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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"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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