Joe Burkes Last Stand | Page 6

interested in the economy because his small savings were mostly in the stock market. He picked up a copy of _Trader Vic -- Methods of a Wall Street Master_ by Victor Sperandeo. By the time he chose a tape of slack key guitar by Cyril Pahinui, Gabby's son, it was dark. On his way out, he averted his eyes from the cooking section, but he needn't have; the woman was gone.
The Edgewater Hotel bar has floor to ceiling windows on the water. Joe ate a sandwich and watched huge ferries slide through the night, brilliant against the black water. They made the Portland, Maine ferries look like life boats. Joe went to bed early, slept fitfully, and spent the next day walking, reading, and exercising. His back wasn't what it was--too many years in front of a computer monitor. If he kept at the yoga exercises, it didn't bother him, but a real day's work would be the end. For a long time he could do whatever the kids could, and then he couldn't. It made a divide between them and even, sometimes, between the past and present. Memory was suspect; did he really do that?
"You did, Dad, you really did." Fortunately, Kate was there, confirming the past, regaling Jackson with stories from the old days. They were eating seafood linguini in her apartment. Jackson listened as he twirled pasta with his fork and spoon. He was tall and thin, pleasant. His hair was dark, pulled back into a short pony tail. He drank a lot of wine without seeming to be much affected. His eyes got brighter.
They considered Kate's new painting which was propped up on a side table. A young woman stood in a barn door looking out at a rainy morning and an apple tree in full white bloom. Her hair was long and brown; her bare feet interacted with paint splattered floor boards. She seemed to dance without moving.
"Lot going on," Jackson said.
"Lot of life in there for an old guy," Joe said. "What do you think for a frame?"
Jackson considered. "Simple, but with relief--to give it a little more depth, be more inside the barn."
"Definitely simple," Kate said.
"I see what you mean," Joe said. "That will be my part, Kate--getting it framed."
"I could do that," Jackson said.
"Hey, great. Let me know what it costs . . . "
Jackson lifted a hand. "No problem. I've got a friend with a frame shop."
"That's quite a chess set," Joe said, pointing to a low table by a bookcase. The pieces were hand carved and had a warm waxed shine. They were slightly larger than usual and looked as though they were meant to be handled.
"Jackson made those last winter," Kate said. "He just makes this stuff--like knitting or something." Jackson looked embarrassed. "Dad, how long are you going to be in Seattle?"
The question had been floating in the back of Joe's mind. The answer crystallized, "Not long." They waited for him to continue. "I don't know what I'm going to do, really, but I'm feeling jumpy. I'll let you know. You've got my e-mail address; I'll check in every so often." He wanted to keep his uncertainty away from Kate. It wasn't so much that he wanted to shield her, but more that he needed to confront the future unhindered by old patterns of relating and response.
"Stick around," Kate said. "The longer the better."
Jackson smiled neutrally. A good time to leave, Joe thought.
"Very nice to meet you, Jackson," he said. He hugged Kate and left, feeling that they were a good match.
On the way off the hill, he noticed the Caffe Ladro and remembered the woman in the bookstore. The next morning, he thought about checking out of the Edgewater, but he had no plan. He registered for another night and drove back to the Queen Anne district. He had a latte and a bagel in the Caffe Ladro and bought a T-shirt. He was hoping the woman would come in. Her name would be Moira; they would have an animated discussion which would reveal his fate. She didn't show. Must have been busy, probably making a lemon meringue pie.
He went back to the hotel and stared at the ceiling in his room. Filson's was in Seattle, he remembered. He looked for the address in the phone book and found that it was a short bus ride away. He had a wool Filson jacket that he'd worn for 12 years. Every so often he sewed a button tighter. Filson stuff is understated and invincible; it would be like a visit to the temple.
A temple angel, slim with long blonde hair, asked if she could help. "Not just yet," Joe said and wandered down aisles of tin cloth pants, wax impregnated jackets with wool liners, vests, and virgin wool