glasses. "Is this
Coltrane?"
"Yes," Isabelle said.
"Strange," Joe said, "most sax players sound the same. Then one grabs
you. What is it about Coltrane?"
"Deep stuff," she said. "So where's Mrs. Joe?"
"Ex-Mrs. Joe. On her way back to Maine, I guess. She was at the
wedding. They both were, the ex-Mrs. Joes."
"Two of them? And you survived?"
"Yep," Joe said.
"Marriage . . . " Isabelle said sadly.
"The marriages weren't bad," Joe said, "just not enough. The kids are
grown up, anyway, one of mine--the one that just got married--and one
of Ingrid's, Maxie. He lives in Vermont."
"What does he do?"
"He's working as a carpenter. I think he might be heading into the
artist's life."
"Poor baby."
"I'm proud of him."
"Good, Joe."
"And you? No Mr. Isabelle?"
"Not any more. He died in the wreck that messed me up. He was a bad
boy," she said, smiling sadly.
"I'm sorry."
"If it hadn't happened there, it would have been somewhere else." She
seemed to say the words more bravely than she felt them. "Let's have
some more wine, then."
He hunched himself off the bed and refilled their glasses. "You're a
handsome guy, Joe. Good manners. Tougher than you look. Episcopal, I
bet."
"Right about the Episcopal, anyway. Not that I pay much attention."
"Is it true that Episcopalians are baptized in Harvey's Bristol Cream?"
"It's true."
"Lucky Joe." She took another drink of wine. "I know something about
you tough guys."
"Oh, yeah?"
"You're really just bad boys--and you need to be read to." She reached
for a book on the bedside table. "I am revisiting _Anne of Green
Gables_, by Lucie Maude Montgomerie."
"Good grief," Joe said. Isabelle opened to the first page and began
reading calmly. Joe stretched his legs and looked at the ceiling. It
had been a long few days. Despite himself, he was drawn into the story.
Her voice was low and soothing. He nearly fell asleep and spilled the
last of his wine. Isabelle took the glass from his hand and turned out
the light.
"Your hands are cold," she said, "get under the covers." With one arm
she pushed him sideways and held up the blanket and sheet. He rolled
under and next to her. She took his hand and rested it on her stomach.
"That's better," she said. He registered distantly that he was in bed
with a woman he didn't know, but her warm body and the soft cotton
nightgown under his hand made that unimportant. It was a good place to
be. He snuggled closer and she sighed. He began to caress her stomach
slowly. She sighed again and moved her hips closer. His fingertips
brushed lightly across her breasts. She tipped her head back.
"Careful," she warned in a constricted voice.
He continued slowly, turning on his side and pushing his face against
her upper arm. He brought his hand down and stroked lightly along the
curves of her stomach. Isabelle placed her hand on his and pushed it
lower, down over her pelvis. He moved closer and rubbed where she
guided. Her body tensed. He stretched out, fully aroused against her
hip. Her breath came harder. It was important, now, what was happening.
He urged her on. She made a loud animal sound through clenched teeth,
and then arched and let out a series of sweet whispered collapses.
"Bella," he said into her arm, "Bella . . . "
"Oh--you are such--a bad boy, Joe. Such a bad boy." She lay still a few
moments, regaining her breath, and then reached down and began pulling
at his belt. "Oh, take this off." He slid out of his clothes. "There,"
she said. "There." He was lying on his back as she began to stroke him.
"Bella, you called me. I like that," she said, stroking.
"Bella," he said, now short of breath himself. "Bella." She stopped.
"You like your Bella, don't you?"
"Yes." She started again. She stopped.
"You're a bad boy, aren't you?"
"Yes." He strained towards her hand.
"A very bad boy." She gave him another stroke. "But you like your
Bella."
"Yes."
"You want your Bella?"
"Yes." She began again slowly. She leaned over him and stopped.
"Say 'please' to Bella."
"Please, Bella." She started again, bringing him half off the bed
straining towards her. Then she stopped. He fell back and began to
crack. "Please, Bella."
"Yes, yes?" She brought him up again and slowed.
"Please, Bella." The thick glass inside him shattered. He began to beg.
"Please. Please, Bella." He couldn't breathe. His heart was pounding.
She stopped. He fell back, groaning. "Please, Bella." She started
again.
"You're a bad boy, Joe."
"Oh, God," he said.
"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 passed 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 breasts. "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 hell, 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 glasses of water. He
assessed 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 spaced 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 grass. Small cumulus 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 offshore. 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 sex.
"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 bum, 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
. . . "
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 Japanese 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 space
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."
"Damn!" he said. "Damn."
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
Massachusetts. 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 Penobscot
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 bumping 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
bumped 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
glass. "Dad," he toasted. They raised their glasses, 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."
"Yes, I suppose," she said. She straightened on the couch and pushed
the question to the back of her mind to deal with later.
"He was lucky to have you for so many years," Joe said. This was easier
for him to offer than for Brendan who had had every nuance and tension
between his parents pressed on him since birth.
"Thank you, Joe. Now--we must talk about the will." She walked to a
writing table that stood in a bow window and returned with checks in
her hand. "The estate goes to me with the exception of ten thousand
dollars to each of you and ten thousand to Kate." She gave Joe two
checks and handed the other to Brendan. "This is coming out of the
insurance which I'm supposed to get next week, so if you will hold
these until the first of the month . . . " She smiled. "There's a
stipulation. The money must be spent within one year on something that
makes you feel good."
"That shouldn't be hard," Brendan said.
"Thank you," Joe said. "I really wasn't expecting . . . " The money in
the family had always been Ann's, although his father's paintings had
begun to sell in recent years.
"Additionally, Joe, you are to have this drawing of your mother." She
pointed to a framed drawing that was propped up on the writing table.
"And first choice of any painting in the barn."
"That's very nice," Joe said.
"Your father always said you should have this drawing. It was one of
his favorite pieces from the early years."
"I'll take it with me."
"How long are you going to be staying?" she asked.
"I thought I'd take off the day after tomorrow. I just wanted to see
you and Brendan and . . . "
"I'll be here all week," Brendan said, "if anything needs doing."
"We're not going to have a ceremony. He didn't want one," Ann said. She
looked down at the floor for a moment and then raised her head. "I'm
going to bake something, if you boys will excuse me. Friends are going
to start coming by; I want to have something to offer them."
"Chocolate chips?" asked Brendan. She left without answering and they
finished their wine in silence.
"Might as well pick a painting," Joe said.
Brendan came with him to the barn. When they were inside, Brendan said,
"The old goat!" Joe spotted his father's special stash of Laphroaig and
reached for it.
"To the old goat," he said and took a healthy swallow. He passed the
bottle to Brendan. "You're all right, Brendan."