"Honey, I've got bad news. Your grandfather died—the day before yesterday." She let out a small cry and was silent. "I just found out. Ann called. I'm going out there for a couple of days."
"Oh, poor Grandpa. I had a dream about him last week. He was standing by the painting he gave me—the one of the woman in the barn door—and he was smiling at me, very loving and kind. Oh . . . " She sobbed, and her voice got farther away as though she had dropped her arms.
"I'm sorry, Honey. He had a good life," Joe said helplessly.
"He pau hana, now," she said.
"Yeah," Joe said. "I call you when I get back, huh?"
"O.K., Dad."
"O.K. Bye, Honey."
"Bye, Dad."
He packed two changes of clothes, a sweater, and a jacket. It was nearly November, practically winter in Maine. "So long, Batman. Hold the fort." It was a relief to trot down the stairs and get moving.
At midnight, Boston time, he emerged stiffly from the plane and walked into Logan terminal. He rented a small car and stopped for the night at the first motel he came to on Route 1.