cap, Joe?"

"Sure." She reached into a small bag and handed him a key card. "I
really have to go back to my room now. Why don't you come over in about
twenty minutes? There's some Chardonnay in the convenience bar."

"How are you going to get in?" he asked.

"I have another one of these cards--keys--whatever you call them. Room
336."

"O.K." She wheeled away and Joe leaned back in his chair. It was dark
outside. Rain trickled down the windows softening the harbor lights. He
was tired of being alone. He stared at the harbor and savored the
feeling of companionship, a circle of two in league against a rainy
night. Was it Marx who said that the smallest indivisible human unit
was two? He couldn't remember.

He knocked and entered when Isabelle answered. The wheelchair was empty
at the end of the bed. He walked past the bathroom and stopped by the
bed. Isabelle was under the covers, propped up against several pillows.
She had changed into a white nightgown and brushed out her hair. "Good
timing, Joe. I'm ready for a glass of wine."

"Coming up," he said, embarrassed. He opened the bottle, poured two
glasses, and brought one over to her. There was a small table and chair
in a dark corner of the room.

"Oh, Joe! Come here so we can talk." She patted the bed beside her as
though he were a cat or a little boy. "Take off your shoes. You might
as well be comfortable." He obeyed slowly. There was a dream like
quality in the room, a scent of honeysuckle. She pointed a remote
control and skipped through radio stations until she found jazz.

"Adult music," he said, balancing his wine and sliding next to her.

"All music is adult," she said, "with the possible exception of disco."

"Even country," he added.

"Especially country. 'Take this job and shove it."'

"Ha. You're all right, Isabelle." They touched glasses. "Is this
Coltrane?"

"Yes," Isabelle said.

"Strange," Joe said, "most sax players sound the same. Then one grabs
you. What is it about Coltrane?"

"Deep stuff," she said. "So where's Mrs. Joe?"

"Ex-Mrs. Joe. On her way back to Maine, I guess. She was at the
wedding. They both were, the ex-Mrs. Joes."

"Two of them? And you survived?"

"Yep," Joe said.

"Marriage . . . " Isabelle said sadly.

"The marriages weren't bad," Joe said, "just not enough. The kids are
grown up, anyway, one of mine--the one that just got married--and one
of Ingrid's, Maxie. He lives in Vermont."

"What does he do?"

"