Part VI: The Return

Jack pulls into the driveway, emotions warring and wavering—he's glad to be back, disappointed, worried, with a splash of relieved on top. He has missed Bobby quite a bit, and he was going a little crazy listening to the sound of his own voice so much. He has to wonder when he developed such a noticeable drawl—has he really lived here that long? He used to laugh when he his neighbors drew the word "cow" out into three distinct syllables, and now here he was, the butt of his own private joke. Ennis started to speak up some after his initial quiet inquiry—I'll saddle her up, pass the whiskey, c'mere, c'mere—but he was still very withdrawn, even for him. Jack mistakenly attempted to ask what was wrong, what brought Ennis out here, and saw the progress he'd made over four days begin to unravel before his eyes. Ennis's face blanched so quickly and utterly that it was all Jack could do not to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness for whatever he'd done wrong. So, he stepped back once more, respecting the distance that Ennis was requesting, and did his best to keep things light and pleasant. He hopes it will be easier now that he's home. Even if he wants to, he can't talk to Ennis about personal issues in front of Lureen or Bobby, so that will remove some of his difficulty—and present new ones.

Sighing, he puts the car into park and opens his car door quietly; the household is probably asleep by now. He tried to get an early start this morning but somehow he got sidetracked by Ennis's dick, a most distracting proposition. He can't deny that his spirits have improved vastly now that they are back to normal in at least one sense; it's nice to have something familiar to hold on to amongst all this new territory. But in his heart of hearts, he knows that he would trade it all in a second if he could be the calm to Ennis's hurt, an ear to his confidences. If I could lose a finger for each of your secrets, Ennis, I'd have a collection of useless stubs by the time I finished. But Lord knows I'd do it.

The passenger door slams with a resounding thwack when Ennis gets out, and Jack jumps a little. Must a been off in the fields spoolin' wool with the sheep, like Grandma used to tell me. He does a quick check of the interior to check that he's grabbed everything, pretending he's just being thorough instead of hesitant, and follows Ennis inside. They can unpack later—all Jack wants now is a good night's sleep. The house stands out in white relief against the night, a geometrically defined ghost, and Jack raises an eyebrow when he sees one of the bedroom lights on, low but steadily glowing. Oh, shit. That better not be…

He hurries towards the front door, opening it just in time to hear, "…bet y'all had a hog-killin' time gallivanting around out there, huh? Shootin' the shit and Jack not payin' no mind to his work? Now I ain't meanin' to be rude, friend, but this sure is—"

Jack interrupts, throwing his words like stones, "L.D., you got somethin' to say to me, you come over here an' say it, huh?"

L.D. looks at Jack, eyes narrowing. Ennis has frozen up, shoulders locked, taut as an over-strung wire. "I was just wonderin' when it was you became boss 'round here, Rodeo, 'cause last time I checked it was me. And I ain't given you no permission to run off'n fish for a week."

Jack places a hand lightly on Ennis's shoulder; his muscles bunch at first, but slowly they give way. "Everythin' was taken care of, L.D. I bet you ain't had no troubles since I left, now have you?" He squeezes Ennis's shoulder, and taking the unspoken cue, Ennis leaves, jerkily walking the direction of the guestroom, which begs the question for Jack, How much attention was he paying before, anyway? He tucks this thought away for another time.

"That's besides the point, buck-o. You done up and left, an' I need to know that I can rely on my employees. You go ahead and tell me why I shouldn't find myself another combine salesman, huh?"

'Cause you know you ain't goin' a fire me and you're just here because you love to waste my time, you tight-assed blood-sucking sonofabitch. "Look, L.D., this was an emergency situation here. I ain't never done nothin' like this before, and I ain't never goin' a do nothing like it again, awright? My friend in there, he's going through a tough time and I aim to help him out as best I can." Not that you'd understand that, seein' as you seem to think friends is only around to call up when you want someone to complain to 'bout your deadbeat son-in-law.

"Now, listen, I ain't sayin' that…"

You turn around and walk away, no longer interested in hearing what they have to say. Why were you listening in the first place? You're not really sure. You're not sure of too many things nowadays. It's strange, because you think you remember when things weren't like this, but you'd be hard pressed to conjure up the specifics. You stare out the window, breath condensing on and off the chilled glass, manifest proof that you're still alive. There is one thing that you know for sure: you deserve to be dead. You keep coming within inches of it, so close you can feel it touching your skin, but each time it slips away. The car swerves just in time, the door opens when you would pick up the knife. It isn't there with you all the time, this urge, but when you remember, when the pain of it pushes your guts into your throat, you need to find an escape.

You aren't worth the effort Jack has wasted on you. You know it, he probably knows it. Then why is it that half the time you see him you want to hit him and the other half you want to fuck him silly?

If it weren't for him…

Maybe…

But he said…

You punch the wall, knuckles slamming into the pebbled wall paper, willing yourself not to believe. Because if he's wrong…

But… he said…

You only have small snippets from those nights, the nights where you could almost feel your sanity bleeding out of your ears, but they were real. They were real. It was all real, and nothing you can do, or he can do, will change it.

But… he said… it was just a dream.

No, no, NO.

Your mouth opens, a silent plea, but nothing comes out.

Jack flops into bed, jelly-limbed, not even bothering to remove his clothes, glad that Lureen is a heavy sleeper. She lies, hand resting on her right arm, mouth hanging slightly open, hair running amok around her face; she's so relaxed, all the tight, hard lines he's used to seeing around her mouth smoothed out. The blue coverlet (one of the few things in here that was Jack's choice) is all rumpled up at her feet like she's a child. He touches her cheek softly, remembering how he used to wake up sometimes to find her staring at him, a little smile playing on her lips. He always asked what she was thinking, and she'd never deigned to answer him, throwing pillows in his face or kissing him instead. Soon he would forget that he had a question in the first place.

It made him a little to sad to think that now he might never know the answer; he can't remember the last time he opened his eyes to see that. Lately, she's been reminding him more and more of her father, asking him questions about what kind of ambitions he has for the family business and what his "plan of action" is. He doesn't know what those are, but from the sound of it, he thinks he ought to stay as far away from them as possible. Like as not those words came straight from L.D.'s mouth. Scowling, he realizes he's still bridling at L.D.'s assault; it isn't fair of him to blame Lureen for her misfortune of being born into the Newsome family.

He tries not to think about Ennis, probably lying in bed, asleep. Wish I could be asleep. He briefly debates the pros and cons of sneaking into the guest room; the cons and his laziness keep him rooted. Hope Ennis isn't mad at me for what happened. Well, more mad.

Not that Ennis had a real hard time leavin' me there or nothin'. He sits up, shucking off his jacket and shaking his head at himself. You told him to go, dummy, give the poor bastard a break.

He lies back, trying to get comfortable under the covers, too tired to change into his color-coordinated pajamas. Well, ain't that all I been doin'? Givin' him a break? And where has it gotten me? He don't even remember givin' me this shiner, he certainly didn't say so much as 'sorry' when I told him where it come from, and you can bet I'm goin' a have to keep pussyfootin' around my family because I don't have no explanation for what he's doin'. An' how much you want a bet that if I was the one comin' to him, he'd just kick me right out on my ass and wish me good luck?

Punching his pillow, he grumbles. Sleep does not come for a long time, and when it does, it tastes bitter in his mouth.