Jack at 23 (1)

September 1st, 1967

Jack paused in the doorway of the bedroom and watched his wife carefully trim her fingernails with tiny manicure scissors. Her pale nightgown clung to her skin in the places where the delicate fabric had wicked away moisture from her damp hair. Lureen didn't look up at their reflection in the mirror when he moved behind her and laid his hands on her narrow shoulders. He watched the pearly crescents drop one by one onto the vanity tabletop and turn nearly invisible against the marble surface. The last one sprang away from the blades to land on a folded square of some black silky underthing and he stared at it, transfixed — a sliver of moon in a starless sky. Somewhere, a lamb began to bleat for its mother.

Lureen closed her eyes, the dark circles under them like smudges against her milky skin, and lolled her head back against Jack. The scent of Tame wafted up from her scalp as she breathed out a long sigh.

"Oh Lord, not another night of teethin. I was sleepin on my feet all day."

Jack squeezed her shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the tense muscles. "I should go sing to him," he said, deadpan.

In the mirror he saw one corner of Lureen's mouth lift in a smirk, her eyes still closed. "That'd distract him fer sure."

He slid his hands from their resting place and turned away to tend to his son.

By the time Jack reached the nursery room across the hall the baby's whimpers had become a howl, his mouth pulled back in a nearly toothless grimace, terrycloth sleep suit taut over his belly as his back arched away from the mattress. Standing next to the crib, Jack leaned over and inserted his little finger into his son's mouth, nail to tongue. Rosy lips closed around his flesh and he felt gums clamp down hard, a tiny nub of tooth working at his fingernail. Jack rubbed the fleshy pad of his finger against his son's upper gum, soothing the soreness where sharp enamel was cutting through the skin. The crying ceased as frantic biting eased into rhythmic sucking. Without removing his finger, Jack reached down with his other hand and tucked his index finger into the curl of the baby's hand; the tiny fingers clenched and held on. Though his back was complaining, Jack remained bent over his child, trying to wait until sleep was fully upon the infant before pulling away. He felt a crisp breeze brush his face and became aware of cold wetness under his bare feet. As the light dimmed, the last thing he saw was his son's lips come together, pacified, as the warm column of flesh vanished from between them.

July 21st, 1963
He was standing in the dark. Cropped, dew-drenched grass pricked the soles of his feet; his little finger, still warm and wet from the baby's saliva, cooled in the chill mountain air. High in the black sky a thin crescent moon's cool shine was failing to ward off the emboldened stars that pressed near. He turned his head and just made out the dark planes of the pup tent a few paces away. Several yards beyond it, tethered to a pine, Cigar Butt stood motionless.

Jack shivered as the cold breeze brushed his naked body. Gazing at the sky, he knew which night this was. Somewhere down below he was lying on his side in the other tent, staring at this moon through the open flap and feeling sore and fucked over in every sense. It had been the last of five miserable days of untangling sheep. They knew the count would be wrong, the flock hosting strangers. Still nursing guilt for having ridden out a hailstorm secluded with the tender when he should have been herding, Ennis had taken out his frustration on Jack when he'd tried to lighten the mood with a lewd joke during supper. He'd thrown Jack down in the dirt and fucked him roughly, like the first time but sober and with intent. Then he'd ridden away to the sheep without even a backward glance.

But right now Jack looked at the tent and felt the years of longing and forgiving at his back. He stepped quickly to the entrance and crouched, knees cracking loudly in the silence. In the dark he could hear Ennis snoring softly. Ennis. Jack felt his body rock with a tidal surge as blood rushed to every extremity. Seconds later one of his other senses reported for duty as his nose registered the reek of the canvas and, when he lifted the scratchy blanket to slide in next to his long-lost lover, the pong of the man himself: sweat, whiskey, horse, leather, cigarettes, wood smoke, sheep and, yeah, shit. The few times he'd allowed himself to daydream about Ennis since they'd parted, he had recalled every detail of their coupling but how they smelled. Turning on his side and pressing his body against Ennis', he winced, his shoulder and hip reminding him of all the rough landings he'd suffered while bullriding. God, the ground was hard. How had they managed to sleep with so little padding night after night?

Before the sensory distractions could swamp Jack's ardor, Ennis shifted onto his back and muttered something. Jack pressed closer, nuzzling his nose into his hair, and snaked an arm across Ennis' chest. He was sleeping in all his clothes, his shirt and jacket greasy with lanolin.

"Jack?" Ennis' voice was thick with sleep. Jack raised himself up on one arm and brought his face next to the other man's, felt stubble scratch his cheek. The rasp of it sent a jolt through his heart; he lifted up, slid over and sank gratefully into Ennis' body. In the blackness his aim was true, lips meeting teeth and a warm thrusting tongue, forcing a stutter of moans from his throat as a charge pulsed through the length of his body. The stink, the dirty, rough clothing against his skin, the solid muscle and bone easily holding his weight eclipsed the two years of silk, fragrance and round softness that he had found a way to like. Ennis sucked him in and groaned, folding his arms around Jack, gliding rough palms down his naked back. Then Ennis was trying to speak, and Jack pulled his lips away just enough for Ennis to move his own.

"Why're ya here?" Ennis murmured.

"I miss you," Jack breathed into his mouth. "Missed you."

He felt warm hands slide down and caress his ass.

"I'm sorry." The words Jack had never heard Ennis utter that summer, whispered so softly he could barely make them out, flowed into him and coated his soul like a balm, soothing the bruises he had carried within for four years: the punch, the see ya round, the turned back.

"It's alright." He kissed Ennis again and stroked his jaw, nubby carpet under his fingers. A baby whimpered amongst the flock. "Where will you live after you're married, Ennis?"

"Riverton."

-

Jack found himself prone on his stomach, palms flat on the floor next to his head, his shirt and jeans in a bunch underneath him pressing painfully into his erection. The baby in the crib looming above him gave a short cry but didn't wake. He turned over onto his back with a groan, moved his hand down and began to stroke himself perfunctorily but it was no good, not what he needed.

He thought back on that next morning when Ennis had surprised him by coming down to camp early for breakfast and shown his contrition in small ways: praising the indifferent food, washing the dishes so Jack would not have to squat by the stream. He said he'd dreamt about Jack, and smirked, but Ennis' eyes had been serious as he held Jack's for a long moment. Before returning to the sheep, Ennis had come up behind Jack where he was standing before the fire and pulled him close, murmured in his ear something about horses and his mother, and hummed a nameless tune. Too soon Ennis had released him, mounted and ridden away to the high pasture. Jack had gazed after him as the setting crescent moon, barely visible against the milky morning sky, slipped behind the mountain.

Riverton.