to themselves. They
listened to Dylan and finished a bottle of wine. Patrick undressed for
bed with a surprising lack of embarrassment. It seemed natural. They
clung to each other and stayed awake late, talking and watching the new
moon rise. Willow told him about her parents and her brother and her
dissatisfaction with school.

"If you could do anything you wanted, what would you do?" he asked her.

"I think I'd travel and read a lot. Decide what to do and then do
it--somewhere. But, do it right, you know?"

"Yeah," Patrick said. "It's the only way."

"Babies, too, some day. Speaking of which--if we're going to keep this
up, you better get some of those thingies." Patrick grunted.

"That will be a trip," he said. "Trojans, right? E-Z big tips?"

"They don't care at the drug store," Willow said. "Very big tips."

"Only for you," Patrick said.

"Exactly."

They had to hurry in the morning to get to the Deli in time. Patrick
took his sandwich to the News Shop, ate breakfast, and rode to the
Wittenberg job with Wilson. When he thought of Willow during the day,
he felt easy and excited at the same time. He could actually talk to
her. She understood immediately his point that science and art were
modeling processes. Better yet, she saw that modeling itself was
fundamental--an attempt to understand what was out there and express it
with whatever tools you could use. Sleeping with her was so great. Sex.
Just the comfort of being next to her. It was such a new experience
that he would forget for an hour and then remember with a rush of
pleasure.

There was a police car in front of Gert's when Wilson dropped him off
after work. "What's happening?" Patrick asked.

"You staying here?"

"Yes."

"Name, please." The cop wrote his name down in a small notebook. "Mrs.
Willett's been taken to the hospital," he said.

"Oh, no," Patrick said.

"Sick. Heart attack, maybe," the cop said.

"Where is the hospital?"

"Kingston."

"Damn," Patrick said.

"Hope for the best," the cop said, putting his notebook away. "All you
can do. She's been around here a long time." Patrick went inside. The
house felt empty. There was only one other roomer at the moment, a
middle aged guy who kept to himself, a high school teacher from the
city. Apparently, he spent a month in Woodstock every summer. Bob. He
wasn't around.

Patrick washed and walked into town. He finished a beer quickly and
checked the crowd gathering in the Depres