nrad," Jamie explained apologetically,
sprawled against the side window. As they passed Eglin Air Force Base,
two F-16's thundered up, up, and away. "Looka those beauties, pulling 6
g's," he said.

When they parted at the terminal, Eva surprised Joe with a kiss. She
had a long-time lover in Vermont. Or didn't she? It was too late for
Joe to figure it out. He boarded his plane feeling that, in his
single-minded pursuit of fiction, he had missed a good person.

Roland had assigned him a long reading list of contemporary stories and
French criticism. "Some of this is a little esoteric. You can handle
it," he said. Roland was impressed that Joe had made a living as an
independent computer programmer. Joe was to mail in a criticism of each
book along with short stories of his own.

There was a lot to sort through. Cleo, who had written about the gay
woman, had impressed him. She had short black hair, deep brown eyes
that were intelligent and sympathetic, and a clear spirit. She reminded
him of Maxie's arrowhead in its Kauri wood box. "Am I missing something
here?" Eva had said in Joe's ear one afternoon. "Is she friggin
beautiful, or what?"

"Friggin beautiful," Joe said. "Like her writing."

"Jesus," Eva said.

"It works that way sometimes," Joe said. "I've seen it in paintings.
Beautiful people can do beautiful work; they aren't afraid of it;
they're used to it." Eva looked at him. She was good-looking herself,
although not in Cleo's league.

Joe's head was spinning from two weeks of conversation at breakfast,
lunch, dinner, and points in between. It was a relief to be in the
plane, seated next to an elderly woman who had no interest in writing.
He had scheduled a stopover in San Francisco, but, when he arrived, he
couldn't bring himself to call Brendan. He was too tired to socialize.
He spent a day walking about the city and was able to buy almost all of
the books on his reading list. He wouldn't have to wait for any of them
to be delivered to Honolulu.

After an uneventful flight and a satisfying view of Diamond Head, Joe
climbed the stairs to his apartment, a cloth shopping bag filled with
paperbacks in one hand, his Filson bag in the other. "Yo, Batman! New
books!"

18

Mo swirled special noodles around in her bowl. "So, did you find out?
What's a story?"

Joe handed her a manila envelope. "Here's one," he said. "A story is
about change, is of change. It's obvious, I guess, but I couldn't see
it