I’ll go out now and mail this myself so there’s no chance of Barclay intercepting it. A wife can have no expectation of privacy. A sister sends only love.
Your Marian
P.S.—We will be here for almost three more weeks, so if this letter is not delayed and you write back promptly—and if I’ve ever begged you for anything, it is that you would—I’ll have a good chance of getting it before we start the journey home.
Missoula
December 1, 1931
Dear Marian,
I’ll take the easy way and answer your questions first. I hadn’t been driving your car, but once I got your letter I decided I would. Thank you very much. It makes a nice change from creaky old Fiddler or my bicycle. You asked about Caleb. I see him the way you might spot a wolf in the woods—only from time to time and always with a thrill. Last week he came over to the house and we had a drink and listened to Wallace’s phonograph. He is still himself, though I’d say a little too aware of the mountain man role his customers expect him to play. Sadly Gilda is not well at all. I asked Caleb if he could afford to send her to the doctor in Denver, but he said she would never go and I believe he’s right. At least she has stopped having men in since Caleb now gives her plenty of money to drink away.
You asked if I have been drawing, and I have. I’ve been trying my hand at oil paints, too, although to be honest mostly what I’ve been doing is moping. Maybe there’s something about this house that turns men into mopers. The girl in Seattle—I don’t have the patience to write down the whole story, and I wouldn’t assume you’d have the patience to read it. But I will say I had hoped she would be taking up less space in my thoughts by now. One thing I learned is that you don’t just love a person, you love a vision of your life with them. And then you have to mourn both. I always thought I’d go to the U and join the Forest Service, but now I’m having trouble imagining myself there. My vision of life with Sarah has made my old ideas look shabby in comparison.
I miss her, but I also have a strange, vengeful urge to show her, though show her what exactly I couldn’t say. I suppose I want her to feel regret, to suffer as I am, even though I also want to be the one to spare her from all suffering. Does that make any sense?
Caleb says to give it time, which is all I can do for now anyway.
Wallace seems to be well enough. His letters and his doctor say so, but I still think he’s on the fragile side. I called last week. It seems to me he’s been squeezed out and dried like a mushroom and is now reconstituting himself with fresh life. He said the world seems almost too clear to him now that he’s not drinking, too bright, like sunlight on snow. He also said he’s begun to paint again. I wondered where he was getting money for supplies, but the doctor told me Wallace’s “patron” had set aside an additional allowance just for that. Barclay will never be redeemed in my eyes, but I can acknowledge this one kindness. Wallace feels so guilty, by the way, and cried on the telephone and told me he feels as though he’d sold you. I assured him he hadn’t, that no one sold anyone.
I am sorry for what I said. It was an odd （and small） consolation to hear there is an attraction between you and Barclay. I can understand, after my own puny, ill-fated romance, how attraction can lead us astray.
But if you don’t want a baby, you must do everything in your power to avoid it. I’m no expert on the subject, but I think you were right to use the word “snare” in your letter. I know you believe Barclay loves you in his way, but he is also trying to break you. The two things might be the same for him. Nothing that has happened so far can’t be escaped or undone, but if you had a baby I doubt you would find it in yourself to abandon it as we were abandoned. I hope you will leave Barclay one day and find your way back to your own life. Please, Marian. Don’t give in.
I don’t know if I’m as useful as a wing, but I will always do what I can for you if you ask. Even if you don’t ask, I will still try my best.
Yours,
Jamie
* * *
—
The man at the front desk of the Edinburgh hotel from which Mr. and Mrs. Macqueen had recently departed sighed when he saw the letter. Forwarding service had been requested, and so the letter went into a pouch with a few other straggling communications and was addressed to Mr. Barclay Macqueen and sent off to America.
Montana
December 1931–January 1932
Sadler met Marian and Barclay at the Kalispell depot in the elegant black Pierce-Arrow. “You’ve had a long journey,” he said, opening the back door for Marian, who didn’t bother to concur.