"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?" "He's working as a carpenter. I think he might be heading into the artist's life." "Poor baby." "I'm proud of him." "Good, Joe." "And you? No Mr. Isabelle?" "Not any more. He died in the wreck that messed me up. He was a bad boy," she said, smiling sadly. "I'm sorry." "If it hadn't happened there, it would have been somewhere else." She seemed to say the words more bravely than she felt them. "Let's have some more wine, then." He hunched himself off the bed and refilled their glasses. "You're a handsome guy, Joe. Good manners. Tougher than you look. Episcopal, I bet." "Right about the Episcopal, anyway. Not that I pay much attention." "Is it true that Episcopalians are baptized in Harvey's Bristol Cream?" "It's true." "Lucky Joe." She took another drink of wine. "I know something about you tough guys." "Oh, yeah?"