y shaded. There was a sense of two cultures,
of a border at the edge of the sugar cane that was crossed cautiously,
if at all.

They came to the Poipu resort district and then headed up to the canyon
rim where Joe had picked plums. They stood at the lookout, above a
three thousand foot drop and ten miles of rugged red and gold walls
flecked with green. Mountain goats, bits of white, chased each other up
and down vertical slopes. "Incredible," Mo said, focusing her camera.

"It looks like they're playing tag," Joe said. "So free."

They drove to the end of the road and peered into the mist obscuring
Kalalau valley where Koolau, the leper, remained buried. Clouds swirled
and lifted, revealing glimpses of tree tops, steep ridges, and once, a
small curve of beach far below. "I almost like it better this way," Mo
said, "when you can't see it all at once. Brrrrr!" They piled into the
car and drove back down to the sunny fields on the leeward side. They
passed through road cuts, hundreds of yards of flaming bougainvillea on
both sides, and by small plantation houses painted green, corrugated
roofs rusted to the same red tones as the soil. "Stop!" Mo commanded
from time to time. Joe stretched while she took pictures.

They drove through the built up area between Lihue and Kapaa and parked
outside a medical complex. "Five minutes, ten maybe," Mo said. "The
client," she explained when she returned. "Rob Wilcox. He's a fan, buys
my stuff for his clinic and for his own collection."

"Great," Joe said. "Is there a Mrs. Wilcox?"

"No." She flushed slightly. They parked by the beach in Anahola, ate
bananas and an orange, and decided to stretch their legs. Mo walked
strangely on the sand, holding her shoes in one hand. Her pelvis tipped
back; she shifted her weight stiffly from one leg to the other in an
exaggerated prance that said, "You should be so lucky as to even look
at me." But no one else was on the beach. She didn't seem conscious of
the change. Joe looked away. Three-footers curled peacefully along the
beach as far as he could see.

They sat on the soft sand, and Mo took off her sweatshirt. Joe lay back
with his head on his shoes and admired her breasts, high and shapely
beneath a gray T-shirt. Steady, he said to himself, the woman barely
likes you. Who was she, anyway? She took good pictures; he knew that.
He fell asleep for a moment.

Mo took over the driving. They were well around the island, past
Kilauea, when Jo