Wheatland, Wyoming
April 14, 2001
She woke early that morning, earlier than she had to since it was a Saturday and she didn't have much to do except feed the dogs and a little grocery shopping—maybe she'd call Sylvia and see how her new job was going, how the kids were liking their new school.
But all in all there was nothing cookin'. She didn't know why she'd been roused out of slumber at 7:00 rather than her usual 9:00. She liked sleeping in, enjoyed it when she had the chance, the warmth of her bed that she missed when she was off traveling. But today the sun had barely risen above the horizon when her eyes had popped open and remained that way. So she'd gotten up, put on her slippers and threw on her Concordia sweatshirt (her closest link to the old George Williams University sweater she'd had, now long worn out and thrown away).
The night before Andy had come over, and they'd had a little bit of wine though she'd never been much of a drinker. She could tell that he wanted to get her into bed the whole time, and she'd been hesitant to say yes or no. The night had ended with him getting restless and heading back into town, which was just as well. It's not like she really desired a relationship with a small town divorce lawyer—that just reeked of trouble, since heaven knew she certainly wasn't the marrying kind.
"Three divorces okay with me, thank you very much."
It was April, but the air still clung to its chilly tendencies, even though Wheatland was considered part of southern Wyoming. The wind was whipping around the corners of her old (though newly renovated) ranch house, a fairly lonely residence on its ten acres of land with its nearest neighbor five miles down the road. But that's the way she liked it; it allowed her solitude when she needed it, away from the critics and the agents and the movie producers (hassling her over The Shipping News, Jesus, she didn't care!) and she could write in peace.
She hadn't been doing too much writing in the past couple weeks though, she'd pretty much worn herself out with her latest, a novel called That Old Ace in the Hole. She always got that way after novels, always felt like she needed a little bit of a breather, or to work on some more short stories, which was a notion that had been tickling her for a few days. She was itching to write some more Wyoming stories, felt called to the land here, the hard life, the desperation of the people, their struggle to survive. And after her last batch (which still seemed to have a powerful hold on her) she felt like she might want to try her hand and concocting a few more.
"Give it time, old girl. You'll know what's right when it's right."
Good advice, but she'd never been known to follow her own. Once in the kitchen she made two eggs and fried up some bacon—her doctor told her she needed to cut out her fat, but she didn't listen, bacon was too delicious on a Saturday morning to forgo. She ate in silence, sopping the crispy meat in the egg yolk while she perused the local newspaper for anything story worthy.
By the time 9:00 had rolled around she'd eaten, showered, fed the dogs, and scrawled a decent sized grocery list on the back of a Chinese take out menu.
"Getting up early has its advantages…" She mused, though still didn't think she's make a practice out of it.
She flipped on the radio for some noise and then put on her shoes and her scarf, prepared to trek down her long winding dirt drive to check the mail. She'd meant to check it the day before, but had gotten caught up with cleaning and then going out with Andy.
Stepping through the side door, she took in a deep breath of fresh air and shivered slightly as a gust of wind blew her scarf behind her, then started walking, gravel crunching beneath her Birkenstocks. She thought about what she could make for dinner that night with a full refrigerator. Thought maybe she'd call Mary and see if she wanted to have dinner and watch a movie. She'd picked up The Patriot when she was in New York the week before, had heard it was good but just hadn't gotten around to watching it.
"Not to mention Mel Gibson is delicious…"
She got to her mailbox and opened it, wasn't surprised to see it was empty except for a thick envelope and a flyer for The Book Nook, a store downtown that had coerced her to sign the guest list so she'd receive updates about sales and new releases. She skipped over that and looked at the envelope. It was from her Agent.
She closed the mailbox and walked quickly back up the drive. She wasn't sure what Liz had sent her, but she figured it was something regarding the upcoming publication of That Old Ace in the Hole.
She moseyed into the house, staring at the envelope the whole time; it felt oddly thick in her hand, and she couldn't keep her eyes off it. It was bulky like a contract, but she'd just flown into New York to sign all the paper work the previous week, and Liz would never send something like that through standard mail.
She wandered into her study, the wood paneled walls and closed blinds making it darker than it should have been, but it didn't faze her much. She sat down at her computer desk and switched on the small reading lamp, starting ripping open the letter, all patience vanishing.
After the poor envelope was completely destroyed (she didn't believe in letter openers, though she wasn't sure why—it was more like she'd just never bought one and had somehow developed a grudge against them), she was able to pull out the contents—another envelope and a letter from Liz. She squinted at the handwriting on the smaller envelope, but didn't recognize it. She sniffed and unfolded Liz's letter.
Annie, I got this in the mail a few weeks ago and forgot to give it to you when you were in town. I've been meaning to send it, and I know you don't usually take fan mail, but I thought you might enjoy this one.
Liz.
Printed on her computer, no formal heading, no pleasantries. She smiled. That's why she liked Liz so much, better than her agent in England. Liz cut to the chase and didn't waste time on useless information.
She set to ripping open the other envelope and had to smile. It's not that she didn't enjoy fan mail, but she didn't have any need for it either. In the first place, there weren't that many people scrambling to get in touch with her (though Liz said that would all change once Hollywood got their hands on The Shipping News), and secondly, she was always a little uncomfortable reading other people reactions to her work, enjoyed talking about it more; discussion face to face felt more productive. She pulled out the letter from the envelope. It was several pages thick, but from the loopy style of the handwriting, she figured it wasn't because of context. She placed the letter under the light to read.
Dear Ms. Proulx,
I don't know if this letter is going to get to you, the last time I tried to contact you, it didn't' work so well. But, it doesn't hurt to try, does it?
I won't go too deep into details here, won't bore you with my life story, though I'd bet a million dollars you'd find it pretty entertaining. That aside, let me get to the point. Almost a year ago, I bought a copy of Close Range from the local Childress Wal-Mart (yes, Ms. Proulx, I lived in Childress most my life). Anyway, I skimmed through parts of the book, but was mostly interested with a story at the end called, Brokeback Mountain. I'm sure you're familiar with this story, hell, you wrote it, and up till recently I'd wondered how you did just that. But the details of where you got your idea don't worry me too much these days, and that's not why I'm writing this letter to you.
The real reason I'm writing today, is because reading that story, Brokeback Mountain, changed my life in the biggest and best way possible. Up till I found your book, I'd been in an unhappy marriage, an unhappy job, never felt fulfilled—I think you get the picture. That was all soon to change, though. Brokeback Mountain came along, and it took me a while to figure it out, but I realized that I was gay and had been living a lie.
And this is where I really want to thank you. If it hadn't been for your book, I'd still be living miserable in Childress, going day to day with no real satisfaction except what I got from my granddaughter, Eliza. I'd never of come to terms with myself, never gotten out of an unhealthy relationship, and I'd never of made amends with my son. Most importantly, I'd never have met the man I live with now, the light of my life.
Ms. Proulx, your book has made me the happiest man alive, though I'm a little late to the party at 56 (soon to be 57, gulp) but I guess it's never too late to start, right? I'm sure you hear this sort of thing all the time, but you've never heard it from me, and there you go. A new experience.
So I just wanted to say thank you. I don't know how you did it, and I don't know what it all means, but I do know that Brokeback Mountain changed my life for the better, and because of that I will always be grateful.
You don't know what you've done for me, and for Ennis.
Sincerely,
Jack Twist
When she finished she flipped the letter over, looking for something more and finding nothing. She grabbed the envelope and searched for the return address. There was none, but the post office stamp said,
Castle Rock, Colorado
She was silent. Outside, the wind continued to whistle and howl, signs of a storm coming later in the day—the grass from a field beyond her window billowed and waved from the force of it. From the kitchen she could hear the faint buzz of the radio—they were playing an old Beatles tune. She smiled.
Annie Proulx opened the top drawer of her desk, the place she kept her most important documents and laid the letter face up on top of some old drafts of unpublished stories, placed an amethyst paper weight on top of it. She let her eyes run over the front page once more, committed the blue loops and scrawling hand to memory.
"Let be, let be."
She closed the drawer and stood up from her desk, pushed the chair in behind her and left the room.
Lead me to Your Door, a story by Jessica Leigh Phillips (Marakeshsparrow)
Author's note: Six month ago I had the idea to write this crazy story after watching Being John Malkovitch. At the time I figured it was too crazy for Brokeback fans, that it would be disliked. I couldn't get the idea out of my head though, and I secretly wished I could tell someone what to write and how to do it so that I could read it--I knew I would get a kick out of such a Stephen King-esque fic. Well, I finally decided to tackle the beast, and friends, I am so glad I did.
This story has kept me going, has held me together through a rough period of time. I couldn't have written this story without the help of my dear mother though, my instant beta and my sounding board. Also I want to thank my duckling, Meredith for her help posting this story on and also for the wonderful plot bunny she gave me for chapter 21! And without all the wonderful responses from everyone who's read and enjoyed this story, it would be nothing, and maybe I would have abandoned it long ago. Thank you most of all for keeping me on track with your whips, sporks, and amulets. ;)
But above all, I think the thanks goes to Annie Proulx and Diana Ossana, Larry McMurtry and Ang Lee. They truly changed my life, and this whole story is an homage to them. Not only to the characters but infact to the effect Brokeback Mountain has had on its readers and viewers. Many of us will never be the same, and for that I am eternally grateful.
Jess