Annie Proulx, Brokeback Mountain (1997)
The day was hot and clear in the morning, but by noon the clouds had pushed up out of the
west rolling a little sultry air before them. Ennis, wearing his best shirt, white with wide black
stripes, didn’t know what time Jack would get there and so had taken the day off, paced back
and forth, looking down into a street pale with dust. Alma was saying something about taking his
friend to the Knife & Fork for supper instead of cooking it was so hot, if they could get a
babysitter, but Ennis said more likely he’d just go out with Jack and get drunk. Jack was not a
restaurant type, he said, thinking of the dirty spoons sticking out of the cans of cold beans
balanced on the log.
Late in the afternoon, thunder growling, that same old green pickup rolled in and he saw Jack
get out of the truck, beat-up Resistol tilted back. A hot jolt scalded Ennis and he was out on the
landing pulling the door closed behind him. Jack took the stairs two and two. They seized each
other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of each other, saying son of a
bitch, son of a bitch; then, and as easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths
came together, and hard, Jack’s big teeth bringing blood, his hat falling to the floor, stubble
rasping, wet saliva welling, and the door opening and Alma looking out for a few seconds at
Ennis’s straining shoulders and shutting the door again and still they clinched, pressing chest
and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other’s toes until they pulled apart to
breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and daughters,
“Little darlin.”
The door opened again a few inches and Alma stood in the narrow light.
What could he say? “Alma, this is Jack Twist. Jack, my wife, Alma.” His chest was heaving. He
could smell Jack—the intensely familiar odor of cigarettes, musky sweat, and a faint sweetness
like grass, and with it the rushing cold of the mountain. “Alma,” he said, “Jack and me ain’t seen
each other in four years.” As if it were a reason. He was glad the light
was dim on the landing but did not turn away from her.
“Sure enough,” said Alma in a low voice. She had seen what she had seen. Behind her in the
room, lightning lit the window like a white sheet waving and the baby cried.
“You got a kid?” said Jack. His shaking hand grazed Ennis’s hand, electrical current
snapped between them.
“Two little girls,” Ennis said. “Alma, Jr., and Francine. Love them to pieces.” Alma’s
mouth twitched.
