Part XII: Revelations

One week later

The other day almost felt normal, just fell into it, talking to Jack and Bobby like nothing happened.

Can't let yourself forget, not even for a second. Got to leave tomorrow. Have to go back—you deserve what's waiting for you. Only a coward would hide from it.

Finally thinking clearly.

Tonight. Tell him tonight. He won't want you here once you've told him, no painful goodbyes, no "See you later, Ennis" in his misery voice. No more meetings in the mountains, no more week-long getaways. No more of those smiles that warm like sunshine, no more helping Bobby with his "homework."

It's better to go. Sometimes he laughs, or mumurs your name when you're kissing, you want to hurt him. He's started, quietly, saying he loves you at unexpected times, casual-like, no big fuss. The words make you feel sick. You want to yell at him, pound into him, tell him it's all his fucking fault—if he'd just—if he hadn't—

But those are just excuses.

Have to leave. No choice. What a real man would do.

One last dinner. One last night.

"If you're puttin' any more pepper into that soup we'll have smoke comin' out a ears by the time we finish a bowl!" Lureen called into the kitchen, shaking her head. "I can hear that grinder a yours goin', mamma, have a little mercy please."

Laura's head pops up above the bar. "Honey child, I been makin' this soup longer'n you been livin'. Don't be tryin' a tell me how t'make it, now." She shoots Lureen a meaningful look and pops back into the kitchen.

"Well I been cryin' ever' time I had to eat it since I could remember," Lureen mutters, laying out the linen napkins, but she smiles. As she's smoothing out the tablecloth, Bobby comes in, his blue tie around his head, down just above his eyebrows, hanging askew and knotted in a most interesting fashion.

"Do you know where Daddy is?" Bobby asks, frowning. Lureen suppresses a smile, coming forward and easing the tie off his head. "I think he said he was goin' out back t'grab somethin'. You could ask grandpa, too, y'know."

Bobby wrinkles his nose, "He always tells me only hooligans don't know how t'do ties right, and then he makes it so tight that I can't hardly eat." Lureen chuckles a little, turns Bobby in the direction of the yard, giving him a gentle push, "Go'n find Daddy, he'll fix ya right up."

At five-thirty their guests arrive: Sarah Whiteman, Laura's oldest friendly, recently widowed, Bert Favre, the only businessman in town that L.D. doesn't despise, and Yolanda and Ernesto Reynolds, friends of Lureen and Jack's from rodeo days. The meal is perfect for the warm night (discounting Laura's pepper-happy soup): chilled pasta, scalloped potatoes, glazed pork chops, and a taco salad sprinkled with frito chips, and towering whip-cream jello parfaits for dessert and lemon iced tea to wash it all down. L.D., Bert and Ernesto discuss business at one end of the table, much to Bobby's chagrin, and Sarah, Laura, Yolanda and Lureen trade recipes at the other end, much to Jack's. Ennis, seated in the middle, across from Bobby, hardly touches his food.

Hope he's not too bored down there. Not that I'm farin' much better over here, m'self. Jack has nothing to contribute on the topic of baking with or without aluminum foil, and when he tries to interject with, "Well, hell, it'll all get cooked in the end, right?" he gets two eyerolls and a scowl from Lureen. As the meal progresses, he notices Bobby trying to make conversation with Ennis, who looks more ill with each passing moment. Jack also sees L.D. glancing at him every now and again, and he grimly prepares to step in if necessary, but the meal finishes up without incident.

"Lureen, I think I've died an' gone t'heaven. This parfait is fabulous," Yolanda says, licking her spoon, brown eyes twinkling.

"You outdone yourself, honey, I'm fit t'burst and still wanna grab more." L.D. chimes in, patting his stomach.

"Thinkin' 'bout lickin' the plates, m'self," Jack says, eyeing the platter hungrily.

Lureen inclines her head, rising, her hand on Jack's shoulder. "Well, thank y'all kindly. Jack, don't go lickin' no plates, we got guests. I'ma start takin' this into the kitchen, can you get the dessert wine dear? It's cooling in the spare fridge."

"Sure thing," he says, heading off to the garage while Laura serves the guests drinks in the living room, except for Ennis, who takes iced tea.

The guests seat themselves, settling in for small-talk and Bert pulls out a deck of cards. L.D., on the other hand, sees his opportunity and saunters over to where Ennis is standing, clutching his glass with both hands and looking at the floor, vulture moving in where he senses a man wounded.

"How're things workin' out here for ya here, Mr. Delmer?"

"Good. Thanks."

"Jack sure has been hospitable, huh?"

"Sure has."

"Reckon you're enjoyin' the free ride."

Ennis says nothing, sips his iced tea.

"Jack never did explain t'me why you was here in the first place. Couldn't support yourself no more, was that it?"

He just shakes his head, refusing to rise to the bait.

"We was thinkin' 'bout askin' you t'help out 'round the ranch, but I gotta tell you, friend, you seem pretty incompetent t'me. I ain't ever heard you string more'n three words t'gether at a time. Wouldn't want t'have you workin' with the horses and have him knock the rest a the sense outta your head."

Ennis's lips thin into a hard line. The glass shakes ever-so-slightly in his hands, knuckles locking.

L.D.'s brow furrows; he leans his shoulder the wall, crossing his ankles, and goes for the jugular.

"Fact a the matter is, Delmer, I cain't think too highly a anyone who'd up and leave behind their family like you done. How you think your wife and daughters feel? Jack tells me ya got two girls. Don't imagine you consulted them when you was thinkin' of relocatin' t'Texas, now did you? What kind a father—" L.D.'s words are choked off when Ennis flies at him, one hand around his neck in a steel vise, the other held in a barely restrained fist inches from his face. The guests, surprised by the shower of iced tea that hit them when Ennis threw his glass in their direction, look up from their cards in confusion.

Ennis's eyes are wild, blood-shot, and unseeing. He doesn't seem to notice that tears are falling freely down his face. He leans close to L.D., whispering a threat that makes L.D. swallow, hard, nodding desperately. He slams him against the wall once more before storming out of the room in a cloud of curses.

L.D. pulls at the top of his shirt, rubbing his neck, girdled in raging red.

Jack returns from the garage, wine bottles in hand and senses the tense atmosphere, sees the broken glass. "What hell's goin' on here? Where's Ennis?"

"Ennis goddamned attacked me is what happened, right outta the blue. Don't know what the hell got into him."

"What? What did you say t'him, L.D.? Where did he go?" Can't be far, he don't have a car here.

"Heard him slammin' the door, must be out front. He was talkin' a bunch a nonsense, most of which ain't fit for repeatin'." L.D. scratches his head, "He also said somethin' about 'how I ought t'have some fuckin' respect for the dead.' Now what in th'hell was he talkin' 'bout?"

Even before L.D. finishes, Jack feels himself coming apart down the center, like a thread pulled out a hem in one swift motion, and he starts trembling so hard that his teeth chatter. Dropping the bottles, he runs to the other side of the house, the words echoing in his head, the dead, the dead, the dead.

He opens the door just in time to see Ennis pulling his car out of the driveway.