BrokenBack Mountain
On the third morning there were the clouds Ennis had expected, a
grey racer out of the west, a bar of darkness driving wind before it
and small flakes. It faded after an hour into tender spring snow that
heaped wet and heavy. By nightfall it turned colder. Jack and Ennis
passed a joint back and forth, the fire burning late, Jack restless
and *****ing about the cold, poking the flames with a stick, twisting
the dial of the transistor radio until the batteries died.
Ennis said he'd been putting the blocks to a woman who worked part-time
at the Wolf Ears bar in Signal where he was working now for Stoutamire's
cow and calf outfit, but it wasn't going anywhere and she had some problems
he didn't want. Jack said he'd had a thing going with the wife of a
rancher down the road in Childress and for the last few months he'd
slank around expecting to get shot by Lureen or the husband, one. Ennis
laughed a little and said he probably deserved it. Jack said he was
doing all right but he missed Ennis bad enough sometimes to make him
whip babies.
The horses nickered in the darkness beyond the fire's circle of light.
Ennis put his arm around Jack, pulled him close, said he saw his girls
about once a month, Alma Jr. a shy seventeen-year-old with his beanpole
length, Francine a little live wire. Jack slid his cold hand between
Ennis's legs, said he was worried about his boy who was, no doubt about
it, dyslexic or something, couldn't get anything right, fifteen years
old and couldn't hardly read, he could see it though goddamn Lureen
wouldn't admit to it and pretended the kid was o.k., refused to get
any *****in kind a help about it. He didn't know what the f*ck the answer
was. Lureen had the money and called the shots.
"I used a want a boy for a kid," said Ennis, undoing buttons, "but
just got little girls."
"I didn't want none a either kind," said Jack. "But f*ck-all has
worked the way I wanted. Nothin never come to my hand the right way."
Without getting up he threw deadwood on the fire, the sparks flying
up with their truths and lies, a few hot points of fire landing on their
hands and faces, not for the first time, and they rolled down into the
dirt. One thing never changed: the brilliant charge of their infrequent
couplings was darkened by the sense of time flying, never enough time,
never enough.
A day or two later in the trailhead parking lot, horses loaded into
the trailer, Ennis was ready to head back to Signal, Jack up to Lightning
Flat to see the old man. Ennis leaned into Jack's window, said what
he'd been putting off the whole week, that likely he couldn't get away
again until November after they'd shipped stock and before winter feeding
started.
"November. What in hell happened a August? Tell you what, we said
August, nine, ten days. Christ, Ennis! Whyn't you tell me this before?
You had a f*ckin week to say some little word about it. And why's it
we're always in the friggin cold weather? We ought a do somethin. We
ought a go south. We ought a go to Mexico one day."
"Mexico? Jack, you know me. All the travelin I ever done is goin
around the coffeepot lookin for the handle. And I'll be runnin the baler
all August, that's what's the matter with August. Lighten up, Jack.
We can hunt in November, kill a nice elk. Try if I can get Don Wroe's
cabin again. We had a good time that year."
"You know, friend, this is a goddamn ***** of a unsatisfactory situation.
You used a come away easy. It's like seein the pope now."
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18 嶄猟井