At that moment, he made up his mind to help Josie Littlefeather win a gold medal for her people. And for herself.

She was talking to him. "And why do you want a gold medal, Remo?"

He shook his head. "It's not important, Josie. Not half as important, or noble, as why you want it."

Her laugh lit her face. Her eyes twinkled and she nodded her head in a mock curtsey. "Is that what I am? Noble?"

"Noble and beautiful and I'm going to help you get that medal," he said. He took her hands in his

62

and squeezed them. He did not recognize these emotions. He had not felt this way in years, perhaps too many years, and he didn't want to think about the other women who had made him feel that way before because they were all dead. They were monuments to Remo's life and work. And they were all dead.

"Are you entered in anything else?" Remo asked.

"Yes. The overall. But balance beam is my best. Have you ever been on a balance beam, Remo?"

"Surely you jest," Remo said. "I was born on one. And when I'm through with you, watch out, world. Nothing but tens."

She squeezed his hands back. "Heavy promise, white man."

"If I lie, you can hang me on your belt. Look. That fieldhouse must be empty by now. After all, you've been eating non-stop for six hours. Let's go back there and take a look at that balance beam of yours."

She nodded. "After this buildup, you'd better not disappoint me and fall off the damn thing."

If Josie Littlefeather had been a judge, watching Remo's performance on the beam, her only complaint would have been that she could not give a score higher than ten.

Remo had kicked off his Italian loafers, hopped up onto the beam in the empty gymnasium, and done work she had never seen before, not even in her dreams.