August 17, 1963
Jack watched Ennis' slight figure recede in the side mirror until he was a smudge, a speck, a pinprick at the foot of the mountain. As his friend shrank away to nothing, the knot in his stomach wound round, looping, turning, expanding to such a size that he could feel the frayed rope scraping and burning his guts as the miles of black asphalt unfurled under his coughing, rattling truck. Ennis' parting words still rang in his ears : You may be queer but I ain't.
He needed to find a bar as soon as possible.
An hour later he did, and when he finally stumbled out of it the sun was setting. Even if he'd been in any shape to drive, he was nearly out of gas, so he pulled the horse blanket from the truck bed and curled up in the cab. He touched his sore cheek bone, the bruise the only thing he had to remind him of Ennis and soon that would be gone. He supposed that was just as well. As he closed his eyes he thought he could smell woodsmoke.
July 1st, 1963
He opened his eyes to see light filtering through canvas and felt a surge of joy. It had been a dream oh yes — they were still on the mountain, reprieved, another month's pay after all. He rolled over; no Ennis but he could hear him saddling up Cigar Butt. He sat up and pushed aside the tent flap. Through a scrim of smoke from the smoldering fire he saw Ennis at the side of Jack's mare cinching the straps. Wearing Jack's black Resistol.
Jack frowned and looked around the tent in confusion. When he saw the stained jeans, his heart leaped to his throat. He looked out again and saw his gray mare emerge from behind the smoke, watched himself attempting to mount his horse and winced in sympathy. His gaze went automatically to the tree stump and he saw himself lead the mare to it, step onto it carefully and climb awkwardly into the saddle, face laced with pain. As he watched himself turn his horse to leave, he made a decision. He leaped up and burst out of the tent, startling the mare and bringing forth a string of curses from the rider.
"Ah shit! Jesus Christ godammit!" Jack hissed as the mare bounced him in the saddle.
"Sorry, sorry! I forgot." He reached over and seized her halter, stroked her neck to gentle her.
"When're ya comin from then?" Jack asked.
"Bout 6 weeks from now."
"How'd ya get the bruise?"
"You don't wanna know."
"Well shit." He pointed toward the tent with his chin. "Hope it don't hurt so much next time." Paused. "Is there a next time?" he added, plaintively.
"Yeah, but —" he stopped, deliberating. Could a lie make a difference, change the future? He looked up. "When you see him, tell him... tell him you're not queer."
Jack stared at him a moment. "Alright," he muttered finally and turned his horse around, moving off slowly.
He watched himself disappear into the woods, remembering the long slow, worried ride up to the sheep, then turned back to the tent to crawl into the bedroll. The jeans. He gathered them up along with two soiled shirts and carried them to the stream. As he squatted by the water and beat the clothes with a stick he shivered in the breeze and looked toward the mountain. When the two of them returned he would not be there. But where would he be when he woke up?
August 17, 1963
Jack watched Ennis' slight figure recede in the side mirror until he was a smudge, a speck, a pin prick at the foot of the mountain. As his friend shrank away to nothing, the knot in his stomach wound round, looping, turning, expanding to such a size that he could feel the frayed rope scraping and burning his guts as the miles of black asphalt unfurled under his coughing, rattling truck. It was choking him, he could barely breathe. He could slice it in two at the next bar or go back and try to unpick it. His foot lightened on the pedal, so many what ifs crowding his mind, until at last he swung his pickup into a slow, wide arc in the middle of the empty road and urged it back to Signal.
Ennis was gone. There was no sign of him in town or for miles down the road heading out, no one leaning out from the roadside between him and the horizon. The wind bent the grass in the direction Jack was driving, hissing this way this way this way, gas gauge pointing to E. He let the truck roll off the road and stopped, not sure which direction he should be heading now anyway. The door screeched as he shoved it open and dropped to the ground. He lit a cigarette and stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the red ball sink down to graze the jagged peaks, the orange point of light under his nose pulsing as he breathed. Gingerly, he pressed a finger to the bruise on his cheekbone. He had never even asked Ennis where he planned to live after they came down. He pulled the old horse blanket from the truck bed, flicked away the butt and climbed back in the cab, curling up on the bench. At least he'd taken something to remind him of this summer.
The sun spilled over the dashboard horizon to warm his face, bringing him out of a deep sleep. He sat up stiffly, rubbed his hand over his face and winced. Glancing at the floor, he spotted the shirt he had stolen from Ennis. He picked it up and hugged it to his chest, fingering the bloodstains on the sleeve. He wondered if anything would have changed if he had not lied to Ennis, if he'd ignored what his future self had told him to say and just kept silent. He reached up and angled the rearview mirror towards his face. The bruise he'd seen on his six-week-older self had been this degree of faded. Maybe today it would happen — he'd find himself back there, and this time he'd tell himself: say nothing. And maybe he'd wake up somewhere off the mountain…with Ennis.