Joe Burkes Last Stand | Page 3

him if 'children, old dogs, and watermelon wine' wouldn't cut it."
"Tom T. Hall songs," Morgan said.
"Right. My father just laughed. I think he was trying to tell me
something but didn't know how."
"Hard to communicate at this point, I suppose," Morgan said. "What's
next?"
"Drive out and see Kate. Me and Batman--he's riding on the dash." Joe
gave Morgan the cassette from the Weston Priory. "Try this some
stormy night."
"O.K.," Morgan said. "The damnedest thing . . . I bought a tape of
Chesapeake Bay sea chanteys a while back. One of the voices was
familiar. I looked on the picture of the group and there was Jason! I
hadn't even noticed."
"Best banjo player I ever heard," Joe said. "He disappeared into the
world of big biz. What a waste. I thought he'd given up on music."

"Why don't you take it? I'll pick up another."
" Good deal, a trade. So, how's Daisy doing? I was thinking of
dropping in and saying hello."
"She's in France. She's fine." Morgan took a piece of bacon. "She and
Wes have stuck together. Of course it helps if you can nip off to
Provence whenever you feel like it. Their daughter, Yvonne, just got
married. Jake is in New Zealand, I think. Nice kids."
"New Zealand? That's where Max is, Ingrid's son." Joe hesitated. "I
remember when Daisy was choosing. She said, 'I feel happy and
excited when I'm with you, and I feel warm and safe when I'm with
Wes."' Joe shook his head. "Knowing what I do now, about women that
is, I'd say she made the mainstream choice. She'd have had rice and
beans with me."
"Red beans and rice aren't bad," Morgan said.
"True. We could have gone the distance, though. Strange how you
know these things . . . Not that I haven't had good relationships since. I
mean, Sally and I had Kate, and then I had the chance to be part of
Maxie's life. I wouldn't trade that for anything, but . . . So, how's your
love life?"
Morgan's eyebrows raised. "Prospects are bright," he said.
"Prospects, plural?"
"Singular," he said.
"Yok, excellent. And the book, how's that coming along?"
"Slowly. My publisher's annoyed, but he's used to delays."
"And The Houses of the Hudson Valley aren't going anywhere."
"I wish that were true," Morgan said. "They're going downhill. On the
other hand, if they weren't, I wouldn't have any work."

"Rot," Joe said, "your enemy."
"Neglect," Morgan said.
They finished breakfast and hauled Joe's footlocker to the barn. "I'm
going to have a book shop when I retire," Morgan said.
"The fortress and the cork," Joe said, putting down one end of the
footlocker in a room filled with books. "Two good strategies: strong
walls or travel light, bob up and down in the heavy weather."
"You always did travel light," Morgan said, "but you probably don't
bob as well as you did." Joe hopped on both feet to demonstrate his
buoyancy.
"Thanks for the reminder." Departures required gallantry. "Good eggs.
Listen, if you get a chance . . . give Daisy my love. Tell her nothing's
changed." Morgan nodded and they walked out to the truck. "Take care
of yourself," Joe said. "Hang in there."
"Good luck," Morgan said.
Joe drove down the mountain in the rain. When he reached Route 212,
he turned towards Phoenicia. His old high school district covered a
thousand square miles; half an hour later as he crossed its western
boundary, he felt a twinge of nostalgia and relief. It was like graduating
again; his mind was free to drift forward.
At tech school in the Air Force, he used to spend Friday and Saturday
nights in the BX with a guy named Shannon. The BX was always
jammed with G.I.'s drinking cheap beer and eating French fries. One
man tried to keep up with the empties and the dirty dishes. He was bald,
slow moving, friendly, and particular. His cart was organized to hold as
much as possible on each trip. It seemed like the original dead end job,
but he did it well, never flustered, taking pride in his cart and the tables
that were clean for moments. He told Joe once that he was saving
money to buy tools so that he could help in his friend's garage.

As Joe drove, the rain and fog lifted, revealing lonely bays and wooded
hillsides. Route 30 curved endlessly along the banks of the Pepacton
Reservoir. Joe had the highest entrance score they'd ever recorded in
that Air Force tech school. Sergeant Quimby told him, reading it,
unbelieving. Joe was an athlete, a most likely to succeed guy; yet there
he was every weekend in the BX with Shannon, fascinated by the aging
bus boy