would be tantamount to winning the argument about the war. He is a hell of a chess player, and a thinker, and the challenge of beating him just once has kept Charles’s interest. But Charles cares less about beating him now than he did. All theoretical arguments about the war are laughable. To be here is to know that the only one who’s right is the one who wins. He cannot prove to anyone the correctness of his choice to join this bloody war. He no longer cares if it was right or wrong. He does care, however, about cultivating another missive from Mr. Dench’s enigmatic daughter.
The other letters that have arrived for him now matter very little, including those from his mother, who writes weekly, dutifully describing her appointments, the weather, and the week’s menu. Her anxiety is palpable and unwelcome. She alludes to his father’s hope that, if nothing else, this “stint” will rid Charles of his medical aspirations. She marvels at the number of girls who have cut their hair short and recounts the dreary task of choosing a new fabric for the furniture beside the pool in the country. At least she supplies endless fodder for the banter he and Rogerson engage in during their runs. Even his correspondence with a couple of friends from college, an uncle in San Francisco, and a girl he once courted in Boston have lost their appeal.
The only images he wants in his mind are the chessboard; the room in which it exists; and the girl who sits watching it. Who is she? Where does she sit while her father writes to him? What do her hands look like? Does she touch the pieces on the board, tempted to rearrange them just as she’s rearranged his thoughts?
Charles returns to camp no longer intent on playing a perfect game of chess. His next move suddenly matters very little. Mr. Dench has brought out his king’s knight to intimidate him. Charles will still take the king’s pawn. He will not spend any more time trying to forecast Mr. Dench’s next three moves. He will only imagine the way the white pawn might look in that room, removed from the board and cast aside, perhaps just beside his own letter. And he will imagine that if nothing else, it might elicit more marginalia from Mr. Dench’s daughter. In fact, if Mr. Dench’s next letter arrives without any trace of her, it will be worse than a bad trouncing.
He cannot inquire directly about Mr. Dench’s daughter, as this may jeopardize their continued correspondence. Instead, he will simply ask about their new address. Or perhaps he will hope she’s as astute as she seems and understand a hidden message. Perhaps he will wonder if the species of owl in New Mexico is as interesting as he’s heard. I’ve always admired the daring and wisdom of those birds, their round, echoing hoots making even the darkest night less lonely.
T o the south, Hensley sees cascading gradations of brown that stretch to the far-off horizon. To the north, a distant mountain range stands blue and solemn.
“There she is.”
“Two weeks I’ve been here,” Hensley says, wiping the sweat from the back of her neck with her father’s handkerchief. “And I still don’t see anything but brown.”
Berto laughs with the high feminine cadence that Hensley cannot believe her father hasn’t yet noticed.
“The mine, Hennie,” her father had said to her when Berto first pointed out the scar in the land. “The Ready Pay.”
They’d been riding for hours when suddenly Berto had brought the truck to a stop right where the drop-offs on either side seemed the steepest. Now she is on horseback, and the drop seems even less forgiving.
“That’s the mine? The one that’s going to save us?”
Her father had stiffened his back. “Salvation, Hennie? What a quaint concept—one I thought I’d succeeded in educating out of you.”
The mere memory of it makes Hensley’s forehead burn from the hot prickles of her father’s reproach. Now, fingering the braided leather of the reins, she stares at
The other letters that have arrived for him now matter very little, including those from his mother, who writes weekly, dutifully describing her appointments, the weather, and the week’s menu. Her anxiety is palpable and unwelcome. She alludes to his father’s hope that, if nothing else, this “stint” will rid Charles of his medical aspirations. She marvels at the number of girls who have cut their hair short and recounts the dreary task of choosing a new fabric for the furniture beside the pool in the country. At least she supplies endless fodder for the banter he and Rogerson engage in during their runs. Even his correspondence with a couple of friends from college, an uncle in San Francisco, and a girl he once courted in Boston have lost their appeal.
The only images he wants in his mind are the chessboard; the room in which it exists; and the girl who sits watching it. Who is she? Where does she sit while her father writes to him? What do her hands look like? Does she touch the pieces on the board, tempted to rearrange them just as she’s rearranged his thoughts?
Charles returns to camp no longer intent on playing a perfect game of chess. His next move suddenly matters very little. Mr. Dench has brought out his king’s knight to intimidate him. Charles will still take the king’s pawn. He will not spend any more time trying to forecast Mr. Dench’s next three moves. He will only imagine the way the white pawn might look in that room, removed from the board and cast aside, perhaps just beside his own letter. And he will imagine that if nothing else, it might elicit more marginalia from Mr. Dench’s daughter. In fact, if Mr. Dench’s next letter arrives without any trace of her, it will be worse than a bad trouncing.
He cannot inquire directly about Mr. Dench’s daughter, as this may jeopardize their continued correspondence. Instead, he will simply ask about their new address. Or perhaps he will hope she’s as astute as she seems and understand a hidden message. Perhaps he will wonder if the species of owl in New Mexico is as interesting as he’s heard. I’ve always admired the daring and wisdom of those birds, their round, echoing hoots making even the darkest night less lonely.
T o the south, Hensley sees cascading gradations of brown that stretch to the far-off horizon. To the north, a distant mountain range stands blue and solemn.
“There she is.”
“Two weeks I’ve been here,” Hensley says, wiping the sweat from the back of her neck with her father’s handkerchief. “And I still don’t see anything but brown.”
Berto laughs with the high feminine cadence that Hensley cannot believe her father hasn’t yet noticed.
“The mine, Hennie,” her father had said to her when Berto first pointed out the scar in the land. “The Ready Pay.”
They’d been riding for hours when suddenly Berto had brought the truck to a stop right where the drop-offs on either side seemed the steepest. Now she is on horseback, and the drop seems even less forgiving.
“That’s the mine? The one that’s going to save us?”
Her father had stiffened his back. “Salvation, Hennie? What a quaint concept—one I thought I’d succeeded in educating out of you.”
The mere memory of it makes Hensley’s forehead burn from the hot prickles of her father’s reproach. Now, fingering the braided leather of the reins, she stares at
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