Brokeback Mountain (9)

[최지연]

Brokeback Mountain (9)

In May of 1983 they spent a few cold days at a serried of little icebound, no name high lakes, then worked across into the Hail Strew River drainage.

Going up, the day was fine but the trail deep-drifted and slopping wet at the margins. They left it to wind through a slashy cut, leading the horses through brittle branchwood, Jack, the same eagle feather in his old hat, lifting his head in the heated noon to take the air scented with resinous lodgepole, the dry needle duff and hot rock, bitter juniper crushed beneath the horses’ hooves. Ennis, weather-eyed, looked west for the heated cumulus that might come up on such a day but the boneless blue was so deep, said Jack, that he night drown looking up.

Around three they swung through a narrow pass to a southeast slope where the strong spring sun had had a chance to work, dropped down to the trail again which lay snowless below them. They could hear the river muttering and making a distant train sound a long way off. Twenty minutes on they surprised a black bear on the bank above them rolling a log over for grubs and Jack’s horse shied and reared, Jack saying “Wo! Wo!” and Ennis’s bay dancing and snorting but holding. Jack reached for the .30-06 but there was no need; the startled bear galloped into the trees with the lumpish gait that made it seem it was falling apart.

 The tea-colored river ran fast with snowmelt, a scarf of bubbles at every high rock, pools and setbacks streaming. The ochre-branched willows swayed stiffly, pollened catkins like yellow thumbprints. The horses drank and Jack dismounted, scooped icy water up in his hand, crystalline drops falling from his fingers, his mouth and chin glistening with wet.

 “Get beaver fever doin that,” said Ennis, then, “Good enough place,” looking at the level bench above the river, two or three-rings from old hunting camps. A sloping meadow rose behind the bench, protected by a stand of lodgepole. There was plenty of dry wood. They set up camp without saying much, picketed the horses in the meadow. Jack broke the seal on a bottle whisky, took a long, hot swallow, exhaled forcefully, said, “That’s one a the two things I need right now,” capped and tossed it to Ennis.

On the third morning there were the clouds Ennis had expected, a grey racer out of the west, a bar of darkness driving wind before it and small flakes. It faded after an hour into tender spring snow that heaped wet and heavy. By nightfall it turned colder. Jack and Ennis passed a joint back and forth, the fire burning late, Jack restless and bitching about the cold, poking the flames with a stick, twisting the dial of the transistor radio until the batteries died.

Ennis said he’d been putting the blocks to a woman who worked part-time at the Wolf Ears bar in Signal where he was working now for Stoutamire’s cow and calf outfit, but it wasn’t going anywhere and she had some problems he didn’t want. Jack said he’d had a thing going with the wife of a rancher down the road in Childress and for the last few months he’d slank around expecting to get shot by Lureen or the husband, one. Ennis laughed a little and said he probably deserved it. Jack said he was doing all right but he missed Ennis bad enough sometimes to make him whip babies.

The horses nickered in the darkness beyond the fire’s circle of light. Ennis put his arm around Jack, pulled him close, said he saw his girls about once a month, Alma Jr. a shy seventeen-year-old with his beanpole length, Francine a little live wire. Jack slid his cold hand between Ennis’s legs, said he was worried about his boy who was, no doubt about it, dyslexic or something, couldn’t get anything right, fifteen years old and couldn’t hardly read, he could see it though goddamn Lureen wouldn’t admit to it and pretended the kid was o.k., refused to get any bitchin kind a help about it. He didn’t know what the fuck the answer was. Lureen had the money and called the shots.

“ I used a want a boy for a kid,” said Ennis, undoing buttons, “but just got little girls.”

“I didn’t want none a either kind,” said Jack. “But fuck-all has worked the way I wanted. Nothin never come to my hand the right way.” Without getting up he threw deadwood on the fire, the sparks flying up with their truths and lies, a few hot points of fire landing on their hands and faces, not for the first time, and they rolled down into the dirt. One thing never changed: the brilliant charge of their infrequent coupling was darkened by the sense of time flying, never enough time, never enough.

[여국현]

지연이 바쁠텐데....안 잊고 올렸네^^;; 보니 반가워서~ 잘 지내고 있지?

[최지연]

그동안 제가 넘 무관심 했어요ㅋㅋㅋ 앞으로는 신경 좀 쓸께요. 그래도 운영자인데 이리 게을러서야 쓰겠어요. 안짜르실거죠? ㅎㅎ