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Willow covered his hand with hers for a moment, and he felt reconnected. "I like you," he said. "Now don't go overboard, Patrick." They ate dinner and walked to Byrdcliffe, taking turns pushing Willow's bike. Amber was at Art's; they had the house to themselves. They listened to Dylan and finished a bottle of wine. Patrick undressed for bed with a surprising lack of embarrassment.
For what? >From who? For being honest. That was it. From people who cut corners with the truth to get ahead or get along. They were the same that way. At the bottom of the mountain, they turned down Reynold's Lane to Route 212 and then up the Glasco Turnpike to the Byrdcliffe Road. At AhnRee's driveway, Willow said "Might as well walk me home." "My mission," Patrick said.
He's planning to be a World Cup goalie." "He carries himself like Patrick. Where did the name come from?" "My father's name is Martin, and also . . . You've got to keep this to yourself." Cree moved closer. "Do you remember Martin Merrill in Woodstock lived on the Byrdcliffe Road, played banjo and fiddle?" "Sure," Cree said. "He was around a lot. He had a glamorous mother, right?" "Right."
He read for an hour and thought of writing to his parents, but he hadn't looked up his father's friend. He wanted to do that before he wrote, so he asked for a telephone book. Heidi Merrill was listed with an address on Lower Byrdcliffe Road. There was no pay phone in the library, so he walked over to the Woodstock Laundromat.
Long fingers wrapped around the neck of the banjo he was holding upright on his lap. "I'm Willow. I live up there in AhnRee's studio," She pointed up the mountain. "Ah, yes AhnRee. I'm Martin. Lower Byrdcliffe Road is just down at the end of the driveway." Willow couldn't decide whether he was shy or busy. He seemed to be telling her to hoof it.
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