“Half in Love is an original mix of quiet calm and wrenching pain. Meloy’s gracefully confident, subtly emotional voice brings her locales vividly to life.”

  —Susan Adams, Washington Post

  “Memorable … In an era when story writers seem to be compelled to link their stories thematically into one tight package, Half in Love shows that sometimes alternating the flavor can improve the whole. … Like Pam Houston and Judy Blunt, Meloy has a uniquely female perspective on what life in the West is like for women. … She’s left a crisp, indelible picture of a place most readers will never have the privilege of visiting. With this promising debut she allows readers to live there for a little while.”

  —John Freeman, San Francisco Chronicle

  “Throughout these bite-size stories, Maile Meloy has a flair for making uncertainty vivid, for providing oblique answers in the form of startling enigmas, and for making the improbable seem palpably real.… Meloy’s voice is as unvarnished as her characters and as unadorned as a Montana hillside.”

  —Mark Rozzo, Los Angeles Times

  “Meloy writes with keen insight and compassion.”

  —Sybil Downing, The Denver Post

  “Meloy’s assured prose probes the minds of Montana ranch girls with astounding aplomb.”

  —Gillian Flynn, Entertainment Weekly

  “With her deceptively unfancy writing, Meloy excels at moments that make readers feel slightly sick with grief. Though her stories are sad, they’re not sentimental. She can even be quite funny, usually through her astute observations of character.”

  —Polly Shulman, Newsday

  “Beautifully written.”

  —Harper’s Bazaar

  “Glowing high-plains tales … The seduction is immediate.”

  —Lisa Shea, Elle

  “Maile Meloy writes with both fearlessness and true compassion, two talents that are rarely combined. In every story she creates a complex portrait of such disparate lives that by the end of the book I feel like I’ve seen the world. Half in Love is a vibrant, gorgeous collection.”

  —Ann Patchett, author of

  The Magician’s Assistant and Bel Canto

  “The stories’ fit and polish are remarkable, they are right on the dime with cadence and timing. And Meloy is fearless in the sweep of her attentions, commanding the manners, idioms, and fundaments of a range of cultures, regions, and classes. Trust this audacious writer. She is a wonder.”

  —Geoffrey Wolff, author of

  The Duke of Deception and The Age of Consent

  “Maile Meloy’s stories will make writers jealous and readers jubilant. Her knack for characters and situations as diverse as they are genuine is uncanny, unerring, and hugely exciting.”

  —Myla Goldberg, author of Bee Season

  “Maile Meloy is a true and rare find—a natural who consistently widens and extends the short story form to meet the demands of her uncommon intelligence and wit and sympathy. She possesses grace and subtlety, and with this first suite of stories, seems in fact to have arrived fully formed.”

  —Richard Ford, author of

  Independence Day and Rock Springs

  HALF IN LOVE

  STORIES

  MAILE MELOY

  For Nick Halpern

  SCRIBNER

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or

  are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales

  or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2002 by Maile Meloy

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  First Scribner trade paperback edition 2003

  SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of

  Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license

  by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales:

  1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com

  Designed by Kyoko Watanabe

  Text set in Berthold Garamond

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the Scribner edition as follows:

  Meloy, Maile.

  Half in love : stories / by Maile Meloy.

  p. cm.

  1. West (U.S.)—Social life and customs—Fiction.

  2. Women—West (U.S.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.E46 H35 2002

  813'.6—dc21

  2001054217

  ISBN 0-7432-1647-4

  0-7432-4685-3 (Pbk)

  ISBN 978-0-7432-4685-9

  eISBN 978-0-7432-3400-9

  Some of these stories have been published in slightly different form:

  “Ranch Girl” (The New Yorker), “Aqua Boulevard” (The Paris Review), “Tome”

  (Best American Voices 2000), “The River” and “The Ice Harvester” (Faultline), “Kite

  Whistler Aquamarine” (Witness), “Native Sandstone” (Ploughshares), “Four Lean

  Hounds, ca. 1976” (The Ontario Review)

  CONTENTS

  Tome

  Four Lean Hounds, ca. 1976

  Native Sandstone

  Ranch Girl

  Garrison Junction

  Red

  Aqua Boulevard

  The River

  Kite Whistler Aquamarine

  Last of the White Slaves

  Thirteen & a Half

  Paint

  The Ice Harvester

  A Stakes Horse

  HALF IN LOVE

  TOME

  FOR EIGHT MONTHS, I had been telling my client he had no tort claim. Sawyer had worked construction for thirty years, building houses for people with Montana fantasies. He was putting up a roof when one of the trusses fell, collapsing the others and taking him down with them. He started to have fainting spells and memory loss and couldn’t work. We got a settlement, not a great one but not bad. The contractor was clearly negligent, having failed to brace the trusses, but workers’ compensation precluded the tort claim—we couldn’t sue.

  Sawyer had worked active, outside jobs all his life, and suddenly he could do nothing. It seemed to be the idleness, more than the brain damage, that made him crazy. He couldn’t read, because the words came out scrambled, and he could barely sit still to try. He phoned me three times a day. My secretary stopped putting his calls through, so he came to the office, on foot because they wouldn’t let him drive. He was a big, graying, blond-bearded man, my father’s age, muscular but getting fat without his work. He treated me like a daughter, scolding and cajoling me. He wanted to sue, demanded to sue. His wife was sick of his moping at the house, and his friends had been the men he’d worked with; he’d lost everything he liked about his life. I knew workers’ comp and I tried to explain: he’d gotten what he was going to get. There was nothing more I could do for him.

  Finally I found a tort lawyer in Billings, four hours east, who was willing to give him another opinion. I had to be in Bozeman anyway, halfway there, so I drove over and met Sawyer and his wife at the lawyer’s office. I didn’t think Sawyer, frustrated and hair-triggered as he was, should be making his case alone, with his wife jumping in and correcting him. The lawyer was a thin man in a dark suit and a big leather chair. There were antelope heads on the walls, bear claws as bookends. We explained the situation. The lawyer said, “You have no tort claim.”

  Sawyer said, “Okay.”

  I thought, That’s what it’s like to be a man. If I were a man I could explain the law and people would listen and say, “Okay.” It would be so restful.

  We went back outside. The lawyer’s office had a view of the cliffs. We’d been in Billings fifteen minutes and had nothing to do but drive home. My client shook my hand, and his wife, a small, curly-haired woman who had been pretty once, gave me a quick motherly hug. She smelled like roses and cigarettes. When I stopped at the mall for a sandwich, they pulled up in the parking space next to mine. Sawyer got out of the car screaming at his wife about her fucking attitude, grabbed his jacket from the seat and slammed the door.

  He said, “I’m going in your car.” His wife peeled out of the lot and turned toward the highway.

  We stood alone in the parking lot, my client and I, and then I told him I wasn’t going yet, and he climbed in my passenger seat to wait. His head touched the ceiling of my car. I offered to get him lunch and he shook his head like a great, sulky child. So I left him there and walked the length of the mall twice, eating my sandwich. When I returned, he hadn’t moved: jacket in his lap, eyes on his knees, he waited for his ride.

  Before we were out of Billings he said the only thing to do was get a machine gun and kill everyone. I stopped the car. I said I wouldn’t have him talking like that, and told him to get out. No one knew where I was, and Sawyer weighed twice what I did, but I wasn’t afraid, I was only tired of him. He promised not to do it again.

  At the first sign for the turnoff to Red Lodge, outside Laurel, Sawyer said, “I wish my wife would roll over on the highway.”

  I stopped the car on the shoulder and said, “I swear, I’ll leave you in Laurel.”

  Twenty miles on he began a low, keening rant about
his negligent boss, about his negligent wife, about how no one understood how miserable he was. I told him if he opened his mouth for the rest of the drive I would let him out wherever we were. He didn’t bridle. He didn’t say anything at all. I found a country station to fill the silence, and Sawyer began to weep. He sobbed in the passenger seat all the way home, without saying a word.

  *

  A week later my phone rang in the middle of the night. I was sleeping alone then, and there was nothing to do but answer it. A call in the night could mean anything. This one meant Sawyer had a hostage and a gun at the state fund building and wanted me to look at his workers’ comp file. The hostage specialists in town, such as they were, said I didn’t have to go in. But I was afraid of what they might do to him, so I stood in front of my closet deciding whether to wear lawyer clothes or not, then pulled on jeans and put a bra on under the sweatshirt I’d slept in. In the parking lot behind the building, the cops had three patrol cars, the bureau chief from the office, and a big thermos of coffee. They had Sawyer on the telephone, and said he was calm. The hostage was a night watchman, a Samoan kid who’d come here to play football at the college. I’d known his name once, something long with a’s and n’s in it, but everyone called him Big Man. I was impressed, just for a moment, that my client had taken Big Man down.

  I drank the coffee while the bureau chief drew me a map of the office. They gave me keys and a heavy, bulletproof vest, and I changed awkwardly in the back of a squad car, the vest cold under my sweatshirt, against my skin. The officer who helped me fasten it had written a report for a child-support case of mine, including the line, “The defendant instructed me to consume feces.” I’d always liked him. He socked me on the shoulder and told me to do good, and I went in.

  The building was four stories, dark brick, at the end of the old gold-rush main street. It was dark inside, and the bottom floor was all cubicles, the burlap-faced dividers hung with calendars and cartoons. I found my way to the stairs by the light of screen savers and exit signs, and walked up to the third floor, where my client was keeping Big Man.

  “Sawyer?” I called, as I came out of the stairwell into another dark maze of cubicles. “It’s me. I’m here to find your file.”

  I heard a rustling noise, but no one answered.

  “Should I come to you or go get the file?” I asked.

  Sawyer’s voice came out of the gloom, hoarse and tired. “Go get the file,” he said.

  I couldn’t tell which cubicle the voice came from, but it was on the east side of the building, to my right. The cops had told me to engage in conversation. “Is Big Man okay?” I asked.

  “His name is Amituana,” Sawyer said. “Did you know he’s a member of the Samoan royal family?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. I followed the bureau chief’s map to the big beige file cabinet where they kept the dead files. The lock on the cabinet had a tiny six on it, and I flipped through the ring of keys until I found the six. I asked, “Does that make him a prince?”

  Two low voices conferred. Then came a voice an octave lower than Sawyer’s. “Sort of,” Big Man said. “If fourteen people die, I will be king.”

  I found Sawyer’s file, a fat brown accordion, under S. “How likely is that?” I asked.

  There was another pause. “Not very,” Big Man’s voice said.

  I could see the room well now, by the exit signs and the streetlights. “I have the file,” I called. “What should I do?”

  “We’re in the third cubicle from the door,” Sawyer said. “Near the windows. With the horse calendar.”

  Big Man sat cross-legged on the floor, hands tied behind his back with orange baling twine, and Sawyer sat in one of those kneeling chairs that support the lower back, by a computer screen with changing photographs of the sea. He rested a hunting rifle on his knee, and seemed to have hung up the phone on the police. The two men filled the entire space. Big Man had close-cropped hair and a narrow mustache with a goatee.

  “We’ve been talking football,” Sawyer said.

  Big Man said, “He played both offense and defense in college.” He seemed genuinely impressed.

  “It was a junior college,” Sawyer explained. He looked at me in my sweatshirt, bulked by the Kevlar vest underneath. “Sorry to get you out of bed,” he said. “Sit down.”

  I sat in the remaining floor space next to Big Man, who nodded. He was carrying himself beautifully, no dishonor to his family or his future subjects.

  “Read me the file,” Sawyer said. “Not the stuff I said, just the stuff they said about me. I want to hear all the letters.”

  “That’ll take all night,” I said.

  “So start.”

  I began to read in the dim light. One of the computer’s ocean scenes was darker than the others, and each time the dark one came around the reading was harder. I read the letters from the insurance adjuster to the bureau chief, the memos from the chief’s secretary to her boss, the letters from Sawyer’s employer’s attorney. I read letters by me, dictated too quickly, sounding too lawyerly, typed up by my secretary and flung into the afternoon mail. What wasn’t embarrassing was sad, and what wasn’t sad was stultifying, but Sawyer sat riveted. I looked up from time to time to see if I could stop. He gestured me on with the rifle in his hand. I read through the neurologist’s account of what Sawyer could do, and through the settlement. I read the figure Sawyer was to receive for the loss of his work.

  “You got screwed,” Big Man said.

  “Thank you,” Sawyer said, with no irony in his voice, only relief that someone else could see the injustice. “What can I do now?” he asked me. “Tell me, now, what can I do?”

  “Give yourself up.”

  “No, I’m serious here. I mean about the claim.”

  I looked at the heavy stack of papers in my lap. “I don’t think you can do anything,” I said. “Go to physical therapy, be nice to your wife.”

  “She’s gone,” he said. “No, that’s all over. This is over, too, isn’t it? It’s a wrapped-up case.”

  I nodded. It was in with the dead files. And finality was the effect of the letters, read together: it was a thing done.

  “I’m letting Amituana go,” Sawyer said. He helped the kid to his feet, which was a struggle with the rifle in one hand, the kid’s wrists tied and both men so heavy. Amituana staggered back against a cubicle divider and it shuddered, and then they were both upright. “He’s got a country to rule,” Sawyer said. “Fourteen people could die, easy.”

  He brushed off the kid’s clothes with his free hand. “If you get to be king of Samoa and I show up there,” he said, “you’ll have a job for me, right? You’ll remember I got screwed and I let you go?”

  “Sure,” Big Man said.

  “Okay,” Sawyer said. “You take the stairs and go outside, and tell them if they try anything I’ll kill the woman. She’s my lawyer, I’ve got reason to kill her. Tell them that.”

  I looked at Sawyer to see if he was serious, but I couldn’t tell.

  “Okay,” Big Man said.

  Sawyer turned him around and clapped him on one of his great halfback shoulders, and the kid nodded at both of us like he was leaving a party. He walked off toward the staircase, trailing orange twine from his bound wrists.

  “He’s a good kid,” Sawyer said as we watched him go. The heavy, careful steps died away on the stairs below. Then Sawyer turned to me.

  “You can still help me,” he said.

  “If you turn yourself in,” I said, “we can gin up a mental distress defense, get you a good lawyer for it.”

  “Nope,” Sawyer said. He checked his watch. “I’ll slip out the front, where they don’t expect me. You go out the back, to the parking lot where you came in, and keep them busy. Stand in the door and pretend I’ve got the gun on you, and relay messages to the cops like I’m hiding there. Say I want a car, and I want three thousand dollars, and I want an hour’s head start. Okay? Afterward, they’ll never know I wasn’t there with the gun. Just give me a chance to get out the front and get away.”

  He was calm and seemed sane, even with the rifle in his hand. He was just my client, still in a bad spot, still wanting me to help him, and I was trying.

  “Aren’t there cops out front?”

  “I’ve been watching,” he said. “They’ve all stayed out back, where I told them I’d come out. So will you do it?”