erence
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 accumulated 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 assigned 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

Joe flew to Florida and spent the night in Tallahassee. He rented a
car, and took the coastal route through Apalachicola and Panama City
toward Fort Walton Beach. Apalachicola was a sleepy Caribbean
place--palm trees, dirt alleys, low concrete buildings built for
hurricanes. He munched fried shrimp and sipped a glass of beer at a
restaurant by the slow moving mouth of the Apalachicola River. A
solitary pelican