Claire

He studied and analyzed that letter for days trying to find solace in its careless text. “Do write to me…” He liked that. But “now and then”? What good was that? “…when you feel like it”? A casual dismissal. But then she writes “I love your letters.” I love your letters. How far is that from saying I love you? Well—about a mile. Two miles. Am I indeed “desperately romantic”? Perhaps I frighten her with my ardor. Must cultivate an attitude of ironic nonchalance. Worries about my mental health. That’s all right, so do I. Perfectly reasonable. Appreciates my feelings but not ready for a serious relationship? What kind of ship does she want? She “likes me a lot.” Jejune phrase. No nourishment there. “Your friend…” Friend? She dares call herself my friend? After this?

He waited as long as he could before writing to her again. Kept her dangling in agonized suspense for five days—nearly a week. Then wrote her a jaunty note eleven pages long, full of lies. The principal lie was one of omission: he said nothing of his trip to Glenwood Springs. He wrote about the red sands of the desert, the pattern of tracks a dung beetle makes on a dune, the arcs of the wild ricegrass in the wind. He related his more symbolic dreams, hinting of erotic splendors. Described a flash flood pouring like gravy down a chasm in the cliffs. Etc. Inquired politely after the health of Mrs. Mellon, wishing in his heart the woman would get herself flattened by a steamroller while crossing the street to buy a quart of milk, leaving behind only a caricature of the female form stamped on a patch of asphalt paving. Then perhaps, bereft, Claire would come to him in the night, tears streaming down her lovely cheeks, seeking in his arms the warmth of human love. Et cetera.

While waiting for a response to his letter, Ranger Henry journeyed after duty hours to the town of Moab, where he consorted with such old friends as Felicia Hastings, Bliss Quickly and Candy Cotten. Good sweet ladies fresh from the battlefields of divorce and ruptured rapture, ready for fresh adventures.

But his mind was fixed on Claire Mellon. He waited and after two weeks, his letter still unanswered, he decided to give her a ring on the national telephone system. He stacked quarters dimes nickels on the shelf of the public phone in Woody’s Bar, dialed the operator and waited.

Your number, sir? The number I’m calling? The number you’re calling from. He read the number. And the number you wish to call? He gave that number. A pause. That will be two dollars and eighty-five cents, please. He deposited the coins. Thank you.

He waited, heard the phone begin to ring in the Grace T. Mellon residence. The phone rang and waited, rang and waited, one phone ringing in an empty home. No one answers, sir. Okay operator, I’ll try later. Thank you.