jack_f_twist | (no subject)

(no subject)

Seems that fence and that gate get worse ever year, and when Jack finally straightens, his back cracks in protest. One hand on the gate, the other on his hip, he looks out over the empty plains, squinting and sweating, before he swings the gate back and forth, testing.

It creaks a bit, but holds, and despite the heat and the ache in his neck, Jack grins, pleased with himself, takes off the rough work gloves covering his hands and sticks them in his back pocket when he turns around to head back.

The house itself squats, gray and sullen--one more lump out here in the middle a godforsaken nowhere, and the screen door bangs behind him when he heads into the kitchen, hangs his hat up on a nail by the door and gets a glass, runs some cool tap water into it.

Home sweet home.

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Creak creak.

creak creak.

creak creak.

The floorboards under his rocking chair ring out through the silent house as he watches his son over the paper he's not really reading.

Somehow that creak's worse'n the one from the gate, and Jack's back stiffens, even though he ain't yet turned around, ain't yet even said a word in greeting to his father.

"Fixed that gate up, like you wanted," he says, after swallowing half his glass of water and wishing it were something a hell of a lot stronger. His voice, loud and falsely cheerful in the silent kitchen, falls flat.

He turns around, leans against the counter, glass in hand, and tries in vain to meet his father's eyes.

"Was sure in a state. Thing gets worse ever year. Oughta think 'bout puttin' in a new one."

creak creak

"Thought about it."

creak creak

"Think you know what's better for this place than me, then?"

Eyes back on the paper, the paper he's read before, the paper that's two fucking years old, but still more interesting than his son's yammering.

"Din' say that."

Jack watches him, watches the newspaper where it curls at the edges, and keeps his face carefully friendly, tries for a smile that doesn't quite make it.

"Was just tryin' to help you out, is all. And I'm sick a fixin' the same damn fence ever single time."

The joke sinks in his stomach like a rock, like the water he'd prob'ly drunk too fast.

It ain't the fence, of course. It's the whole damn ranch--gray and broke-down and run-down and creaking. He could fix it. He knows he could, with just a little bit of help--the right kind of help, this place could be a real ranch again.

There's a low undercurrent of laughter

creak creak

as if John Twist (why put the senior on there?) knows what his son's thinking.

How the hell does he do it, Jack wonders, how the fuckin' hell is it that he come back to Lightning Flat (not home, not home here no more, maybe never was) and that silence from his dad cuts him down, ever single time, makes him feel six again, young and too short and always in the way.

He stares down into his glass of water, train of thought stopped dead by the flatness of his father's unamused laughter.

"Could look into it for you, while I'm up here," he offers, trying again.

There's a snap and then silence as John folds his paper, how it don't fall apart it some sort of miracle, and then the sound of spit hitting the bottom of a metal bucket.

"You wanna waste your time, Jacky boy, I ain't gonna stop you."

"Ain't wastin' time."

Maybe he protests too much.

"Just tryin' to lend you a hand, Pop."

And there he is again, apologizing, just like always. Hell, it ain't his fault the ranch's gone so fuckin' downhill. He puts the glass of water on the counter, unfinished.

Another ting from the bucket and a creak from the chair.

"Putting in a new fence ain't gonna do a hell of a lot of good."

Funny how that sounds like you don't do much good. Jack shrugs, uncomfortable, feeling small, and he backs down. Like always.

"Maybe not. Just a thought."

He turns around again to run the tap, wash his hands and rinse out the glass. One less thing for his momma to have to wash.

Maybe it ain't too funny how it sounds that way if it's the way it's meant.

"Know what would do some good."

And it's not quite a question and it's almost an accusation.

His son doesn't quite flinch, though he takes his time in wiping off his hands on a worn dishtowel hanging near the sink before turning around again.

"What's that, Pop?"

No sense in antagonizing the old man any further, no sense in gettin' him mad, no sense in giving freely what John Twist seems to find in his son easy enough already. So Jack keeps his voice carefully even, and waits without enthusiasm.

"You bring some 'o that money 'o yours up here to do some good."

There's a low, subtle chuckle coming from his corner

creak creak

of the room, building into a laugh.

There's nothing to say, and only so long she can just stand in the doorway, watching her husband and her son and wishing she was a thousand miles away, God forgive her for it, from the both of them, so she's pretty well silent when she comes in and takes the towel from Jack and folds it, neat and quick-like, before hanging it again.

"Gate looks good, Jack." Her tone's real quiet, as she washes her own hands, briefly, with the lavender soap that she gets every year from John for Christmas.

He relaxes a little--not much, but enough to smile at his mother and mean it.

"Thanks, Momma." He smells the lavender, and it makes him think of childhood, of his mother singing hymns quietly while doing the dishes. With a pang of guilt he wonders when she got so small, when her hair got so thin.

"You know that ain't my call," he says, turning his attention back to his father, glowering at the other end of the room.

"Lureen's got the money, she calls the shots. How it is. You know I do what I can with what I got. Now, if I could come up here with some help? Could lick this place into good shape."

He says it to both of them, eyes moving to his mother, like they did when he was a boy and had something, some drawing or some small accomplishment to show her.

Her hands are always moving, to the left to the right, scrub here dust here set a plate there. Now they're making sandwiches, cut neat into triangles.

"You do a lot when you're here." She says it carefully, glancing at John, almost asking, wanting to ask, Just listen to him this time, except it won't do any good. Whatever Jack's got to say, she's certain, John won't much like.

But he's got that same look, Jack does, like when he was a boy, and he'll always be her boy, even if he's got a boy of his own (who she'd like to see more of, but she can't ask that) so she asks anyway, "Got some folk in mind?"

The laughter continues, low and mocking, and there she is making sandwiches for the boy like he can't even feed himself.

"Wouldn't have that problem if you were more of a man."

"John--" It's not snapped. It's not a warning. It's not even a plead.

But the plate that has his sandwich on it is almost dropped on the table next to him, instead of set carefully.

"--'fraid I forgot to put the mayo on it," she finishes, and sounds real apologetic, cause John does like his mayonaise on his sandwich. There's no move to take it back, though, as she turns back to the counter and cuts the sandwiches that are left, setting Jack's plate gently on the table, as she asks again, looking up at her son, "Got some folk in mind?"

He glances down, smarting under his father's mockery, and addresses his next words to his mother, accepting the plate from her with a nod and a small smile while he sits down at the table, facing his dad.

"Sure. Told you 'bout that friend a mine, Ennis. Hell of a worker, and he ain't got much going for him where he is. I figure, I could get him up here, we'd do some real good work."

The last is directed more at his father, hopeful and certain.

John shakes his head, a smirk on his face and reaches out for the sandwich. He doesn't take a bite, but puts it back on the plate and reaches in his mouth. The wad of tobacco goes on the plate next to the sandwich, juices running into the bread and turning it a dark brown.

It's a few moments before she says anything, wetting a rag in the meantime. "Well now." Everything's put away, sealed tight, and she's wiping the counter again, carefully, before speaking. "That sounds like it'd be a real help, don't it, John?"

Jack half turns in his seat to watch her, her careful movements around the familiar kitchen.

"Momma, you oughta sit down and have some lunch," he says, avoiding his father's smirk and his own disappointment. "You been up on your feet all mornin'."

"Ain't so long as all that." Right now it's easier to address the counter, all smooth and clean and spotless, than either of them. "Sides," she adds, looking up finally and smiling best she can at Jack, "I ain't yet used to the idea you're not a growing boy still that I gotta keep puttin' food in front of."

He smiles back at her, smoothing for a moment the lines of tension that had appeared between his eyebrows.

"Well, you know I can still put it away," he jokes, and his voice holds real affection. "Just like always."

A huff and a laugh before John bites into his sandwich, eyes narrowed and focused on Jack.

"You want more, you know I'll fix it," her voice quieter again as she twists the rag so hard her hands would burn if they were less worn.

She hasn't eaten much since getting up, but she doesn't have much appetite, either, some times.

Funny thing.

But her kitchen's pretty clean, and that's something, and the rag's twisted a final time before she says, "You bring your friend up, and I'll feed him too. One more mouth's no trouble."

"I'm fine, Momma." He nods, making sure she knows he's not just saying so. "You been feeding me just 'bout ever time I step in this kitchen."

And there's gratefulness in his voice, too, now, and something deep in him lights up when he nods again, eager.

"Sure. You'd like him, Momma, I know you would."

His daddy, Jack knows, wouldn't think much of Ennis. Ranch stiffs ain't never no good--that had been Joe Aguirre's opinion and on that he and Jack's daddy were certain to agree.

"F'he's a friend to you, suppose I'd have to." It's agreeable, and she pours herself a glass of water before finally sitting next to him, not looking at John.

"You bring him, then."

She could say, and wants to say, "You bring that daughter-in-law and grandson of mine, too," but she doesn't. Instead she just takes a long swallow.

"Lord knows there's enough work to be done."

"You bring him,"

he says, and he says it around his mouth full of dry sandwich

"you bring him, you tell him don't nobody stay for free. We ain't rich like some folk."

Which is what Jack said anyway, but he can't figure it matters none. Jack'll never say anything to his little friend.

"You forgot the mayonaise."

She looks at her husband and for a moment her glance is sharp and angry and something that she wouldn't be proud to admit to feeling.

She knows her Bible, and she knows her place, but she also knows that rich or not, you take in folk when they come, and that Jack'd said they'd come and help, and sometimes she hates John Twist, as unChristian as that may be.

All she says is, "S'pose I did," soft as can be, and the sharp look is gone, her face blank, as she takes another sip of her water and looks straight ahead.

Glancing between them, Jack steps in, letting his mother sink into the background and away from John Twist's glowering anger. Ain't nothing new--John Twist's been angry at something or someone for as long as Jack can remember, and if that someone is usually his son, well.

Some things you just gotta live with.

"It wouldn't be like that," he says, to his father, stubbornly optimistic. "We'd work. Just want to help you out with this place, is all."

His sandwiches gone, he gets up from the table to put the dish in the sink, rinse it off, look out the old window that faces the south-going road. Straight as a pin and going exactly nowhere.

"May as well get some of the mowing done this afternoon."

John nods and, if he were another man, might look pleased.

"You do that, it's been falling behind."

As if it's Jack's fault the grass doesn't never get mowed, as if it's Jack's fault he don't never come up here no more but a few times a year, after he's gone to see that friend 'a his.

creak creak

And John takes the tabacco off his plate and, juices still dripping, shoves it back in his mouth.

"Sure thing."

Stupid, really, to go out and mow the lawn in the middle of the hottest part of the day, but Jack is restless and smarting and stifled in the kitchen, so he puts his empty, rinsed plate on the counter and turns around to put a hand--big and rough-worn--gentle on his momma's shoulder, bends down to give her worn cheek a kiss.

"Thanks for lunch, Momma."

When he straightens, he looks right at his father, trying to ignore the brown stain by the corner of John's mouth.

"Might go out 'n check on the stock after. Like you said, plenty a work to do. Figure I'll be back for dinner." The last is said more to his mother, while his hand leaves her shoulder and he turns to the door, takes his beat-up hat from off the nail on the wall and settles it on his head. Gotta go, gotta work, gotta get out of here, gotta find some air to breathe because hell if he can get any in this place.

She watches him go, and looks back at John.

And there's a dozen things she wants to say, really. Don't chew at the table, and The day he doesn't come back because of you is the day I'll go out and won't come back either, and Please, and mostly, What happened? because she's certain once they were--maybe not happy, even, but it didn't feel like hell to have a meal.

Dozens of things that could be said, and all she says is, "Got washing to do," as she stands and goes to gather the laundry.

Always something to do, after all.

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