sounds of the party faded behind him, he began to
relax. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been. What's the matter with
you? he asked himself. Parties are for fun, right? But he had to admit
that it hadn't been fun, not really. Interesting, but not fun. What is
fun? Is it when you don't care what happens?

He turned down Rock City Road toward town. If you didn't care at all,
you wouldn't be interested in what happened; it wouldn't matter. How
could that be fun? But, if you cared a lot, you would be too tense to
have fun. I guess, he thought, you have to care a little, enough to be
interested, but not too much. He tended to be on or off; he cared
intensely or he didn't care at all. In this case, he thought, he cared
too much. He wanted a woman. He was just as good as Joe Burke or Gino
Canzoni. They had women. Beauties. They were citizens or writers or
artists or whatever they were. Who was he?

Patrick couldn't answer that question. He just knew that he was as good
as they were. That meant that somehow, someday, he would show up at a
party with someone like Amber and make jokes and have fun. This was a
cheerful thought. But, in the meantime, he had to learn more science.
And art--what the hell was art all about? By the time he reached town,
Patrick was singing songs from a Burl Ives record that his mother used
to play when Patrick was a little boy. "_How can there be a cherry that
has no stone? How can there be a baby with no cryin'? _"

4

Willow lifted groceries from the bicycle basket, took them inside, and
set them on the counter with a satisfying thump. Onions, garlic, a
green pepper, a red pepper, basil, a can of coconut milk, a can of
chicken stock, a small can of curry paste, chicken, lettuce, and two
bottles of Gewurztraminer. The wine was extravagant. No doubt about
that. But, for once it was her money. Ann had given her a job mornings
at the Deli. Willow took her first pay directly to the Grand Union
supermarket. She had been to the library and copied a recipe for curry
and the name of the recommended wine. She put the wine in the
refrigerator. Amber owed Art a meal, and Willow had volunteered to
cook.

It was two in the afternoon, warm, too early to start. She was tempted
to lie down and read, but instead she took a straw hat from a peg by
the door and walked outside. Bees were buzzing in the roses. The tops
of the trees were dark against a bright blue sky. Her feet led her into
the pine woods o