"Oh?"
"Daisy wasn't optimistic."
"Damn," Joe said. "My father just died."
"My mom died," Jason said and looked like himself for the first time.
"I liked your mom," Joe said.
Jason sighed. "Yeah. It's a crap shoot from here on, guy."
Joe was sorry to see him leave. Jason had carried his talent for theater into the business world. He had taken on the role of front man and image projector. His job was to walk the walk, talking the talk, while his colleagues fried their brains in the midnight hours. No doubt he'd done it with his usual wholeheartedness; he'd earned his toys. And if the banjo was in the back seat, took second place, what difference did it make so long as he was contributing and doing his best?
Too bad about Wes, Joe thought. Daisy was strong. "Hang in there, Babe," he said. He sent them a Christmas card, a beach scene by a local artist. A large Hawaiian woman in a flowered dress lay on her side in four inches of water. Three small children, playing on her, held fast as a tiny wave broke before them.
Joe kept to his routine, writing each day. The steel company dropped to .62 on light trading. He thought about buying more, but he held back. For his father's painting, he chose a linen mat and a natural cherry frame. He hung the painting over his table and watched the light moving from outside the frame onto the green leaves and into the woods behind. "Might as well have the best, Batman," he said.
He put the drawing of his mother above an unfinished pine bookcase that he bought to hold the books that had accumulated on the floor. He bought two towels, a set of 300 count sheets and pillow cases, and a Le Creuset saucepan. He stopped short of buying a real bed, although it was no longer unthinkable.