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Chapter 1

Jack, in his dark camp, saw Ennis as night fire, a red spark on the huge black mass of mountain.

--- Brokeback Mountain --- Annie Proulx


The liquid amber glow of the afternoon sun - unseasonably bright, even for springtime in Houston - worked its way through the slats of vertical blinds and painted stripes of brilliance across my mother's face, sparking glints of platinum in the drift of glossy tresses that flowed across her pillow like water. I was struck with the realization that it mattered not in the least that the golden mane was attached to an elasticized skullcap covering the silky fringe that was all that was left of her own hair - one of many sacrificial offerings made in supplication to the gods of medical science, in pursuit of that most elusive of all blessings - a cure for cancer. The immaculately groomed coiffure was still a fundamental trait of Lureen Newsome Twist, and I was suddenly caught up in a scrap of memory so vivid and real that it caused my breath to catch in my throat.

It was the same smile that I saw every time I preened in front of my mirror, during my preening, teen-aged years; the same, but not quite. His embodied a bit more mischief, emphasized by a bit more sparkle in eyes just slightly bluer, formed by lips that curved upwards just a bit more at the outer corners, accented by dimples just that little bit deeper. On that March day in 1995, it had been twelve years since I'd seen it last, yet it remained as fresh and real to me as the sunlight on my mother's face. In that treasured memory, we had been goofing off in the back yard, tossing a football around, and tackling each other to indulge in the kind of father-son horseplay that has come to be known, in recent years, as male bonding. Back then, though, it was just my dad, being my dad. We came in together, dusty and sweaty and fighting over who would get the only cold Coke in the fridge (a fight he won, like always, before changing his mind and handing it over as he grabbed a bottle of Bud instead) and Mama came rushing through on her way out to meet friends for lunch and shopping, wrinkling her nose to let us know that we were stinking up her newly remodeled kitchen, with its hand-painted ceramic tiles and polished copper accents, and the kind of pure, bright colors that she would love throughout her life.

She was wearing a pretty pink dress that swirled around her knees when she walked, and I thought she looked beautiful, and I said so, blurting out something about her being the prettiest mama in all of Childress. And my dad's smile went all soft and sweet when her cheeks flushed rosy red. "How's my hair?" she asked, smoothing a lock back from her face.

"Perfect," said I.

"Blonde," said Daddy, with a wink.

She took my face in her hands and kissed my cheek as she replied, "My Prince Charming."

Then she kissed my dad - a quick peck on the lips - and continued, "And the frog I had to kiss to get him. I don't know why I put up with you"

Daddy grinned. "'Cause you'd be bored t' tears without me."

She smiled, cupped his face with a gentle hand, and nodded.

Twelve years, and no detail of his smile or his face had ever faded. I doubt now that it ever will.

It was cool in my mother's room, the faint whisper of the air conditioner barely audible against the soft strains of music issuing from the tiny tape deck perched among the clutter of objects arranged on the skirted bedside table. The huge bulk of the hospital bed, the plethora of IV tubes and pumps and medical monitors, and the ubiquitous, unavoidable odor of antiseptics and disinfectant made it painfully obvious that this was a hospital room, but even within the confines of a place like the M. D. Anderson Medical Center, the world-renowned Texas Mecca for cancer treatment, money - and the right name - still talked, still bought the privileges of rank. The bed might be a clunky, awkwardly-constructed monstrosity, an unavoidable necessity for a functional hospital device, but the sheets that covered it were of fine, Egyptian cotton, and the coverlet that warmed her thin body was a bright comforter bearing a designer label. The lamp on the bedside table was a Victorian-style with a hand-blown glass shade, and the pool of radiance it poured out fell on a table cover of Battenburg lace. Though it was unmistakably a hospital room, it was certainly not the kind that most people would recognize.

I suppose many people might have thought it strange that I would recognize the finer details of the setting, given my undeniable identity as a Texas boy, born and bred, who still wore cowboy boots and Stetson hats and Levis, but those could only be people who had never known my mother. As Lureen Twist's only offspring, I had been force-fed such tidbits of information from the first days of my life, although I was always careful to maintain an air of ignorance in areas where such knowledge would have been considered inappropriate or girly.

My father used to laugh at me about that, at those times when he wasn't laughing with me over the very same thing. I always believed that - deep down - he was half-way tickled to have a son who had been brought up to know which fork to use and the purpose for finger bowls and the proper way to hold chopsticks, even though he never wasted his time in trying to learn such things himself.

My mother appeared to be sleeping, and I decided not to wake her as I knew that her moments of serenity were growing steadily more infrequent. Instead, I set my briefcase aside and settled into an overstuffed armchair, upholstered with the same bright pastel print fabric that had been fashioned into Roman shades for the broad expanse of windows, and smiled as I recognized the lyrics of the song rising from the tape deck.

"And we both played along
Love is easy on the young,
Life was together.
As the world fades away
Into yesterday,
I'm losing you forever."*

My dad always claimed that my mother's fondness for Barbra Streisand was the "love of one diva for another", and she never bothered to argue the point.

His taste was simpler, of course - Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, the Eagles. But there was one song that the incredibly gifted Ms. Streisand sang that always seemed to catch him unawares and cause him to go very still, as if lost in thought, and I always wondered what kind of "misty, water-colored memories" it triggered for him. It would be a very long time before I realized that I had it all wrong, that there was nothing "misty" or "water-colored" about it.

I had resigned myself to never knowing what it was he saw when the lady sang about The Way We Were.

Of course, back then, I thought I knew it all already - had it all figured out.

I was wrong.

I took advantage of the quiet moments to study Mama's face - to note the things that had changed so radically, as well as the things that never would.

She had battled long and hard against the disease that consumed her, but pancreatic cancer had proven to be a formidable opponent. She had won an occasional skirmish, but the war was close to its end, and we all knew it.

She was the last of the Newsomes. Her father, L. D., had tried to force the issue after the death of my dad. He had threatened and cajoled and thundered and - finally - begged, but my mama was as much a Newsome as he was and just as tough if not tougher, and remained adamant. Her name would remain Lureen Newsome Twist, and her son would continue to carry the name of his father.

John Robert Twist, I had been christened, and John Robert Twist, I would remain.

L. D. never forgave her, but, by that time, he had no leverage to use against her. He had spent his entire life playing the Big Dog - swaggering and posturing, throwing his weight around and enjoying his connections in the Good-Old-Boys' network, living high on the family fortune and managing, in the process, to squander a hefty percentage of the estate left to him by his own father, a canny old merchant who'd opened a tiny feed and seed store back in the early years of the Great Depression, and turned it into a multi-million dollar farm machinery dealership. In the twenty-two years between the date of his father's death, and the occasion of his own retirement, forced on him by a heart condition brought on by a profligate lifestyle, L. D. had conducted the family business in such a slipshod manner that the net worth of Newsome Farm Equipment had declined by almost a third of its value. Luckily, from the standpoint of those who depended on the business for their livelihood - including me - he'd left a worthy successor behind him.

At the end of her first eighteen months as president of the company, my mother had recouped all of her father's losses, and was well on her way to setting new sales and income records for the year. Only later would I learn just how clever and loyal my mother was and how firmly she believed in justice and payback.

I sometimes wondered if her determination and my refusal to defy her and turn my back on the man I remembered with so much love might have contributed to L. D.'s death. He outlived my dad, but only by a couple of years.

I wish I could say I mourned for him, but I would be lying if I did. I had no cause for grief.

He was the first person who ever looked me straight in the eye and called my dad a faggot. He would not be the last, but - because he professed to love me, to claim me as his own - it never hurt quite so much coming from anyone else.

I relaxed in the easy chair and let myself drift a little, going over old memories. After a while, there was a quiet knock at the door, and a delivery girl came in, bearing a huge basket of spring flowers - tulips and irises and snapdragons and orchids - and I took it from her and found a spot for it, on a shelf by the window. I opened the card, and smiled when I saw the name of the sender.

Neither my mother nor my dad had ever had much use for politicians, both believing that they were mostly some combination of thieves, scoundrels, or power-hungry despots, and the recently elected governor of the great state of Texas was no exception to that rule, according to my mother. No flower arrangement, no matter how lush and expensive, was going to convince her to change her mind, and I figured she'd have a few choice words to say on the subject when she woke up.

I went back to my chair and spent some time just studying her face.

Her skin, always fine-pored and soft, was pale as porcelain in the wake of her illness, and her bones were sharp beneath it. Eyes, still huge and dark-lashed, were sunken and circled with bruised flesh. Make-up was still expertly applied, of course, but no amount of skill could make the blush appear natural or the lipstick coating lips no longer full and lush anything less than garish, even though her favorite crimsons had long-since given way to soft mauves and pale corals to appear less drastic against skin now faded to the luster of pearls. Perfectly manicured nails were tipped with platinum frost, but the fingers they adorned were claw-like and skeletal.

She was skin and bones and failing fast, but she still wore a creamy nightdress of watered silk, accented with a bedjacket of fern green brocade. A gold cross encrusted with garnets hung on a chain of fine links around her throat, matching the pearl and garnet studs that adorned her ears, and a filigreed gold bangle, set with topaz and jade, graced her left wrist. I remembered the day of her 30th birthday, when Daddy brought it home hidden in a twist of foil looped around the neck of a bottle of champagne. In spite of everything that had happened, she was still the woman he had always believed her to be - the one he called his "Yellow Rose of Texas."

Glinting in a stray sunbeam, a bottle of Joy perfume sat next to a crystal vase filled with scarlet roses and rubrium lilies on the narrow cabinet to the right of her bed, and beside it, a small china box contained the assortment of rings she could no longer wear since her fingers had shrunken so badly. Among them were the big marquise-shaped diamond she'd always loved - her gift to herself from Neiman-Marcus as a reward for the successful restoration of the fortunes of the Newsome-Twist family; a square-cut ruby that had belonged to her maternal grandmother, which she had inherited when Fayette Newsome had passed on, just six months after L. D. died, and the wedding ring set that she had worn since the day she and my dad had gotten married - a set that was neither gaudy nor impressive nor terribly expensive. In the past, I had occasionally wondered why she'd never traded it in on a newer, flashier model that would have been more in keeping with her style and tastes. But I didn't wonder any more. That set was symbolic for her; it represented my father, and she had never had any desire to change it.

It would go with her to her grave; I would make certain of that.

I watched her until the afternoon light began to fade and, in the encroaching shadows, noticed the faint bluish tinge around her mouth, as I realized that occasional tremors touched her, even in her sleep. My strong, vibrant mother had been reduced to something frail and fragile, and I hated the disease that was eating away at her, just as I hated what life had done to her. Sometimes, in moments of weakness and despair, I even resented my father, for not being able to be what she had needed.

I actually hated him then, almost as much as I loved him.


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As the sun sank toward the horizon, the air took on a hue like beaten gold - a color unique to the Texas landscape, I think. The only other place I ever saw the atmosphere take on that singular color, with the approach of sunset - a transparent glow like wild honey - was on the Serengeti Plain, when I'd taken a trip to Kenya after my graduation from UT. I stood and walked to the window and looked out toward the West, where elongated strips of cloud glowed burnt orange and neon rose, and I tried not to think much beyond the moment, to concentrate only on the immediacy of the dying day.

The snarl of the city's traffic was just as intimidating, just as confusing, as always, but it seemed remote; though apparently endless rows of headlights fell on serpentine streets, it was a choreography of motion occurring in silence. No sound penetrated the sanctuary of my mother's room - not until a buxom nurse in ugly dark red scrubs came bustling through the door, with her charts and her instruments and her stethoscope and her squeaky shoes, and set about making notes of readings from banks of monitors.

Mama jerked and tried to sit up in response to the commotion, but I reached her before she managed to dislodge any of the tubes or needles affixed to her body. Her eyes were murky and shadowed, and her voice, when she tried to speak, was only a breath.

"Jack?" Though it was only a whisper, I could hear the note of uncertainty and confusion, and the tiny nuance of hope. "You left me, Jack. Why did you . . ."

"Shhh, Mama," I said gently. "It's me. It's Bobby."

For a moment, I thought she might refuse to hear me. Might refuse to believe. But she didn't. Lureen Twist didn't deal in self delusion, not even when her bloodstream was pumped full of noxious, mind-blowing chemicals.

She dredged up a smile as her eyes cleared, and she touched my face with trembling fingers. "So beautiful," she said. "Ya know what? I never told him that, Bobby. Back then, ya didn't say that to a man cause ya didn't want a insult him. But he was. Most beautiful man I ever saw. Think that's why I married him."

I used my thumb to wipe away a spot of blood at the corner of her mouth, careful to make sure she wouldn't notice. "Together," I answered softly, "you were breathtaking."

Her eyes were suddenly filled with a faint glow of tenderness. "You bet we were."

"Ms. Twist," said the nurse, stepping forward to check IV lines and electrode connections, "how we doing?"

Mama rolled her eyes. "I'm sure, Nurse Cratchett, that you're doing fine. I, however, am not so great."

"Name's Rodman," said the nurse stolidly, refusing to take the bait. "Can I get you something?"

"How about a margarita?"

The heavyset woman grinned. "Can't help you there, Honey. Are you in pain?"

Mama mumbled something, once more rolling her eyes, and the nurse adjusted a control on her IV pump before making more notes on her chart and leaving the room.

"Idiot." Pain and discomfort and frustration had done nothing to improve my mother's disposition.

"They're trying, Mama," I replied. "They want to help you, but . . . "

She turned to look at me, and I saw the certainty in her eyes. "But there's only so much they can do."

I wanted to argue, to give her hope. But I couldn't find the words. I couldn't claim that I'd never lied to her; that would have been a real whopper. I'd done my share of fibbing to my parents, covering up my teen-aged stunts, fast-talking my way out of trouble, feigning innocence in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. But I'd never been able to lie to either one of them about something really important, something that mattered.

"It's all right, Bobby," she sighed. "I don't expect you to wave a magic wand, and make it right. And I don't expect you to reassure me."

I took her hand and raised it to my lips.

"God! I want a cigarette," she said suddenly.

I couldn't quite swallow my grin. "You're incorrigible."

"Always was," she retorted. "Too late to change now. Help me up, Bobby. I want to sit up so I can look out the window and see the world."

I found the bed controls and made the adjustment, then propped fresh pillows behind her. She did indeed want to look out at the world, but only after she'd checked her hair and make-up in the small silver mirror she retrieved from the bedside table. She noticed my quick smile, and gave me that 'look' - the one that every mother reserves for a son's moments of insolence.

She asked for a glass of ice water, which I fetched, and she sat for a while looking out into the growing darkness, and I took advantage of her quiet introspection to place a call to Childress, to speak to my fiancé.

"How is she?" asked my darling Chelsea - she of the laughing eyes and the delicate heart-shaped face and the sweet, compassionate disposition.

"Tell her I'm hanging in there," Mama said sharply, "and that she needs to drive over here soon. I have some things to tell her."

Chelsea chuckled. "She's still incorrigible."

"And proud of it," I answered.

"I'll come tomorrow," she said softly. "I think that's a conversation I don't want to miss."

"Shit!" I muttered, barely audible. I was imagining all sorts of information that my mother might feel compelled to pass on to my wife-to-be.

Chelsea laughed and said good-bye.

As I hung up the phone, I felt Mama turn to look at me.

"It's time, Bobby," she said. "Got some things I need t' say t' you, and I'm thinkin' it's best not t' put it off any more."

"Got plenty of time," I replied, but I couldn't quite manage to meet her eyes.

To my surprise, she laughed softly. "You are definitely your father's son, no doubt about that. He couldn't lie worth a shit either." She paused for a minute, waiting until I looked up. "You're so much like him, Bobby, but I hope life is kinder to you."

"He had a good life, Mama," I said quickly. "Too short, but good." I had never known how much my mother knew about my father's secrets, and I realized then that I really didn't want to know. And I certainly didn't want to have to provide answers, if she had questions.

But she wasn't really looking at me when she continued. "In some ways he did." She sighed again, before once more looking up to meet my eyes. "I loved your daddy, Bobby, and I truly believe that he loved me too. But . . ."

I waited for her to go on, but she seemed to be having trouble finding the right words. "But what?"

"But something happened to him. I think it happened even before I met him. Something . . . something broke his heart, Bobby, and I don't think he ever got over it. Might have had something to do with the bastard who fathered him, but I never knew for sure. I did the best I could to be what he wanted - what he needed - and sometimes I think I did OK by him. But I know one thing, for certain. Even though I'm pretty sure he never had much interest in being a daddy - not in the beginning anyway - I know that he fell in love with you from the very first moment he saw you. Your daddy loved you, Bobby; you need t' remember that."

"I know he did, Mama," I said gently, taking her hands in mine.

"He was a good father t' ya, an' I know you know, even if ya never mentioned it, that it was Jack made sure ya got what ya needed to get ya through school. I was always too busy workin' an' . . ."

"Just stop right there," I interrupted, and swallowed a smile when I noticed the look of annoyance that touched her features. "You were taking care of business, and so was he. It took both of you to raise me."

"Do you remember that last day?" she asked, eyes once more shadowed and opaque. "That last mornin', before he . . . ."

"I remember," I said quickly. "He was going to see a man about a horse, for me. If he'd gone somewhere else, maybe he . . . "

She lifted her hand and placed her fingers over my mouth. "Now you stop that," she commanded, showing a spark of the spirit that still existed within her. "It sure as hell wasn't your fault. It would a happened anyway."

I closed my eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks that she really didn't know how right she was.

We were both quiet for a time, lost in memory. "There was somethin'," she said finally "botherin' him. Somethin' he never talked about. He'd been so quiet the last few months before he died. I always wondered if he might a felt it comin'."

I stood then and walked to the window, where full night had fallen, but what I was seeing in my mind's eye was far different from what lay beyond the glass. "He smiled at me when he was getting in his truck, and said that he was going to find me the best damned horse in the state of Texas. Then he reached over and messed up my hair - like he always did - and said, 'Gonna make a cowboy out a you yet, Li'l Buddy.' Then he drove away."

Her smile was gentle. "Not such a bad moment t' have for your last memory of him, is it?"

I didn't offer up an answer, for fear of betraying something of the raw emotion rising within me. There were still some things I was not prepared to share, could not share, with her.

"There's somethin' . . ." She paused, and drew a deep breath, and I heard the rattle in her chest and felt a moment of pure panic. "There's somethin' I need ya t' do, Bobby. For him and for me. Somethin' that he wanted us t' do. An' I managed t' convince myself that it didn't really matter. He was dead, after all, and he'd never know anyway." Once more, that deep, painful breath. "But somehow, it does matter. An' it's not somethin' I can still manage t' do for him, so it's gonna have t' be you."

A strange stillness seemed to settle over me then, as if I knew - somehow - that what she wanted from me was important; that it mattered, although I would never fully understand why.

"There's a place up in Wyoming," she said softly, barely audible. "A mountain. A place your father chose as his final resting place. He asked fer his ashes t' be scattered there, but no one ever tried to carry out his wishes. I never understood why it was special t' him, but I see now that it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that it's what he wanted."

I turned to look at her and was surprised to see a note of desperation in her expression. Somehow, with all that she had endured, all that had spun out of her control, she had fixated on this one thing - this one small sin of omission that was still within her power to rectify. "I want you to promise me that you'll see to it," she continued. "I want t' give 'im what he asked for."

It never occurred to me to object. When your mother looks up at you with death in her eyes, and asks you for one last favor, you'd have to be the world's biggest dickhead to refuse, and while there might be a few people eager to hang that title on me, I wasn't yet ready to claim it for myself. "Where is this mountain?"

She shook her head. "I'm not exactly sure, Bobby. I think it was called Buckback Mountain, or somethin' like that. I don't know how t' find it, but I do know someone who can."

"Who?"

"Jack's old fishin' buddy. His name was Ernest Delmer."


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*The Love Inside -- Wally Fraser, Mark Birch

TBC