The Improbable Tenant

His hesitancy confirmed the worst for Connie; she had reached out, if only a little, and in her mind had been rejected; it had been fun for him, but that was all.

When they arrived at the base, Russell suggested they stay in a motel. It sounded contrived, and it was. As a single man, Russell had had to give up his house on base, and he now lived in bachelor non-commissioned officer quarters – a glorified barracks – it would be unthinkable to take here there. He could not bring himself to explain it to her, suspecting that it would only make him appear less attractive to her.

Connie assumed that he did not want to introduce her to his friends, did not want her too close to his real life. For the second time, each misunderstood what the other had not said.

The motel sandpapered the last of the romance from Connie's weekend. Although it was as new and well-furnished as any, it seemed to symbolize for her the cheapness, the shallowness, of their relationship. They both tried to brighten up at dinner, but both knew there was some sort of elephant in the room that they could not bring themselves to talk about. And like the proverbial blind men with the elephant, each conceived the elephant, and each other, differently.

Connie told Cathy that when they returned to the motel she asked Russell if it would be all right if they did not make love that evening. She said he was understanding, solicitous, a gentleman, but it was an unsatisfactory night. In bed, he tried to cuddle and comfort her but she felt cold and distant.

In the morning she delivered him to his unit, conversation only matter-of-fact, and they parted cordially, but no more than that. Connie was blue, blue as Cathy had never seen her before.

"For a time there, I thought, just an idea, that maybe he could be the right one. But I blew it, right from the start. He only thinks about me as a good lay."

"I didn't get that impression at all, Connie. He seemed to adore you. What did he say that gave you that idea?"

"It wasn't so much what he said as what he didn't say. He won't be back, I can tell you that."

"Would you like him to come back?"

"I'd like it, if I thought it would work. I don't want him to be my good time, I have plenty of good times available. I'm not a bad person, but I feel like one."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Not in so many words. He has to know I care about him a lot."

In other words you didn't tell him, Cathy thought. And maybe he doesn't know. "Would you mind if I talked to Paul about this? He might have a better idea what goes on with Russell than you and I."

"I guess not."

Cathy thought a great deal about how she would approach Paul with the subject, and finally decided just to lay it out the way Connie had described the trip and her mood. When she had finished, Paul, to her surprised, laughed.

"What's funny?" she cried, prepared to be angry. Connie was her best friend, and needed her help.

"So Connie doesn't know what he's thinking, he doesn't know what's going on in her pretty little head, and neither of them thought to just talk about it? It's probably just a big misunderstanding."

"That sounds like an oversimplification."

"No, it's not. Look, Russell is a really good man. I'm sure what he wants most of all is a woman who will be a good partner for him. You saw the way he looks at her. If he thought she was serious about him, I don't think he'd let her get away. The way it is, they hardly know each other out of bed. So now all these feelings get misunderstood, that's the problem."

"So what's the solution?"

"Long term, they have a lot to talk about. Serious things, not just hot sex."

"Connie sounds as if they may not be talking again, ever."

"I could talk to Russell, lay it out for him, but then they'd both be embarrassed. It's not my place, or yours, to get them together. They have to lay the groundwork themselves. Russell probably doesn't know what the problem is, so he won't know how to get started. Connie will have to do it."

"You're not being much help."

"I'm trying to help. Tell Connie to write him a letter. It'll be a lot better than a phone call. He loves letters, reads them until they fall apart; I've seen it. I'll give you his address."

"What kind of letter?"

"You know how you and I talk? That kind of letter. When you come home from work and I ask you how your day was, I don't need to know how many IVs you gave or whatever. I want to know if something happened to make you feel sad, or glad, or uncertain or whatever. I want to understand what's driving you. Right now, the way you describe it, Connie feels very down and unsure about where she stands with Russell. Anxious, maybe. That's what he needs to know. Tell Connie to just sit down and start writing, whatever comes out, not about what happened but about how it made her feel. He knows what happened, he was there, too, but he doesn't know how she feels about it. Tell her not to think, just to write and keep on writing until she fills up two or three pages."

The message was duly passed. Connie soberly but somewhat skeptically agreed that it might be worth trying, and said she would write. She tried to get help from Paul, but he declined: "Connie, it's your letter. Just tell him how you feel about what happened, not what you think or what you think he thinks, or what you wish or want to happen. He'll figure that out on his own. If you cry while you're writing it, draw circles around the tearstains and tell him what they are."

And so the letter was written, and a surprisingly fat letter it was, but whether it was tear-stained or not was known only to Connie and Russell. At the last moment she could not bring herself to mail it, but Cathy stepped in and together they posted it. Cathy desperately hoped things would work out for Connie's sake, but when Connie asked her how she thought Russell would respond she could think of little to say.

"Hope, Connie. There's always hope."