BrokenBack Mountain
They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its
burning tossing ruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies a
single column against the rock. The minutes ticked by from the round
watch in Ennis's pocket, from the sticks in the fire settling into coals.
Stars bit through the wavy heat layers above the fire. Ennis's breath
came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a little in the sparklight and
Jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrations of the humming
like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that was not
sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up
a rusty but still useable phrase from the childhood time before his
mother died, said, "Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on,
you're sleepin on your feet like a horse," and gave Jack a shake, a
push, and went off in the darkness. Jack heard his spurs tremble as
he mounted, the words "see you tomorrow," and the horse's shuddering
snort, grind of hoof on stone.
Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment
of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives.
Nothing marred it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace
him face to face because he did not want to see nor feel that it was
Jack he held. And maybe, he thought, they'd never got much farther than
that. Let be, let be.
Ennis didn't know about the accident for months until his postcard
to Jack saying that November still looked like the first chance came
back stamped DECEASED. He called Jack's number in Childress, something
he had done only once before when Alma divorced him and Jack had misunderstood
the reason for the call, had driven twelve hundred miles north for nothing.
This would be all right, Jack would answer, had to answer. But he did
not. It was Lureen and she said who? who is this? and when he told her
again she said in a level voice yes, Jack was pumping up a flat on the
truck out on a back road when the tire blew up. The bead was damaged
somehow and the force of the explosion slammed the rim into his face,
broke his nose and jaw and knocked him unconscious on his back. By the
time someone came along he had drowned in his own blood.
No, he thought, they got him with the tire iron.
"Jack used to mention you," she said. "You're the fishing buddy or
the hunting buddy, I know that. Would have let you know," she said,
"but I wasn't sure about your name and address. Jack kept most a his
friends' addresses in his head. It was a terrible thing. He was only
thirty-nine years old."
The huge sadness of the northern plains rolled down on him. He didn't
know which way it was, the tire iron or a real accident, blood choking
down Jack's throat and nobody to turn him over. Under the wind drone
he heard steel slamming off bone, the hollow chatter of a settling tire
rim.
"He buried down there?" He wanted to curse her for letting Jack die
on the dirt road.
The little Texas voice came slip-sliding down the wire. "We put a
stone up. He use to say he wanted to be cremated, ashes scattered on
Brokeback Mountain. I didn't know where that was. So he was cremated,
like he wanted, and like I say, half his ashes was interred here, and
the rest I sent up to his folks. I thought Brokeback Mountain was around
where he grew up. But knowing Jack, it might be some pretend place where
the bluebirds sing and there's a whiskey spring."
"We herded sheep on Brokeback one summer," said Ennis. He could hardly
speak.
"Well, he said it was his place. I thought he meant to get drunk.
Drink whiskey up there. He drank a lot."
01 02
03 04 05
06 07 08
09 10 11
12 13 14
15 16 17
18 嶄猟井