The weeks sped by as he wrote a longer story based on Mike, the cat burglar. It was not successful. When he strayed from the facts as he remembered them, he felt false and uncertain. He had the uneasy feeling that he didn't know what he was doing. One afternoon toward the end of August, he and Alison rode the Nuuanu bus to the end of the line and walked to the bamboo grove that Mo had shown him. They stood on the bridge and listened to the rhythmic hypnotic knocking.
"It's so romantic, Joe." Alison leaned against him.
"Yes."
She said, "You know I've got to go home."
"Mmm."
"My flight is Wednesday."
He sighed. "So soon?"
"Are you going to stay in Honolulu, Joe?"
He sensed the proposal behind the question. It was tempting to follow her, to merge lives, to be a normal husband and give up his frustrating search for something he didn't understand. He spoke slowly. The words formed themselves. "For the time being," he said. "This damn story I'm writing isn't any good."
"You mustn't give up." She looked at him seriously, a hint of tear in each eye.