It's not the dyin' that's so hard, you know.  It's the journey you gotta take t' get there.

 

The actual moment - the passin' from a state of bein' to a state of not bein' - is almost an afterthought, barely noticed at the time.

 

One second y'er livin'; the next, y'er not.

 

And you realize that all that time you spent wonderin' about it and worryin' about it and bein' scared of it was just time wasted.

 

And you realize somethin' else real quick; you realize that the pain is gone.  That you don't hurt no more, and you take a deep breath (OK, so it ain't a real breath since y'er body's got no more need fer air) but it feels like a real breath, and you wanta laugh out loud cause it don't hurt at all, and you feel like dancin' around ‘cause you think nothin's ever gonna hurt you again.

 

O' course, there's hurt - and then there's hurt.

 

But, in the beginnin', that's a lesson you ain't yet learned.

 

What you do learn - no mistake about it - is that y'er dead, and whinin' about it is a waste of time, cause ain't nobody gonna listen.

 

So the natural thing t' do then is t' sit fer a spell and figure out how it happened and how you feel about it.

 

Luckily, even from that first moment of awareness, I didn't remember too much about the hours leadin' up t' the end, but I remember enough to be perty damn glad I only had t' do it once.

 

Guess I really shouldn't be proud o' myself - probably ain't proper in this place - but I cain't quite feel ashamed o' bein' glad that it took five of ‘em t' do th' deed, and even with ‘em outnumberin' me like that, they still had to bushwhack me t' get it done.  Sneaked up on me when I was almost standin' on m' head, tryin' t' reattach th' water hose that come loose on the pick-up.  When I looked up and saw ‘em comin' and saw what they had in their hands, then I realized that the hose hadn't just come loose all by itself.  Th' whole thing had been worked out ahead o' time - pre-meditated like they say on all them police shows on TV. But by that time, it was too late t' do anything about it.

 

I fought back, o' course.  Didn't go down easy, and had the satisfaction of drawin' a fair share of blood durin' the scuffle.  But I knew from the first it was a losin' battle; bare fists and balls - no matter how big - ain't no match fer baseball bats and tire irons.

 

Even now, when it don't matter at all, it's hard fer me t' understand that kind o' hate.  Don't know why anybody would hate me that much, no matter what I did wi' m' dick.  Far as I kin recall, I never stuck it up any of their asses - nor had theirs up mine - but I guess that ain't the point.  People hate what they don't know and try to wipe out what they don't understand.  Guess they saw themselves as some kind of avengin' angels or somethin'.

 

Gotta say they didn' look too angelic from where I was standin', but nobody asked me, and I guess that's fittin'.

 

Once they had me down and busted up enough that I couldn't fight back no more, they took their time t' finish it.  Broken bones and punctured lungs from rib fractures were just the beginnin' o' what they had in store fer me. The pain was . . . I cain't even begin to describe it, and I passed out more'n once, but they were havin' too much fun t' just let it end like that, so they'd wait fer me t' come aroun'; then they'd start again, and there wasn't any part o' my body that they didn't brutalize.

 

In the end, I doubt I even looked human any more.

 

They saved the best for last, or so they thought. 

 

When they'd started in on me, they'd been laughin' an' hollerin' an' braggin' about how they'd make me get on m' knees and beg t' suck their cocks t' get ‘em t' let me go, but that never happened.  That was one satisfaction I was bound an' determined they wouldn't get.  So by the time they'd had most o' their fun, they was just frustrated and pissed off.  I'd yelled out from the pain, sure ‘nough; there wasn't no keepin' m' mouth shut when kneecaps shattered and testicles ruptured.  But I didn' beg, an' they hated me jus' that much more.

 

So they set out finally to "bust up that pretty face", havin' already busted up just about everythin' else.

 

The first swing of the tire iron toward my head caught at the base of my skull and did something that I knew wasn't what they meant to do, but it was a gift anyway - one I was glad to get.

 

I went down under th' power o' that swing an' never stirred again, the nerves in my spine was severed or maybe just bludgeoned so bad that they couldn't function.  Not sure which, and it didn't matter anyway.  The pain was gone.

 

It was dusk by then, and the sun stroked fire across the western horizon as the stars were sparkin' overhead, and I watched as they popped out o' the creepin' dark t' light up the sky.  The good ol' boys continued fer a while, ventin' their frustrations, I guess.  But I stopped noticin'.

 

When they finally gave up and ran off into the night, prob'ly on their way to a big time celebration where they could go on congratulatin' themselves on a job well done, it was full dark, and I remember bein' grateful that they'd left me lyin' on m' back, so I could look up into the sky.

 

The night was clear, and the heavens were like a crystal bowl full o' brilliance, and I felt like I could reach right up into the beauty of it and touch that glow.  Except that I couldn't move, but I didn't think that would matter much.  One way or another, I knew I wouldn't be staying long in that place.

 

And then, of course, like I had done every single day for more'n half my life, I thought about Ennis, and understood suddenly that I had finally found a way to do what he needed me to do.

 

"Why don't you just leave me be, huh?  It's cause o' you, Jack, that I'm like this.  I'm nothin' - an' nowhere. I jus' cain't stand this no more, Jack."

 

That was purty much th' last thing he'd said t' me - the thing that broke m' heart for once and for all and made me admit, finally, that what he needed from me was the one thing I'd never figured out how t' give him.

 

What he needed was for me t' set him free.

 

And now he would be.

 

The last thought in my mind, as I watched the glitter of the stars grow pale and distant, was that I wished I'd had the guts - just once - t' tell ‘im the truth.

 

I wished I'd told 'im that I loved 'im.

 

 

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Everything is different here, despite the fact that it all looks the same, at those times when I bother t' look around.

 

Mostly, I don't bother.

 

When I can rouse myself t' take an interest, I usually find that I've wound up in the high meadows, where the sunshine is pure and bright and liquid and pours itself out on the ground to nurture the thick drifts of columbine and clumps of wild bluebells.  There's the sound of the wind whisperin' through the lodgepoles and the bright trill of birdsong that threads through the murmur of the tumblin' streams.  It's as cold as it always was, but I no longer feel it.

 

It's just as I remember it, but I have no idea if it's real, or just all in my head.

 

Time is different too.

 

I don't really know how long I've been here; there's not much means of markin' the passage of days.

 

Especially since I spend most of my time - if this is really any kind of time  - driftin' along. 

 

Waitin'.

 

It's funny that someone who's always been a fair hand with words should have trouble describin' what it's like here, but I guess it's because I got nothin' to compare it to.

 

One thing's for sure; it's not anythin' like I ever expected heaven or hell t' be.

 

It took me a while to reach th' conclusion that it's neither one; one thing a person has plenty o' opportunity t' do here is ponder - when the urge strikes.

 

When a person decides t' stop driftin'.

 

Mostly, I fancy that this place is like comin' half awake on a rainy Sunday mornin' - bein' awake enough t' know that it's Sunday and you don't gotta git outa bed until the sun comes out.  So you snuggle back down in th' covers, where it's cozy and warm, and you listen t' the rain on th' roof, an' you dream.  If I concentrate, I kin bring up th' most perfect memories.  I kin relive Brokeback Mountain - recall every kiss, every touch, every time I saw the need in his eyes.  So I dream, an' I wait.

 

And I reckon there ain't much doubt about what I' m waitin' fer - what will bring th' sunshine fer me.

 

Heaven or hell?

 

Naw. This ain't neither one.

 

This is just the waitin' room - or mebbe th' relay station on th' road t' one or th' other.  I remember talkin' t' th' Mexican mechanic that had come t' work for L. D. when he first snuck across the border - a slim, hardworkin' boy who was ever so grateful fer the opportunity t' work his ass off fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, earnin' a pitiful wage that barely bought enough food t' keep him breathin'; him and his sweet li'l wife, Ramona - also an illegal - used t' talk about somethin' called purgatory.  They was Catholic, you know, an' seemed t' know about such things.  I recall that Carlos used t' laugh whenever he'd mention it, but it was th' kind o' laugh that folks scrape up about ghosts whenever they're walkin' past a graveyard at night.

 

Like he didn' really b'lieve in such a place, but he wasn't 100% certain.

 

Well, guess I could tell ‘im th' truth now.  If'n I could tell anybody anything.

 

But I cain't, o' course.  Mostly.

 

Although I'm mostly left alone, I know that I'm not.  Alone, I mean.  There are other people here, but they seem t' be waitin' fer me t' decide if I want t' mingle.

 

So far, I ain't been interested.

 

I have m' memories and m' dreams an' m' driftin'.

 

And m' moments, o' course.  The ones when I get th' call.

Cain't explain that too well neither.  Don't quite understand how it works.  Just know that - once in a while - I git a feelin'.  Like I'm s'posed t' be somewhere.  An' I study on it real hard.

 

And, jus' like that, I'm there.

 

I was there, fer example, when my mama found out that I was dead.  That was when I learned that I'd been real stupid t' think that th' pain was all behind me.  There were lots a times in my life that I wanted t' kill my old man, but I never wanted it as bad as th' day he told her what happened t' me.

 

‘T weren't like when they tol' Lureen.  I was there then too, but it turned out that I didn't really need t' be. The sheriff in Childress had known the Newsomes  since Lureen was a kid - had been a good friend o' her daddy's, and he made up a story about an explodin' tire t' keep her from learnin' the truth.  I never much cared fer the ass-kissin' son of a bitch, but I was grateful that he found a way t' spare her th' hurt o' knowin' what really happened.

 

M' daddy, o' course, took his pleasure in explainin' it in detail t' my mama, even though he was never told the whole truth about what happened. He just made it up as he went along, and that was more than enough to do some real damage.

 

Lord, I never saw anybody hurt like that!  It was like her soul was just ripped t' pieces inside her - like someone poured acid over her heart.

 

I don' think she ever smiled again.

 

I knew real hate then, like I'd never known it before, an' I wonder now, sometimes - when I kin be bothered t' think on it - if I didn' earn m' place in hell by hatin' like that.  If I coulda killed th' old bastard then, he'd a been dead where he stood.

 

But I couldn', o' course. Couldn't kill him; couldn't help her.  I tried so hard t' reach out, t' touch her.  T' tell her that it was OK, that I was past th' hurt.  But she never felt me there.

 

Just like Ennis never felt me there when he found the shirts hidden away in the back o' my closet.  I stood right in front o' him, reached right up t' try t' wipe th' tears out o' his eyes, but couldn't reach him neither.

 

Not then, nor any o' th' other times, when he would fall into his narrow li'l bed in his shitty li'l trailer, after workin' himself near t' death t' try t' fergit how much he was hurtin', and sob out his loneliness and his pain an' call m' name.

 

For a long time, I would choose t' watch him - t' look at th' face that I loved so much, th' body that had held me so many times, but after a while, I couldn't hardly stand it any more.  Th' loneliness was eatin' him alive, and I finally gave up tryin' t' touch him, tryin' t' ease his hurt.  I was never able t' make any difference fer ‘im, and it got so bad that th' pain was like a huge knot o' guilt an' longin' inside me, an' I had t' turn away.  T' go back t' driftin'.

 

Only one time was I ever able t' make any kind o' difference.  At least, I think I made a difference, but the truth is that I'm not even sure o' that.  Maybe I jus' believed what I wanted t' believe.

 

Th' call I got then was different from all th' others - more urgent.  Like an alarm bell ringin' in my head, and I felt a physical coldness that scared the wits out o' me, ‘cause there's not usually any kind o' physical discomfort.  Lots of emotional achin' and loneliness an' stuff like that, but this was a mass of ice right in th' pit o' my stomach.

 

It was then that I understood that a lot o' time had passed, because Bobby was so much bigger than I remembered.  When I'd first come t' this place, I'd tried t' watch him, t' go back and check on ‘im sometimes, but there was always somethin' blockin' me from him.  After a while, I jus' stopped tryin', thinkin' maybe that bein' kept away from him was part o' my punishment fer bein' such a sinner.  Oh, yeah - guess I should a mentioned that.  Not bein' tossed into th' burning lake on arrivin' here from th' land o' the livin' was a relief, sure ‘nough, but I never reached th' point of  jus' assumin' that I was immune t' that.  I always knew it might still be waitin' fer me.

 

If the fire and brimstone crowd have got it right, reckon I did plenty t' earn my place there, includin' draggin' Ennis into a life he never wanted.  That, mebbe more than anythin' else, cost me any hope fer a place in heaven.  I still think it's strange that I never understood how much he blamed me fer that until I could look at ‘im from this place - without all th' extra crap that gets in th' way o' people understandin' each other - and see his true thoughts.  Ennis never wanted any part o' th' queer life, and I reckon he spent a lot ‘ time hatin' me fer makin' him want somethin' that he considered a perversion, but I only saw that when it was too late.  Just like I never saw all th' anger he carried around inside ‘im - anger that he released on other people when it should a been directed at me.

 

Seems like a day late an' a dollar short really was th' story o' my life.

 

But that's beside th' point right now.

 

Bobby was almost full-grown when I saw him again, and he was in bad shape - bloody and mangled and broken by th' impact of his body against th' electric pole that he'd crashed his motorbike into.  I came up on th' scene jus' after it happened - can't recall where I'd been before, but I got th' call clear enough - and felt my heart jump into my throat when I saw how big he was and how much he'd grown t' look like me in the years since I'd been gone.  An' there was no denyin' that years had passed.  When I died, he was just fifteen, and still small fer his age, and spendin' all his time takin' vitamins an' studyin' ways t' bulk up and stretch out.

 

And time, o' course, did th' job fer'im.  Taller than me by a couple o' inches, and a little broader through th' shoulders, hair a shade ‘r two lighter and eyes a bit grayer; otherwise, he was m' spittin' image.

 

That was a shock in itself.

 

The bigger shock was that he was sittin' in the middle of the road, his head cocked at a funny angle, and he was lookin' right straight at me.

 

O' course, the really weird thing was that he was also stretched out in the ditch by the side o' th' highway, one side of his body dark with blood with his eyes half-open an' starin' into forever. 

 

"Daddy." 

 

I went t' my knees.  No one had spoken a single word t'me - or even noticed my existence - since I'd breathed m' last.  And now here was Bobby - my Bobby - lookin' up at me an' callin' my name.

 

"Daddy, is it really you?"

 

I could only nod, cause I was perty sure my voice wouldn't work anyway.

 

He turned then and stared over toward the ditch, to where his body lay with his life drainin' away, and a crowd had begun t' gather.

 

"I don't understand, Daddy.  What happened t' me?  What's goin' on?  And where you been?  I don't . . . ."

 

The understandin' came t' me quick - like th' sun surgin' up over the horizon at dawn - and I knew there was no time fer sayin' all th' things I'd never thought t' tell ‘im.  There was only time fer . . . .

 

"Bobby, ya gotta go back." 

 

The voice was hoarse an' raspy, but it worked well enough.

 

"Ya gotta go back - now.  It ain't yer time."

I managed t' get back t' my feet, and look down at him.  Don't think I ever wanted anythin' in my life as much as I wanted t' reach out and hold ‘im and touch th' life in ‘im.  But I knew that I couldn't; if I did, it would be too late.

 

"But Daddy, I wanna see you.  I wanna . . . ."

 

Jesus!  Was it never gonna end?  Was I never gonna stop hurtin' so much?

 

"Ya cain't, Bobby.  Ya gotta go back right now.  There ain't no time."

 

His eyes were suddenly dark with misery; he thought I was rejectin' him.  Again.

 

"Miss ya, Daddy."

 

Finally unable t' resist, I reached out an' laid m' hand on his shoulder.  Just once.  Just fer a second. 

 

"Miss ya too, Li'l Buddy. But you gotta go.  Now, before it's too late."

 

He smiled at me, and he was gone.  And out there, in th' real world, somethin' changed, and someone started hollerin' that he was alive.

 

And I was suddenly not there any more.  Back t' driftin'.

 

Did it really happen?  Guess I'll never know fer sure, but I think about it sometimes, takin' a bit o' comfort from believin' that it might a been real.

 

 

*   *   *   *   *   *  *

 

No way fer me t' know jus' how long it was after Bobby's li'l visit that I had a visitor fer th' first time, but it didn't seem t' be long.  Mebbe he'd been hangin' around before, waitin' fer th' right moment.

 

Don't really know, but he sure scared th' shit out o' me th' first time he come around.

 

I was back t' driftin' - as usual.  Didn't seem t' be much point in anything else.  Th' only person I could always manage t' find t' check up on was Ennis, and I jus' couldn't hardly stand t' look at ‘im no more, so bein' alone - and studyin' on not thinkin' too much about how alone I really was -  was perty much all I was up to fer a good long time.

 

One minute I was doin' m' customary nothin' an' th' next I was sittin' by a campfire, with th' moon hangin' over th' mountain like a new-polished silver dollar, an' there was somebody sittin' on th' other side o' the fire lookin' at me with th' oddest eyes I ever saw - livin' ‘r dead.  Mismatched, they were.  One blue and one brown and both squinched up like he was a bit near-sighted and couldn't quite focus on m' face.

 

For a long moment, we jus' stared at each other, and I guess I was too surprised t' even wonder if I oughta take off runnin'.

 

"Jack Twist," he said finally.  "Y'er one of a kind.  You know that? Y'er perty much fuckin' up th' odds fer ever'body."

 

"Who are you?" I finally managed t' ask.  "An' what kind o' odds?"

 

"Name's Gabriel," he replied, stretchin' his hands out toward th' fire.  "As fer th' odds, it's just a way we pass th' time here.  Tryin' t' figure out how folks will act when they come here. You broke th' mold, Boy."

 

"Gabriel," I repeated, tryin' t' see his face clearly across th' flames.  Couldn't see much, but enough t' know that he was old - extremely old - and his features was sharp, like my mama used t' call a ‘hatchet face'.  An' his hair was long and white and clipped up in a pony tail that fell over his shoulder.

 

 I repeated the name again, in a whisper, before I realized what the name might signify.

 

He laughed.  "Naw.  Not that Gabriel."

 

I felt a little foolish then, figuring that an angel - or maybe Gabriel was an archangel, don't quite recall - prob'ly wouldn't look like a scruffy ol' sheep herder.

 

"Then who . . ."

 

He gave a little half shrug.  "Guess you could call me a caretaker.  That's as good a title as any, and better than most."

 

"An' what do you take care of?"

 

Once more he reached toward th' fire and shuddered slightly, as if bothered by th' cold.  "An' why are you doin' that?  You cain't really feel nothin' so why . . ."

 

His grin revealed teeth stained from years of tobacco use.  "Well, o' course you can.  If you put yer mind to it.  Ain't you discovered that yet?"

 

I just looked at him, and I reckon he could tell that I was convinced that he was full of shit, because he got up - quicker and easier than I'd a believed he could move - and came around th' fire and grabbed my hands, jerkin' them toward th' flames. 

 

"Close yer eyes," he commanded, and it never even occurred t' me t' argue.

 

"Now, think about fire - about what it looks like, and how it feels.  Remember it.  Focus on it, and wait.  Jus' . . . ."

 

It was, at first, jus' a tickle, a tiny twitch in m' fingers.  Then, between one heartbeat an' th' next, I felt the blaze and jerked m' hands away.

 

I must a looked like a blitherin' idiot than, as I stared up at ‘im.  "How . . ."

 

That time, his smile was gentle.  "You never asked, Jack.  Ever'body else that winds up here comes in yellin' and hollerin' an' demandin' t' know ever'thing.  Ever'body but you.  You just fell in here one day, and jus' turned away from ever'thing.  An' I know that wasn't what you was like before.  When you lived, you wanted ever'thing.  You b'lieved in ever'thing, and you reached fer ever'thing."

 

I looked up at the moon then, and saw that it wasn't the same moon I'd stared at so many times up on Brokeback.  There were no shadows on it; it was jus' light.  "Yeah," I said finally.  "Did me a lot o' good, didn't it?"

 

"Ahh," said Gabriel.  "So that's it.  I thought that might be it."  He paused then, and there was a hint of tenderness in his parti-colored eyes.  "Wantin' never paid off very much fer you, did it?"

 

"Is this Purgatory?" I asked sharply, decidin' that I didn't care much fer the subject.

 

Again the shrug.  "Good a name as any, I reckon.  I call it Between.  But th' name hardly matters."

 

I stared into the fire, and wondered if it was any more real than the silver disk of the moon.  "So this is where a fella waits fer his final judgment."

 

For a time, I wondered if he'd answer, but he was apparently just takin' his time t' choose his words.  "Y'er still waitin' fer heaven ‘r hell then?"

 

My turn t' shrug.  "Reckon there ain't much doubt which it'll be, an' I sure ain't in no hurry t' git there."

 

"You know," he said slowly, "sometimes I think there's been more harm done in th' name o' so-called ‘salvation' than anythin' else since th' beginnin' o' time.  Tell me somethin', Jack.  In yer life, you loved somebody.  Right?"

 

I couldn't speak for the lump of pain risin' inside me, so I just nodded my head.  "So tell me then.  If that person that you loved did you wrong - if they broke ever' rule you set fer ‘em and did terrible things - d' you think y'd stop lovin' ‘em?  Could you refuse t' forgive ‘em and damn ‘em forever?"

 

I thought about Ennis then, about all the times I'd been so mad at him that I wanted t' smash his face in, only t' understand that I could never do that, that I jus' loved ‘im too much.

 

Gabriel nodded.  "So, if you an' me - terrible sinners like we are - couldn't do that t' the people we love, how likely is it that th' one who made us all - who loves us all like we wuz his own children - how likely is it that He could do that t' us?"

 

I shook my head.  "Y'er not sayin' that there's no . . ."

 

"Heaven or hell, Jack, is what each one o' us makes it.  It's yer choice.  It's always been yer choice.  An' th' time has come fer you t' make it.  It's sooner than I'd hoped, but there's no help fer it.  If you don't do somethin' now, th' chance might not come again."

 

"I don't understand," I said quickly, and that was a huge understatement.

 

"I know," he answered softly.  "I wish I had more time t' make you see it, but this'll have t' be th' down ‘n dirty version."

 

"Jus' . . ."

 

"What's love, Jack?" His voice was suddenly sharp and impatient.  "Give me yer best shot at a definition."

 

I shook my head.  "How'm I supposed t' answer that?  There's so many ways . . ."

 

"No," he interrupted, "there's really only one.  It includes all the rest."

 

"I still don't know how t' . . . ."

 

He drew a deep breath (or, at least, that's the impression I got).  Then he did somethin' with his hands and gestured fer me t' turn around and look behind me.

 

I almost refused, knowin' somehow, that what he wanted me t' see would not be good.

 

Still, there was no way t' refuse; if I balked, he'd just force th' issue.  That much I could sense.

 

So I turned, and felt the shards of my heart - broken long ago - stir and grind and make me wonder how I'd ever believed that all my pain was behind me.

 

Ennis Del Mar was sittin' in a rickety li'l chair in his dinky li'l trailer, starin' into the shadows of his closet.  I didn't have t' look t' see what he was starin' at.  In one hand, he held a jar of Old Rose whiskey - our brand of choice for twenty years.  In th' other, he held his huntin' rifle.  His face was bruised and lacerated, and the knuckles of his right hand were bloody; he'd been fightin' again.

 

"You know why he fights," whispered Gabriel.  "Don't you?"

 

"Reckon I do," I answered.

 

The old man nodded.  "Of course, you do.  But can you tell that he's close t' givin' it up?  That th' fight is goin' out o' him?"

 

I rose t' my feet, suddenly more frightened than I'd ever been in my life.  "You cain't let ‘im do it.  You gotta stop ‘im."

 

"Sit down, Jack," said Gabriel wearily.  "He won't kill himself.  Not with th' gun anyway.  He'll think about it, but he won't.  Know why?"

 

And I did know, of course.  Don't know how I could a forgot.  "His girls.  He won't do that t' his girls."

 

"Exactly.  And what does that tell you?"

 

"That he won't hurt them like that."

 

"Correct again.  But understand this.  This ain't no passin' fancy fer Ennis.  He really, truly wants t' die.  He doesn't want t' face another day.  An' yet, he does.  He goes on, day after day - livin' and longin' fer death.  Why does he do that?"

 

"Because he loves his daughters."

 

"Yes.  And what does that say about love?  How does that define it?"

 

I struggled t' wrap my mind around what he was tryin' t' make me see.  "It says that it's more important t' keep from hurtin' them, than fer him t' get what he wants."

 

Gabriel smiled, like a teacher pleased with a student's answer.  "Exactly.  That's what love really is, Jack.  When you love someone - really love someone - their happiness is more important to you than anything.  More important than your own.  Do you see that?"

 

I nodded, and felt the first tiny flutter of fear rise up inside me. 

 

This was where the other shoe would drop.

 

His eyes were kind - and very sad.  "How much do you love, Jack?"

 

I didn't have t' think twice.  "I'd a died fer ‘im."

 

"And now?"

 

I knew then, somehow.  Not th' details, o' course, but th' big picture.  But I needed t' hear it, so I could understand it all.

 

"Why don't you jus' tell me what y'er getting' at?"

 

He hesitated again, choosin' his words carefully.  "You've already figgered out that time is different here.  That it don't flow th' same as it does in th' real world.  You've been here almost six years now, Jack; that's how much time has passed fer Ennis.  An' ever' day he lives is another day o' misery.  He's never gotten over you, and he never will.  Not without some help."

 

"What kind o' help?"

 

"The only kind that can work," he answered softly.  "Help - from you."

 

I turned again and looked back at the man who had held my heart in his hands fer twenty years.  "Anything," I whispered.  "I don't want ‘im t' hurt any more."

 

The old man stared at me for a minute as if not sure whether or not to believe me.  "Again, you show me," he said with a tiny smile, "that y'er one of a kind, Jack Twist.  Did you ever know how beautiful he thought you were?  Did he ever tell you that?"

 

I felt like I was blushin', even though I didn't believe it was really possible.  "Might a mentioned it, once ‘r twice."

 

His voice was just a whisper when he continued.  "Well, he didn't know th' half of it.  But there's more t' this than you know, Jack.  And you have t' know it all, before you kin reach a decision."

 

"I know all I need t' know, if it'll give him some peace.  That's all . . ."

 

"It'll give him what he needs," he interrupted, "but it'll take away any hope fer you t' get what you want."

"I don't know what you mean."

 

There was no mistakin' th' misery in his voice when he replied.  "I know you don't.  That's what I gotta tell you, Jack."

 

I knelt by the fire, and gazed into th' flames.  "Just spit it out."

 

"All this time," he said slowly, "since you first came here, you've been waitin'.  What a you been waitin' fer?"

 

I looked up and met his eyes.  "You know th' answer t' that."

 

"I do, but I need you t' say it."

 

I nodded.  "Ennis.  I been waitin' fer Ennis."

 

"An', if things go on like they are, you can go on waitin' fer ‘im.  And someday, he'll be here.  Jus' like you want ‘im.  Ready ‘n eager t' spend eternity with you."

 

I looked up and met his eyes.  "But?"

 

He looked away, as if he didn't want t' see my face when he said what he had t' say.  "Fer you, th' time'll pass perty quick."

 

There it was - that cold, hard knot inside me that was growing bigger and darker with every word he spoke.  "And fer him?"

 

"Twenty-nine years," he answered.

 

I didn't want t' turn around again.  Didn't want t' see any more.  But I couldn't help myself.

 

Twenty-nine years of loneliness, of regrets, of guilt.  Twenty-nine years of wonderin' why, and how, and what if. 

 

Twenty-nine years of the kind o' pain I went through every time I had t' drive away an' leave ‘im behind, of empty beds and empty arms - and empty hearts.

 

I stared into dark eyes that were stricken and lost and drowning in grief.

 

Twenty-nine years.

 

I turned back to study th' expression on Gabriel's face.  "You got a better idea?" I asked finally.

 

"There's only one way t' spare him that."

 

"Which is what?"

 

I knew there was no easy way fer him t' say it, or fer me t' hear it, but I still didn't realize it would hurt so bad.  "He's gotta choose life, Jack. And there's only one way fer ‘im t' do that.  He's gotta give you up."

 

And there it was - the big pink elephant in the room that I'd hoped nobody would notice.  "Which means," I said slowly, "that I have t' give him up."

 

"Yes."

 

I looked into the fire.  "Fer how long?"

 

There was no smile on his face then.  "Why are you askin' a question when you already know th' answer?"

 

I found I couldn't look at him then.  "Y'er sayin' that he'll find somebody else.  Somebody t' . . ."

 

"Yes."

 

But I couldn't leave it unsaid.  "Somebody t' replace me."

 

"Yes."

 

"Forever."  I didn't make it a question.  I already knew th' answer.

 

I turned once more t' look at the face o' the man I loved more than my life.  "An' if I don't agree?"

 

"Then things stay th' same, Jack.  This is th' kind o' thing people mean when they talk about poetic justice.  You went through a whole lot o' shit in yer life, young Jack.  Enough t' earn th' right t' refuse t' be hurt any more.  An' if that's yer choice, nobody's gonna condemn you fer it."

 

"An' what happens t' Ennis?"

 

Gabriel settled himself more comfortably near th' fire, proppin' well-worn boots against th' warm pit stones.  "In a few days, a new buyer is gonna come t' look at th' Wesley ranch.  He's a good man.  A hard worker, earned his money th' honest way, and wants t' move from the small ranch he owns now to a bigger place with more cattle.  He's also homosexual, and he's suffered fer it, jus' like you an' Ennis did. There ain't many men who could be what Ennis needs - could give ‘im back what he lost when he lost you.  This man can.  Whether or not he buys th' ranch and gets t' know Ennis or passes on it and never meets ‘im at all, is up t' you, Jack. You gotta decide, once and fer all.  Cause once it's done, it cain't be undone.  This is where you make yer choice.  This is where you decide how you define heaven - and hell."

 

I suddenly wanted nothing more than t' take t' my heels and run away as far an' as fast as I could. "It's not fair," I said slowly. "I shouldn't have t' decide this.  I shouldn't . . ."

 

"I know," he agreed.  "But there's nobody else."

 

Nobody else, and ain't that the goddamn story o' my whole fuckin' life!

  

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

It would soon be November, and Ennis Del Mar always felt his age more sharply at that time of the year.  It always reminded him of the first big mistake he'd ever made - the one in which he'd  gone through with a wedding that he should have cancelled, and locked himself away from the man who should have been the love of his life.

 

He took a drag on his cigarette as he closed the gate on the protected pasture that would house the ranch's prime stock during the winter months, and looked up to see the pale sun making its final plunge toward the horizon. 

 

Winter in Wyoming was a harsh mistress, and he wasn't looking forward to it.  It would mean too much time spent huddled against the dark, trying to survive the travails of a frozen world, and trying to avoid losing himself in memories so completely that he would be unable to function in real life.

 

Not should have been, he admitted to himself.  Was the love of my life.  The should-have-beens were reserved for things like the life they should have shared, the home they should have built together, and the day he should have been there, to save Jack from the viciousness that killed him.

 

He hated winter more now than ever, for it reminded him that he had not been warm in six long years.  Not even in high summer, when the sweat would turn his hatband dark and plaster his shirts to his back.

 

He knew he would never be warm again.  Warmth was Jack Twist.  Without him, the world and everything in it was cold and dark and lifeless.

 

He led Black Twist into the stable and removed his saddle, preparing to go through their nightly ritual - the currying, the inspection to make sure the stallion hadn't suffered any injuries during their long day, the feeding, and the communion between horse and rider that was as necessary to the one as to the other.

 

Aside from his daughters and their families - Junior had just given birth to a beautiful little boy and Jenny had just married her high school sweetheart - there were only his horses for Ennis to dote on: Black Twist and Jack o' Spades.  To them, he was able to give some small part of the affection he would have lavished on their namesake, if he had only known soon enough - wised up soon enough - to take advantage of the wonders he had been offered.

 

That he hadn't - that he had sent Jack away that last time, ignoring the pain so obvious in those incredible blue eyes - was the greatest tragedy of his life.  He thought he would never forgive himself.

 

He spread fresh hay in the stall before escorting Twist in and settling her for the night.  In the adjacent enclosure, Jack o' Spades was already dozing, enjoying the warmth and quiet of the stable after spending a few nights out in the west pasture during the autumn round-up.

 

The Wesleys were good to let him stable his horses here; he knew they didn't have to do that, and, as usual, he never gave a thought to the fact that he was the hardest-working employee at the ranch and more than earned the keep for his animals.  Ennis had never been one to recognize his value to his employers, and most employers were only too eager to keep the knowledge to themselves and exploit the situation.

 

The Wesleys were different, treating him well and insisting that he give himself the credit he deserved.

 

He walked out of the stable and closed the door, stifling a sigh. 

 

Nothing ever seemed to work out as it should.  Daniel and Carleen Wesley were good honest charitable people who worked hard and ran a tight outfit and gave a lot to the community, exactly the kind of people that the area needed if it was ever going to grow and prosper.

 

And now Carleen had been diagnosed with kidney cancer - a strain that was said to be particularly hard to control, a nasty little bugger that was, so far, not responding at all to treatment.

 

She was thirty-six years old, and the couple had three young children.

 

Ennis was fairly sure he knew what all that meant.  Neither Daniel nor Carleen had family in Wyoming; they were both from somewhere back east, and, whether she survived her disease or not, they would need plenty of help to deal with the children and her treatments and the god-awful expenses they would incur as she fought for her life.  Daniel would not be able to handle everything alone.

 

Maybe they would find some way to hang on to the ranch and to do what had to be done, but Ennis didn't think so. 

 

They would go, having no choice, and Ennis Del Mar would be unemployed again.  Not that he couldn't always get another job, but sometimes he thought he was getting too old to be going from pillar to post the way he did.  Sometimes he just wanted to stand still for a spell.

 

Sometimes, he thought, I just wanna lay down right where I'm standin' an' never git up again.  If I did that, would you be there, Jack?  Would you come find me there?

 

He went to his truck, mumbling a little prayer that it would decide to start  on this cold evening, and was climbing in when he heard someone call his name.

 

"Ennis, hold on a minute."  It was Daniel's voice, emerging from the little office where they stored the breeding charts on the cattle.  Ennis cringed a little, already terribly weary from the twelve hours he'd put in that day, but he couldn't very well refuse to answer.

 

"Hey, Cowboy," said Daniel, as he appeared in the doorway.  He was a big, red-faced blond with broad shoulders and a bit of a beer gut, and he sometimes reminded Ennis of Jack Twist - not physically, of course, but in his manner with people.  In the vernacular of the area, Daniel Wesley never met a stranger.  "How'd it go today?"

 

"Good, Dan," Ennis answered.  "Got the last of ‘em locked down solid.  An' just in time, I'm thinkin', cause it sure as shit smells like snow t' me."

 

Daniel looked back over his shoulder, into the little office, and called out to someone Ennis couldn't see.  "See?  It jus' comes natural t' him."

 

Ennis said nothing, wondering who the rancher was talking to.  "Come in here fer jus' a minute, Ennis," said Daniel.  "Got someone I think you'll enjoy meetin', an' I know he's lookin' forward t' meetin' you."

 

Ennis nodded, not particularly thrilled to be making a new acquaintance after such a long hard day, but unwilling to be rude, and went through the doorway.

 

"Ennis Del Mar," said Daniel, face beaming, "this here's Mike Stansbury.  And I think you two are gonna be real good friends."

 

Ennis looked at the man seated at the small desk where breeding charts were scattered everywhere, and started to say hello.  Then the man looked up, and Ennis found that he couldn't make a sound. 

 

He had believed no one else would ever have eyes like that.  He had believed there was no other blue so blue or so beautiful.

 

He had been wrong.

 

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

I've been there t' see it all, and it's been beautiful.

 

T' see Ennis smile again. T' hear him laugh, and watch him get excited about life again.  T' see him wake up after his long sleep an' put aside his grief.

 

Gabriel was right.  If you love someone, their happiness is all you need t' make you happy.

 

Mostly.

 

But I learned again today how dangerous it is t' make assumptions.

 

I thought I could take it all.  I thought I could endure anythin', jus' t' know he wouldn't suffer any more.

 

And I almost did.

 

Until today.  Until he went back t' Brokeback.  Until he decided that, in order t' put the past behind him - fer once and fer all - he had t' take the place that had been our place, and change it into their place.

 

When it was done, whatever fragment of Jack ‘n Ennis that might have been there in the beginning, was erased and replaced with Mike ‘n Ennis.

 

I held on through most of it, managin' t' tell myself that I wasn't really hurt.  That this is what I wanted fer him.  An' it's true.  It really is what I wanted fer him.

 

I drifted, but close enough to see it and hear it and understand it.  And remember.

************ 

The clearing had changed some, of course.  Nothing survives for twenty-five years without changing.  But Ennis was surprised  that it still looked remarkably the same.  A little more overgrown; the trees a little taller and thicker; the stream a little deeper and wider.  But still - much the same.

 

There was the clearing where he had sat pouting while Jack packed up the camp for the journey down the mountain.

 

There was the huge rock where they had spread their bedroll on warm nights and watched the stars sweep by overhead.

 

And there - there was the campsite.  The beginning.

 

Ennis closed his eyes for a moment, knowing that he must begin to let it go, if he had any hope of building a new life with Mike.

 

Mike loved the mountain and everything about it, and Ennis loved watching him love it.

 

This would be the place; this would see the end of the nightmares that still plagued him, the past that he could not quite release - the past that Mike could no longer tolerate.

 

He had been supportive at first; had understood that Ennis could not just walk away and leave his memories of Jack behind.  But finally, after months of wrangling over it, he had delivered his ultimatum.  He would not try to battle a ghost for Ennis's affections.  It was time to lay it to rest.

 

With the descent of twilight, they built a fire in the old firepit and supped on the pre-packed food they have brought up in their saddlebags.  Then they shared a bottle of whiskey and watched the rising moon drop liquid silver across the landscape.

 

"Back in '63," said Ennis lazily, "ya could look up from here an' see them damned sheep spread out across the slopes.  They looked like lumps o' smoke in th' moonlight."

 

"Good memories," observed Mike, bracing the back of his neck against a log and looking, for just a moment, remarkably like a dark-haired young wrangler who'd done the exact same thing in the same place twenty-five years earlier.

 

Ennis closed his eyes quickly; reminders of Jack Twist were something he needed to avoid, for this moment.  "Yeah.  Good memories."  Then he opened his eyes and moved closer to the man who would be the new love of his life.  Eagerly, he reached out and pulled Mike into his arms, one hand fumbling with the buttons of Mike's jeans.  "Time t' make better ones.  C'mere, Li'l Darlin'."

 

In minutes, they were naked in the moonlight, ignoring the roughness of the ground and the coolness of the air, caring about nothing but the joining.

 

"Are you ready, Baby?" asked Mike, retrieving a tube of lube from a jacket pocket.  "Are you sure y'er ready fer this?"

 

Ennis lay stretched out on his back, eyes wide and staring up into the night sky - knowing.

 

"Ready, Darlin'," he said firmly.  "I love you, Mike."

 

The rancher made the preparations quickly, before lifting Ennis's ankles to rest on his own shoulders, and beginning to push his way into the small puckered opening that awaited him.  He managed to go very slowly, remembering that this was, after all, virgin territory.  He would not hurt Ennis, but he would drive every trace of Jack Twist's memory out of his lover - forever.

 

He need not have worried.

 

Ennis looked up into the night, and thought a single word.

 

Good-bye.

 

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

If I still needed t' breathe, I reckon I'd be in trouble now.  But I don't, so the fact that I'm frozen here makes no difference.

 

I thought I could take it all; I thought knowin' that he wouldn't grieve no more would be enough.  Guess I wasn't quite as pure an' lovin' as I thought I was.

 

It was really hard watchin' him bring somebody else to th' place where we first came together; it was jus' as hard hearin' him call somebody else, "Li'l Darlin'."

 

An' it's been hard all along watchin' him love somebody else's body, touch someone else th' way he touched me, an'  share sweet kisses with other lips.

 

But today, I think I finally know what hell is, and it's amazin' that it's such a simple thing.

 

Hell is listenin' t' the man who held yer heart in ‘is hands fer twenty years, say the words to somebody else that he was never willin' or able t' say t' you.

 

I love you, Mike.

 

And then, allowin' that same somebody new t' do the one thing that he was never willin' to do with you.

 

Gabriel was right about somethin' else.  The only way fer Ennis t' move on - t' build a new life - was t' get rid o' every trace o' the old one.

Good-bye indeed.

And now I realize that I have learned somethin' else.  My last lesson.

And Gabriel, as I somehow knew he would be, is here now, ready to act on my wishes.

"Jack," he says softly, "there is another option.  We know that, when you first make this choice, you don't know how hard it'll be.  So, even though we tell you up front that there's no goin' back, the truth is that you can change yer mind.  You can take it back an' go back t' the way it was. Then all you have t' do is wait fer ‘im t' come t' you, like you always thought he would.  Sometimes, it's jus' too hard."

I make myself turn around and look back toward the scene by the fireside, where Ennis is cryin' out in his ecstasy, gaspin' th' name o' th' man who'll fill th' rest o' his life.

And, Lord, I'm tempted.  Somethin' inside me screams out that he's still mine - that he was always s'posed t' be mine.

But then I remember him as he was before Mike came into his life.

And I can't.

"No."

"So what do you . . ."

"Don't be dumb, Gabe," I say sharply.  "You know what I want t' do."

To my surprise, there are tears in his eyes.  "Don' do this, Jack.  Please.  Give it time.  You might . . ."

"I know what I want," I answer.  "An' I ain't gonna change my mind.  So jus' git it over with."

He sighs then, before nodding his agreement.  "I'll make sure he knows, someday."

I look back again, and Ennis is sitting up in the moonlight, lighting a cigarette and laughin'. I always loved the sound o' his laughter.  "No," I reply firmly.  "He's never t' know."

Gabriel is prepared to argue.  "Jack, that's not right.  Fer anybody t' be loved like that, he should know.  He should be . . ."

"Ennis Del Mar," I interrupt, "has spent his whole life carryin' burdens o' guilt that never should a been his t' begin with.  I won't add to ‘em.  He's never t' know."

"Oh, all right."  Gabriel is thoroughly pissed off at me, but I'm determined.

"Promise me."  I've come t' know him perty well, and I've got a feelin' he'll do an end-run around me if I don't lock ‘im down tight.

He reaches out and lays a hand on my shoulder.  "Y'er a good man, Jack Twist.  I'm gonna miss ya."

He gives me a minute t' get ready, an' t' finish this - whatever this is.  It don't take long; I've said it all.

Except to tell you about my last lesson, about learnin' what heaven is t' me. 

Heaven is not knowin'.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

In the middle of the night, Ennis Del Mar was wakened by something he couldn't identify - a sense of movement, of something passing by and pausing before continuing on its way.

 

He looked out across the clearing, toward the glint of the water, and thought he saw a shadow there, but it was gone before he could be sure it was real.

 

Everything was still and silent, and he knew that tomorrow would be the beginning of a new life.

 

Brokeback Mountain had woven its magic on him for the last time; the spell was broken.

 

 

The End