Part XIII: The Unspeakable

The truck bunny hops over a pothole, and Jack cranes his neck to the left, to the right, eyes roaming over every bit of sidewalk and into the shadowed alleys; he's gotten used to the impatient honking behind him, pulls over to let them pass without thinking. A wooden sign with the words "The Bronc" invites him to park, and he's in and out of the nondescript bar, seen my friend, 'bout six feet, blond, quiet type, seventh dead end today. Entering the eighteenth hour of his personal hell, Jack is beginning to bend at the joints, eroded by the hopelessness of his search. He's checked everywhere he can think of, met only with apologetic shrugs and if he's lucky, directions to another place he can go.

Stopping at the next gas station, he walks zombie-like to the payphone, leaning back against the flimsy plastic wall and closing his eyes. Lureen picks up on the third ring.

"Jack is that you?" She never is one to mince words.

Jack's fine with that. "Still haven't found him," He massages his neck, cramped tight from the strain of his waning hope.

"Well, he's gotta be out there. You need t'come back though, cain't keep lookin' for him, no sense in drivin' yourself off the road. Now when was the last time you slept?"

"Napped on the road. Five hours, prolly." He figures if he's going to lie it may as well be big.

"If you come back here in a body bag I will kill you myself Jack Robert Twist Jr., y'hear me?"

Jack rubs the heel of his palm into the bridge of his nose. "If I don't find him in an hour I'll stop by, 'kay?"

"Stop by? Jack, you need some rest, there's no two ways about it. Don't be tryin' a fool me, you didn't catch a goddamned wink out there on the road."

Steel slips into his voice. "Ain't comin' back without 'im."

Lureen sighs theatrically; he can hear her tapping her nails against the wall in the background. "I'll make sure Daddy's not here when you bring Ennis back, all right? You just find 'im quick. I'll take care a the rest."

Jack would have smiled were his heart not so heavy, "Thanks, honey. I really—yeah. I 'preciate it."

"Good luck, ya dummie. Call 'gain soon?"

"Yup. Talk t'you soon."

Jack places the receiver back into the cradle, too exhausted even to sigh. Dragging his feet back to the truck, he rolls into the driver's seat, no will to go on. It would be so easy just to close his eyes for a few seconds, recline in the passenger's seat, catch forty winks. Instead he slaps his cheeks lightly, shakes his head a few times.

Got to keep at it. Needs you.

He starts the car, driving over to the next town, tries not to think about what Ennis has been doing all this time. Gettin' drunk, most likely. Or mebbe not... he hasn't touched a drop since he got here. He tries even harder not to think about why this is happening. After the initial adrenaline rush wore off when he set out yesterday, his mind wandered into ugly places that set him into a panic. Won't believe none a that. Jack doesn't trust too many things in life—luck, fate, God, himself for that matter—but this man is his rock, his truth. He knows the worst and best of him, the ups and downs, the nuances of character that make him want to kick Ennis's ass one second and caress it the next, and he came to the conclusion long ago that no matter what, he'd stand beside him. Nothin' that happened'll change that, so's no use t'think on. Jus' keep on goin'..

The truck eats up the miles, the white lines of the highway blurring with his determined speed. He winds his way through the streets, eyes primed for a blond head of hair, a weather-beaten canvas jacket, a familiar pair of boots—anything. After checking out the three bars and two gas stations, he prepares to get back on the interstate when he notices he notices a flash of color out of the corner of his eye. A poster, looking like it was painted by a bunch of kids, advertises a fair, promising "Ponies, Cotton Candy, & More!"

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jack makes the turn, praying that his intuition is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Two weeks ago

Ennis knocked back the beer, didn't notice as it trailed down his neck, lukewarm sticky, fiddling instead with the postcard in his pocket; wanted to take it out and douse it in liquid, wash away the words that Jack had thrown at him. Fuckin' Jack. Pullin' this kind a shit with me. Who the fuck he think he is, anyway? He ordered another drink. Didn't want to think anymore.

Three hours later, he still hadn't achieved his goal, though he'd gotten past drunk and then some. His mind was an angry hornet's nest, his thoughts swirling, a low-pitched whine of panic buzzing underneath. They stung at him, vicious, opening up wounds infected with guilt and anger and denial, wounds created when he turned away Jack's offer for something better.

And what th'fuck am I s'posed to do 'bout it? Like gettin' on my case like bein' divorced is some kind a free pass t'be queer. Ennis tasted bile in his throat, mind skittering around the word that came into his thoughts uninvited. That word that cut the first gash that day Jack showed up, postcard in hand, offering dangling off the tip of that tongue darting in and out of his mouth. And even despite the fear, the instinctual self-revulsion, Ennis's chest also swelled with a warmth that he couldn't name but also couldn't welcome.

The three pillars of his life were together for the first time and—it looked like—the last. It had all gone to hell the second Ennis opened his mouth. The confusion in Jack's eyes, the hope and trust and love that folded in on itself under the weight of Ennis's words. The truck driving away, Ennis had wanted to hurtle right after it, fuck it all, we'll all spend the weekend together—but that word had stopped him. It always did.

Fuck'it all.

He stumbled out of the bar, fists clenched, steps flying asunder as he blinked back tears scorching regret, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. He looked around in confusion for his truck; after the fourth wrong turn, he bumped into its dusty side, the once-white paint long gone gray. The liquor bubbled up in his veins once more, igniting the bitter goodbyes and wishes swallowed whole, dry tinder to the flame of his denial.

Look at this piece a shit. His trucks're all in spit-shinin' condition. Everythin' so fuckin' easy for him, got his goddamned wife t'take a everythin'. Bet he hasn't worried 'bout money a single day since they got hitched. Bastard. He fumbled with the keys for a few minutes, cursing heartily when he realized he had the wrong one. Once he was in the truck, he went through the same process trying to start it. Lost another fuckin' job cause a him, and then he sends me this shit. Here I am, sun's high, nothin' to do. He peeled out of the parking lot, weaving wildly on the road, half-hearing the radio as he squinted at the road, man of means by no means, king of the road.

Yeah, he's a real fuckin' king a th'road all right. Drives up here and then spends the next week complainin' 'bout how hard the ride was. Don't see the goddamned point. Don't even seem t'like comin' up no more. May as well stop comin'. Ennis's gut churned at the notion. Damned well knew that wasn't what he wanted, but damned if he did know what he wanted. Turning off the radio, he pulled over to the side of the road, head falling onto the steering wheel.

Seemed like he was happy enough afore. Divorce gave 'im crazy ideas. Can see 'im thinkin' on it, those ideas that'll get us killed. Thought we had it all settled.

Struck by a thought that only makes sense to those heavily inebriated or the thoroughly depressed—Ennis filled both niches right now—he pulled back onto the road with a destination in mind.

What's Monroe got that I don't anyway? I'll get 'er to see reason. If I'm married 'gain Jack won't have no more crazy ideas.

Cain't take this no more. Cain't fuckin' take it. He pulls the postcard out of his pocket, "Return to Sender" in Jack's loopy cursive scrawled across his invitation, and tears it into pieces. Gonna fuckin' fix it. Gotta make it right again.

"Mamma, are we almost there?" Jenny asked, licking her vanilla ice cream.

"Jenny, patience is a virtue. You just 'member that," Alma replied, slowing down at the stop light.

"I don't wanna miss Happy Days! You promised we'd get back in time."

Alma Jr. rolled her eyes, "But you were the one who wanted to stop for ice cream, Jenny."

"Alma, you don't got nothin' nice to say don't say nothin' at all, right, mamma?"

"That weren't quite what I meant, Jenny. But I'm glad you been listenin'."

Jenny smiled smugly at Alma Jr., who just rolled her eyes again. She went back to her ice cream, catching the drips around the edges before they could reach her fingertips. On an especially zealous lick she dislodged the scoop, and she put a hand over her mouth to muffle her cry of surprise, but her mother had already heard.

"Jenny, what happened?" Alma's eyes narrowed and when Jenny didn't respond. She turned, seeing the empty ice cream cone and threw her hands up in exasperation.

"Now look what you—"

The impact was instantaneous death; there wasn't even have time to scream.

And with that, the lives of the three del Mar women were taken by the flinch of a steering wheel, stolen from this world in the seconds it takes to stop a heartbeat.

Ennis heaved up another round of alcohol laced with bile, the acid smell burning his nostrils, stomach clenched in body-wracking spasms. His knuckles were bloody to the quick, bruised into a hamburger-like pulp, but he still wanted more pain, more hurt. It wasn't near enough.

When the nausea finally subsided, he got up on shaky legs and hurled himself against the brick wall of the alley. As his face scraped against the rough surface, the red haze took over, temporarily blocking out the images of Alma and his girls, bloodied and battered, bodies contorted, boneless and unnatural, eyes open but unseeing.

Ennis cried as he pounded his fist against the wall, throat raw with anguish. His hot tears fell to the ground, and his body screamed through and through with pain, every cell bursting with the unimaginable torment of what he had seen. What have I done? What have I done?

Jack finds Ennis standing in front of the teacup ride, watching the riders spin round and round, cheeks shaded with stubble, clothes wrinkled and heavily soiled. His body seemed to be composed of sand, crumbling with the winds, eroding with the weight of his sorrow, bits and pieces of him falling to the ground in a slow drift. Jack holds his breath, still hopes that maybe he was wrong. He approaches quietly, reaching out a hand but then thinks better of it.

The sounds of delighted terror waft over from the ride, children and adults alike reveling in the ever-increasing speed. Ennis senses Jack approaching and doesn't look over, looks at the ride and to it, voice a flat plane, devoid of all emotion and inflection, "Jenny's favorite. Got sick as can be ever' damn time, but she loved it." The hairs on the back of his neck bristle at Ennis's monotonous tone, cold and dusty like ash. He moves closer, but still does not touch, says nothing, the sickly-sweet smell of cotton-candy adding an aura of unreality.

"I want a miss her. But it still ain't real t'me, and I seen it all. Thought I wouldn't never close my eyes again without seein'."

Jack shifts, the soles of his shoes stuck on some kind of gum, fighting the urge to move closer to Ennis, to stop the flow of words, to shove them into oblivion where they belong.

"But I been forgettin' here."

Lights flash, blinding bursts of red and white when a teenage boy succeeds in hitting the bell with a resounding ding; the audience claps and his father slaps him so hard on the back he almost falls over.

"Wanted to kill you that night I came, to make things right somehow. Too drunk to even do that right." He barks out a mirthless laugh, "Scared the shit out a your son when I done it to myself. Maybe that fucker L.D.'s got a point. What kind a father am… was—" People swarm around them coming off the teacup ride, shoulders bumping and mumbled apologies, children chattering in high excitement while the adults hold on to their stomachs, woozy. The crowd clears and the next set of thrillseekers start sliding into the neon-bright plastic cups.

Ennis watches, facial muscles twitching. "Hell…ain't even fit t'call myself…" The anguish vibrates on a hairline fracture, splintering his syllables. He takes a deep shuddering breath before going on, but the words come forth, unstoppable, storm clouds rolling in over the valley. The sounds of the fair dim in Jack's ears as he enters the quiet whirlwind of Ennis's anguish.

"Their bodies wasn't even cold on the pavement," Ennis turns to face him, face full of shadows and eyes bloodshot, red veins a corona of crackling lightning around his iris. The anger picks up speed, the disgust and hurt that's been roiling under the surface all this time, "There I was, pukin' up my guts, still smellin' like the wreck." He pummels his fists into his eyes, words raw and bloody, "And I wanted a fuckin' see you." He shoves Jack, sending him back, stumbling. "Why'n the fuck would I want that, Jack? Always makin' me want it like you do, huh?" Ennis comes within inches of his face, and Jack prepares for violence, ready and willing to take whatever Ennis needs to give.

"I want a hate you." But Ennis lowers his head, speaking barely above a whisper, "Nothin' t'keep me in Riverton anymore. Could have that sweet life. That's what I thought. What kind a man thinks that?" And then he crumples to the ground in one fell swoop, heartshot. "Jack, I kil—"

Jack grabs him tight by the shoulders, shaking him, "Don't you say it, Ennis. Don't you fuckin' say it. I don't believe a goddamned word. There ain't no way you done it. No fuckin' way. You hear me?" He grips his face, trying to look into his eyes, "Let's get in the truck and go back, huh? I know… I know there's nothin' I can say. But we'll figure this out, together. I know you ain't done it."

Ennis shakes his head, returning to the safety of the void, eyes empty once more. "Goin' a get what's comin' to me. Better'n I deserve, anyway."

Jack nods, rising, offering Ennis a hand.

"I'll take you."