Wed, 26 Apr 2006 21:54:44 GMT

Rating: PG? pretty tame

Disclaimer: Jack and Ennis belong, heart and unbelievable soul, to Annie Proulx (and now, by extension, to Diana Ossana and Larry McMurtry). The idea for this fic - and Junior's role in it - is all RickB's, from his "Save Me a Place" photo caption post in the Dave Cullen BBM forums. This fic is in tribute to both forms of genius and not for any profit.

Comments: Welcome in all shapes and forms; this is my first fanfic, but I am a seasoned writer and welcome critiques.

Author's note: see this if you're confused about the reference to RickB - that will explain the premise of this ficlet. It's a snapshot of Ennis starting when Jack leaves after having driven up to Wyoming upon receiving the postcard about the divorce...

It was in just that look, that sharp shot of a glance Jack aimed his way before sinking back into the truck, before plowing out of the driveway like he could shake its dust from his tire treads. Like maybe he wanted to. That look cut Ennis to the bone; he stood, spat, as though to clear his throat of the words that wouldn't come to life. He watched Jack wheel out of the driveway and down the road, down the direction that white truck had gone, and his stomach turned a perfect flip below his ribcage. Jack, I...

Ennis felt eyes on him from behind, heard nothing but wind and the churning of blood in his ears. He stood there, squinting, blinking, breathing, only just, but breathing, not heaving, oh dammit please no not heaving, not here where the girls could see, not because of Jack again, Jack leaving again in a blown cloud of brown dust. He drew one boot toe through the dirt, shrugged down into his jacket and ducked under the brim of his pale hat. In, out, breathing through his tight lips and nostrils in puffs, breathing like the wind was blowing through him; he stood still for a few minutes longer than most men should after a friend stops by to say hello. That friend who let a hand linger too long on the back of his neck, made his hair raise, made his blood run hot.

At last, Ennis turned back to his own truck and swung his legs heavy into the cab. He pushed in next to Jenny, his knee bumping hers as he shifted the truck into first, the contact jarring him back to his world. Makin' a livin's about all I got time for now. I got the girls this weekend... He shot his gaze over the horizon as he turned out of the driveway, right, away from Jack and the white truck, and nothing was visible but the fields stretched out before him, endless in grayed gold. He switched on the radio to cover his silence, which even he knew was deeper than usual, deeper than the lines on his brow.

What he didn't know, though, was the cold call of his voice and the way it carried that night — Jack, I... Jack — the way it came from the back of his throat, raspy and thick through the weathered wood, funneled right along Junior's pillow as she curled into the narrow bed on the other side of his wall. I'm sure as hell sorry. Junior pressed her ear to the wood, one eye on Jenny to make sure she stayed asleep: Daddy was crying and she didn't know how she'd explain it. Only that she knew, in a flash like lightning before a tornado, what it was that Jack was.

She'd seen her daddy duck into the liquor store while they were in town that afternoon, seen the half-empty whiskey bottle in his hand as the moon hit the horizon, low and full and orange over the swaying grass. He usually only had a beer or two, late, after the girls were in bed, but tonight it was nearly a fifth of amber liquid; Junior had counted the gulps, well into double digits. Now he tossed, sobbed, inconsolable, calling: Jack, Jack Twist, he said, his voice breaking under the weight of the syllables. Junior burrowed under her thin pillow, clenching her jaw against the sound, waiting for the moon to rise out of the window's frame.

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