(no subject)
KISS
I thought I'd mostly done with Brokeback fanfic, but there are a couple of things which still gnaw away at my brain. This story arose out of one of them. It won't be to everyone's liking but I hope it will at least be worth reading. All I ask of readers is to not jump to lots of early conclusions.
For the sake of a label, I'll call it AU.
There'll probably be sufficient bad language, sex and violence to categorise the whole story as NC-17.
As ever, my deepest respect and thanks to Annie Proulx.
CHAPTER 1
That first winter had been a hell of uncertainty. His bruised face had healed, his torn heart could not. How many times had he gathered his resolve and picked up his truck keys, only to lay them down again, remembering that punch, that stilted goodbye, that truck driving away in the opposite direction to his. No, there'd be no going back. But maybe, just maybe, the marriage hadn't happened, maybe he really was waiting. "See you around, huh?" That wasn't the same as goodbye, surely?
Come summer, Texas beckoned and he was determined to go, get away from the stifling life of his home ranch for good and all, but hope - or desperation - reared its head one last time, and on the way down he called in at the sheep operation office, asked about a job he didn't want, asked a question he already knew the answer to, "Ellis Waters ain't been around?", packed the answer away in his truck along with his tattered dreams and his inward-turned contempt, and took the long road south.
Two years on the rodeo circuit was two years he mostly wanted to forget. For every few seconds of spine-tingling adrenaline rush there were the hours of bone-crushing pain, and victories never quite compensated for defeats. There were too many nights of sleeping in his truck, or sharing a single shitty room with half a dozen farting rodeo would-bees, or scavenging amongst the litter in the stands for loose change or leftover food.
And far too many times against a fence or on his knees with men he'd rather not know. Not that he sold it, exactly, it was more an exchange of available currency, and if someone wanted to share a decent meal or a sweet-smelling room or see their way to funding his next entry fee and maybe a new shirt, he wasn't about to quibble the cost. And every so often came the magic moment when the announcer called, "That looks like the winning ride! Jesse Turner from all the way up in Wyoming!"
If there had been more highs and fewer lows, chances are he wouldn't have paid so much attention to the pretty girl who eyed him up and down one evening, who smelled of money and promised good times. And before he knew it, he was married with a kid and a halfway decent job and a show home, and the memories of Ellis Waters were consigned to a small backroom in his heart, to be visited every now and then, but only for a short while because too much pain and weakness still lay there.
Every couple of years or so, when he made the journey back up to Wyoming to visit his parents, it crossed his mind to seek out his former companion, the youth who had been his lover for a brief yet golden summer, but something always blocked his path: not enough time this trip, bad weather coming up out of the west, no local phone book to check when he needed one, no clear idea of which town to try. Yet he would gaze across the open plains towards the mountains where his soul had learned to fly, and feel the corrosion of cowardice deep inside.
* * *
He tried, he really did try to be a good husband but nature usually wins out, one way or another, and when the benefits of respectability and a good-looking man on her arm were outweighed by the knowledge that Jesse was out tomcatting most nights, Lorraine told him to pack his bags and find some other poor bitch to make miserable. So at the age of forty, with a sizeable settlement in his bank account, a mouthful of perfect, expensive pearly whites gleaming out from under his moustache, and thick dark hair streaked and tipped with distinguished silver, Jesse Turner bought himself a nice little acreage a few hundred miles to the south-east and took over a business supplying the very best bull semen to the cattle-breeding market.
The local unattached ladies spotted a winner a mile off, and for a few years Jesse squired many an attractive woman to the highlights of rural Texan society, as did his ranch manager, Russell, himself not a bad looker, but none of their dates ever got invited back to the ranch, and after a while the dating dropped off and the speculation began. When Jesse eventually lost his manager to acute myeloid leukemia, feelings were both deep and mixed in the community.
Jesse lived alone after that, except for the company of his new manager and young family. The Beveridge children were fond of this gentle figure but sometimes wondered aloud to their parents why Mr Jesse seemed so sad. The Turner parents had died many years earlier, first the mother then the father soon after, and the ranch's forlorn fields had been absorbed into larger holdings. Jesse had barely registered the blip in his bank account. With their passing, so passed the excuse to drive back to Wyoming. He rarely permitted lost dreams to surface but just once, in the days with Russell, when a snowstorm had hurled itself down from the Rockies and created chaos on the I-25 near Wheatland, and an eyewitness named Kelvin Waters had got his fifteen seconds of fame, he'd scared Russell half to death by leaping up, shaking and gape-mouthed.
He wasn't much for films and TV, spent his evenings quietly, sipping whiskey, smoking dope, playing solitaire on the computer and, when the evening got old, dipping into gently erotic sites, nothing too raunchy. But in late 2006 he happened upon a film on TV which piqued his interest; beautiful scenery, handsome young stars - easy on the eyes - and a storyline which set off warning bells in his mind. By the credits he was weeping, by sunrise he was still staring out across his acres, struggling to make sense of what he had seen, by noon he was on the Net, seeking the answers he'd avoided for four long decades.
Ellis Waters proved to be no easy prey, no phone, no business, no nothing, and Jesse's guts tied themselves in knots as the days slipped by. Dead, he could be dead already, just like Russell. A ranch hand, hard life, dangerous at times, it was possible. But it was Kelvin Waters who proved to be dead, and he'd done well enough in life to warrant an obituary. He'd had a son, and yes, five years ago there had still been a living brother, Ellis. After a few false starts, Jesse located the son in Denver.
"Try the Worland police. They should know where he is."
* * *
"You wanta talk to Ellis," the manager of the Hells Bells Ranch told Jesse late that Friday, "you better hightail it up to his trailer before he gets shitfaced. It's that crap-colored outfit up on the ridge yonder." He pointed out the right direction, ran his eyes once more over the expensive duds and fancy adornments that Jesse sported, decided it was none of his business, and went back to his accounts.
As Jesse reached the tumbledown trailer the door was wrenched open and a balding, pig-eyed man lurched down the sloping wooden steps.
"Ellis?" he asked of the man, dread tingling through his body like an electric shock.
"In there," said Pig-Eye, jerking his head back as he stepped towards a mud-splattered pickup. The ill-timed actions sent him staggering into its side. He hauled open the door, poured himself in and took off in a clash of gears, back down the track to where a cluster of buildings stood.
"Fuckin cretin." The words rolled like distant thunder from deep inside the trailer and in their wake came another man, tall but sagging slightly as if he hung from invisible skyhooks, clothes fitting where they touched, and a face as hard and sharp-planed as a Wyoming butte. "Who're you?"
"Ellis." No doubt now, couldn't be anyone but him. "It's ... I'm ... Remember me? Jesse, Jesse Turner."
Ellis Waters eyed him up and down, took in the clothes, the hat, the watch and rings, the studded boots and belt. "I'd a remembered you if I'd a seen you before. I don't remember you," and he turned back, made to close the door between them.
"Jesus, '63, on the mountain, the friggin sheep! You can't a forgotten!"
From behind, Ellis's shoulders were so bony his shirt looked as if the wire hanger was still inside, but as the spine straightened and the grey head lifted, Jesse recalled what the police sergeant had told him about this man - the fights, the drinking, the shattered, once-breathing mass of gore he'd left lying in an alleyway.
"You," came that voice again, "You. You better come in."
The trailer was dim, blinds and curtains drawn, as if its occupant had no need of the outside world once he'd shut it away from him. There was barely room for the two men to stand, without being so close as to breathe each other's air. Ellis inclined his head towards a low bench seat and Jesse took the hint to sit, looked around for signs of a bed, realised he was sitting on it. As if he were still alone, Ellis turned to the near-bare kitchenette bench, opened a tin with a wickedly old-fashioned opener which left a ripped and jagged lip, and dumped the contents into a saucepan. He scraped out the remains with his finger, and Jesse felt his perineum tense. He couldn't take his eyes off this man who moved with a light and contained manner, as if unnecessary action was a waste of time and energy. Abruptly, Ellis swung to face him, sent an enamel cup clattering to the floor, the sound shocking in its untidiness.
“Goddamn---” Ellis bit the words off and Jesse noticed the slight tremor in the hand which reached down to pick up the cup; he prayed it didn't mean Ellis had already hit the booze. But Ellis was steady as a rock as he straightened back up and gave him a steely look.
“What're you doin here?”
All the spit in Jesse's mouth suddenly dried. “I...I...” he croaked. “Dunno. I saw a film.”
“A film? A fuckin film?” The eyes narrowed. Jesse shriveled. A good idea was rapidly souring. He bit his tongue.
“And you figured you'd maybe drop by and tell me about it?”
“Ain't like that. It was - oh, forget it. Let's just say I thought maybe it was about time I looked you up again.”
“Ain't you about forty fuckin years too late?”
“Yeah, well,” Jesse mumbled, hating the sound of his own voice, “time flies when you're havin fun, they say.”
“Do they? I wouldn't know. Ain't much fun around here neither.” Ellis turned on the gas, busied himself with a coffeepot.
“Been livin in Texas these last years,” Jesse continued nervously. “I got a kid, a boy - well, he's a man now, grandkids too, though I don't see much a them now, drive up once or twice a year, remind them they got a grandpappy.”
“Well, good for you.” The words were uttered softly, as if Ellis were used to talking just for himself. Jesse scoured the dismal trailer in an effort to find something - any little thing - on which to hang some neutral conversation, but it was as if a tornado had swept through and stripped away anything which might have held a personal touch. He cleared his throat, rubbed his palm across the plaid blanket covering the bed, looked around again. Behind the door was pinned a calendar with a photo collage of cattle breeds.
“What do you run here? Saw some Herefords drivin up. Was wonderin---”
“Black Angus.”
“Oh, okay, right. Quite a market for that these days. Gotta move with the times, hey?”
In the deep and excruciating silence which followed, Jesse had plenty of time to reach a conclusion he had hoped to avoid: this was most likely going nowhere, had been a lousy decision from the start, a round-trip to nowhere, and it was time to bail. He placed his hands on his thighs, ready to stand - and found himself eyeballing a chipped mugful of acrid-smelling coffee.
“Fell on your feet then.” Through the steam from his own mug, Ellis's eyes were once again running over Jesse's outward signs of success, and as if a plug had been pulled Jesse felt the tension begin ever so slowly to drain away.
“More good luck than good management,” he chuckled, “leastways at the start. Don't get me wrong - I've worked hard for what I've got. Damn father-in-law made sure a that. Divorced now. Got a spread down near Austin. Built up a good business.” He paused to draw breath. “Ain't been up in Wyomin for a long while.”
“So why'd you come now?” Was there just the faintest curiosity in Ellis's tone?
“Oh, a hankerin to see the old place---”
“Weren't nothin to do with no film then.”
Jesse ran his finger around the rim of his mug, took a deep breath. “I came to see you.”
“And now you seen me. Bet it weren't worth the gas.” Ellis grunted; it might even have been halfway to a laugh. He had remained standing, leaning against the kitchen divider, never once taking those eyes off Jesse. “How'd you find me?”
“Found your nephew.”
“You talked ta him? And you still came? Crazier'n I remember. And this film - good, was it? Must a been to bring you all the way from Texas to this shithole. Specially after talkin ta the family.” He said the last word as if it were poison. “So come on, Jesse Turner, don't waste yer effort getting here. Tell me about this ... film.”
“It was ... it was ... hell, Ellis, it was about us, like someone watched us that summer and wrote it all down, what happened.”
Ellis's body seemed to stiffen, his chest rose and fell a couple of times, and when he spoke his voice was low and hard.
“And what did happen 'that summer'?” The air between them quivered like stretched fencing wire, and an icy droplet caught Jesse fair between the shoulderblades.
“Jesus, you want me to spell it out?” The territory up ahead was looking a damn sight rockier than he'd hoped, but he'd set his foot on the trail now and there was no turning back. “We had a lotta fun, a lot. I guess I'd kinda hoped it might continue afterwards. Guess I was sorry it didn't.”
“Fun. Seems to me you know a hell of a lot about fun. So you sayin it didn't continue for you? Oh yeah, the wife and kids.”
“I meant with you.” Goddammit, these were more words than he'd planned on spilling out. Ellis's lip curled into a sneer; Jesse felt the sudden desire to kiss that mouth into something sweet.
“Some fun ain't meant to last.” Ellis turned his head away, mumbled something Jesse didn't catch.
“What's that you said?”
“I said,” His mouth was moving but the words weren't getting through. “I said ... some ... some fun should a never happened in the first place. Should never a let you drag me down that fuckin path.”
“Drag you? Did I just hear right?”
“You heard right.”
“Me drag you! You shittin me, right? You damn near---”
“Weren't for you---”
“What? Wouldn't a crossed your mind?”
“Damn right.”
Jesse was shaking his head in disbelief. “Hey, I didn't come here ta---”
“Ta remind me what a piece a filth you was?”
“Whoa there! Somethin seriously wrong with your memory, in that case. You was up and ready for it, no encouragement needed, pal!”
“Way I remember it, there was one little faggot up there, willin ta take it from a real man whenever he could. You seemed pretty ready ta get yer face shoved down in the dirt any chance you got. Is that what this fuckin film was about? Some dirty queer who can't control himself? Jesus! Thank god I never seen nothin like that.” Ellis slammed his mug down on the bench, sending a wave of coffee over the edge. Jesse hurriedly placed his own mug on the floor; no reason to add a scalded crotch to whatever else came his way if this went tits up. He gentled his voice a little.
“That how you remember it? I kinda thought we were in it together, you know, both enjoyin it for what it...” He caught a glimpse of a newly-made fist, and fell silent. Thin he might be, yet Ellis filled the space before Jesse, loomed like a thunderhead. Jesse wanted to stand again, to even the balance, but something told him to stay where he was, let the flow take its time.
“Then you remembered wrong! Dunno what grabbed hold a me that summer. All I know is, it wrecked my fuckin life, you wrecked my fuckin life, and now you come back with yer big, successful life, wantin ta rub it in my face.” He was shirtfronting Jesse, by now, breathing in his face, hissing the words through a clenched mouth. “You think I never thought about you? You think I ain't never turned that summer over and over in my head till I can't think straight? Fuck, Jesse, whyn't---” Abruptly, he let go, spun away. His fists smashed against the benchtop, but it was his face which Jesse stared at, comprehension dawning. This wasn't anger; this was - God, the tight mouth, the screwed-up eyes, the shaky breaths - this was pain! “Why didn't you---?” Ellis whispered, and then, as if a film was being wound backwards, he slowly righted himself, past the moment of vulnerability, past the anger, back to inscrutable stillness. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing, dogs were barking, wind-blown metal scraped against metal and an engine turned over and caught, but inside the trailer was the silence of forty empty years.
The saucepan spat out steam, and Ellis shuddered at the sudden sound, then stepped over to the stove, calm and controlled again. He began to dump the pan's contents into an enamel bowl, caught himself and frowned.
"You eaten?"
Jesse floundered. What next? "Well, I -- not -- er --"
"There's enough."
"Okay, just a little, thanks."
Ellis fished a smaller bowl out of the dishrack and carefully divided the saucepan's contents between the two, carried bowls, spoons and a half-eaten bag of bread over to the small table in the corner, sat down, waited. Jesse walked the three steps to the table. It was all feeling like a dream, nothing connected, nothing quite hanging together. Suddenly, after all this time, he was about to share a meal with the man whose memory had ghosted through his entire life, who'd just spat hate and despair into his face, and who now waited politely for his dinner guest. He picked up the spoon, half-expecting it to bend in his hand, turn into a rubber chicken or a limp dick, yet it held, it was real, and so was the food. Ellis's recipe had been simple: two cans, one of beans, one of stew, maybe a touch of chili. The bread was hard, tasted slightly off, but Jesse was relieved his mouth didn't have to be occupied with talking for a while. He kept his head down, not even daring to take a quick glance, just in case those eyes happened to catch his own. As Jesse spooned up the last mouthful Ellis rose and grabbed the bowls.
"Should see you right."
“Yeah, thanks for that. Didn't know I was so hungry.” He paused, but it was clear his host had no intention of filling the gap with any words of his own. There was an ashtray on a built-in nightstand near the bed: Jesse pulled out his cigarette pack from his top pocket, held it up. “You mind....?” Ellis shook his head, took the proffered smoke, and they filled a minute or two by turning the already stale air blue, until Jesse could stand the silence no longer.
“You got plans for the future, say after you retire?” The pat phrases were barely out of his mouth before he was wishing them back. Ellis eyed him with cool contempt, and Jesse felt the blood rush to his face.
“Yeah, I plan on livin with my daughter, or maybe find a nice retirement home, play cards all day. Jesus Christ, do I look like I got a friggin pension plan? I'll work till I drop. Don't want nothin else.”
So there had been a marriage. So it had been a wise decision not to make contact all those years ago. But even as he fastened onto the words, Jesse knew it had been the coward's way out.
They spun out a few more minutes with polite talk of cattle prices and the weather, while the grey dusk seeped in around them. If Ellis had even the slightest trace of curiosity about where this was all going, he kept it to himself, appeared not to care whether Jesse was there or not. When the desultory conversation finally petered out, Jesse knew the day he'd avoided for four long decades was at an end.
“Guess I better---”
“Yeah, night's fallin.”
Jesse opened his mouth to say goodbye, got hit with three sensations. His heart was crying, Do it!, his brain admonished, This man is a killer, and his guts whispered, You'll never be able to live with yourself if you don't. He rose, took his hat, found that his decision had somehow already been made.
"You ever want a change a scenery, I can always use a good hand down in Texas." Something stirred in the hooded eyes which raised themselves to meet his gaze. Jesse heard his voice running on. “I'll be stayin in Worland couple more nights. Here's the place." He scribbled the motel name on the back of a business card, showed both sides to Ellis. "And here's my number. Landline, cell, e...” He shut his mouth. Email? Get a grip, Jesse, the guy don't even have electricity. “Call me. Anytime."
And without waiting for a response, he put on his hat and was down the steps, just a little bit faster than was quite dignified. The door crashed closed behind him, and through the aluminium shell came the clunk of a full bottle being placed on a table.
* * *
For a month after he flew back, Jesse walked on hot coals. He diverted the ranch phone to his cellphone whenever he left his house. It meant he fielded a lot of the routine calls which the manager usually dealt with, but better that than to miss the one call he both desired and feared. By the five week mark he was forgetting occasionally, and after a season had passed he was back to his old habits. You did the best you could, couldn't do no more. But his conscience whispered, too little, too late.
At Thanksgiving, motivated by a curiously burgeoning loneliness, he drove up and visited his son and the grandkids for the first time in a couple of years. The day left him with a melancholy sweetness, and he promised himself to do more with his family in the future.
It was late one evening, after he'd wrapped Christmas presents for his manager's family and the rest of his staff, when the house phone purred at him, innocuous, deceptive.
"Jesse Turner."
"That offer still open? It's -- uh -- it's Ellis Waters." The voice rolled down the line like the hooves of a thousand stampeding cattle, trampeling Jesse's calm to shreds.
"Sure, any time, like I said. I'll---"
"I'll be down." And with a click the line went dead.
"I'll send you the fare," Jesse finished to the lifeless receiver.
Three days later, on Christmas Eve, under the thin light of a curdled-egg sky, an eighties vintage Ford pickup rolled into the gate. What wasn't rust might have been white, hard to tell, streaked as it was with every color of dirt from Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas. The rumps of two horses were just visible in the trailer which lurched in behind it. From his front window - bedecked with a modest string or two of colored lights - Jesse saw his manager emerge from the office, speak to the driver, glance back at the house. Then the driver's door opened, and six feet-plus of sinew and bone uncurled its length and stretched out the aches of a long day's driving. Heart in his throat, Jesse stepped outside to meet his fate.
