ht." He moved toward the door.

"Remember that, Patrick," she flung at his back. Another upset woman.
What was getting into everybody? He looked into the window of the
Depresso. Sue and Jim weren't there. The Go player who had annoyed him
on his first night in town was sitting on a stool in a corner, playing
a banjo. The metallic beat followed him a short distance up Tinker
Street, a sort of urban bluegrass. It was a relief to go quietly to bed
with his book on mathematics.

The next morning it was pouring. Patrick trudged to the News Shop,
where Parker declared a washout. Gino, as senior man, got to work on an
inside job. Everyone else was off for the day. The group milled around,
joking with a drunk who kept coming in and out, clapping people on the
back, breathing beer fumes in their faces, and saying, "How ya doing,
buddy? How ya doing? That good, huh? Ha, ha, ha."

"Good to see you, Billy. Good to see you."

"So who's this?" he asked, putting one arm around Wilson and the other
around Patrick.

"Patrick, Billy. This is Patrick."

"Top o' the mornin', Patrick." Patrick found himself laughing along
with him.

"By Jesus," he said, "top o' the mornin' to you, too." They were
leaving. Billy escorted them to the open doorway.

"Quack," he said, propelling them down the steps into the rain.

"Quack is right," Patrick said. "See you, Willy." Habit took him along
the street to Ann's where he hesitated and then went in. "Hi, Willow.
Rained out!"

Willow looked up. No one else was in the deli. "Patrick, I'm sorry I
left so abruptly last night. I just couldn't . . . "

"That's O.K.; I won't talk about art anymore."

She smiled at him reprovingly.

"Anyway, I can't live without your sandwiches. How about turkey,
today?" He stowed the sandwich in a small army surplus backpack that
he'd bought after his first week in town.

"What are you going to do today?"

"I don't know," Patrick said. "Go to the library, I guess. I'm reading
a great book on mathematics."

"There's supposed to be a party this weekend, Saturday, on the
mountain. Mead's meadow, wherever that is. Music, kegs, a big blowout.
Art says it's a good time. They do it every year."

"You going?"

"Yeah, for a while anyway."

"Maybe I'll see you there," Patrick said. "Day after tomorrow--the rain
should be over by then." Willow seemed pleased, and Patrick left for
the library. Hard to figure, he thought. Last night she wouldn't talk
to me; this mo