I grow old - I grow old -
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

Lureen sagged down onto the bed. It'd been the roughest three months of her life. It couldn't get worse. She'd had to ID the body, and that was a memory she could not get out of her mind. Jack's crushed-in face haunted her every night's dreams. She felt nauseous from the image. Then there had been the funeral arrangements and funeral, counseling for Bobby, fending off unwelcome remarks from neighborhood bigots, trying to ignore the newspapers and the rumors, and finally trying not to kill this Randall Malone with her two bare hands. She could hardly believe how angry she was at Malone. Maybe this was all his fault: her sleepless nights, and her tearful son, and her slandered name, all because of some ranch foreman across town. She really did want to kill him. Jack and Randall were both married, what right did they have? Then again, she'd long suspected Jack was having an affair, she'd just assumed it was with that dumb, talkative little woman-- what was her name? LaShawn. Well, Randall was still alive, he and LaShawn were getting a divorce, and she was left with an utter mess of a life. Not fair. Not fair at all. Lureen could barely restrain the tears. But she did. She was not a crier, and she could not afford emotions. Didn't have the faintest idea of how to deal with them.

Her thoughts were everywhere at once. Tonight she was going to clean out his things. She'd promised herself. She'd been putting it off for too, too long. Jack might not have been her best lover or the ideal husband, but he certainly was one of her best friends, and his death had been hard on her, his manner of passing more so. She didn't really love Jack Twist but she felt sure he deserved something better. She rose, armed with trash bags and boxes. She had to get this task done and over with.

They shared a bedroom, but not a bed. They also had separate dressers, separate closets, separate sinks in the bathroom, separate bars of soap, everything separate. They shared a teenaged boy. Had shared. No more.

The closet was simple enough. Dress shirts, dress slacks, work suits and church suits, jackets. Nothing special. Jack wasn't too sentimental, she reflected. Maybe he didn't have much to be sentimental about.

She knew he had something though. She'd known about it all along. In hindsight, she'd known about a lot of things all along that she hadn't let herself know at the time. She hadn't known about Randall; that'd been a surprise. But she knew about Jack. She'd never thought so, told herself she was being silly, until that phone call. "We was good friends," she heard his voice in her ears. She didn't feel too guilty for lying to him; these nightmares she had about Jack, there wasn't any need for him to have those nightmares too. Although she also had a sense that he would have been stronger, been able to remember Jack's face like it used to be. She also had a sense that he'd heard between her words. Something about that man's voice told her he'd seen tire irons before, and put to good use, too. Only a powerful force like that would have kept Jack in Texas all these years. Ennis must really be a man among men; he turned away Jackrabbit Twist and his blazing blue eyes and even brighter smile at the end of every 'fishing' trip. Couldn't get much tougher.

Laughing at her own stupidity, Lureen moved to the dresser drawer, third down, back behind the socks, where she'd known all along Jack kept an old box of postcards. The collection was incomplete. She'd had to send the last one back. Why had she spent so many years thinking it was normal for men to keep each other's post cards?

"Man's gotta have friends, don't he," she spoke aloud to herself. "Man could get pretty attached to an old friend, I bet. Thought they mighta' met as kids or something. Thought maybe they known each other a long time, real good friends. Guess that part was right, anyway." She opened the box. The cards were all simple: "You bet," "March 3," "See you then," "Can't wait," "Sounds good." Yup, she had him pegged, this Ennis. Tough bird, no doubt, to write two-word answers and keep turning Jack back down that highway year after year after year. Her respect for Jack rose a notch. He was some hanger-on if he needed to be. She began to feel a strange desire to meet Ennis. If Jack were willing to work so hard for this man, what was he like?

Odd, that she wanted to kill Malone so badly, but had an itching desire to see Ennis with her own two eyes, to welcome him into her home. Ennis was something different. Jack had first spoken about him after their wedding. She forgot his exact words, something like, "Now I gone and got married! How 'bout that! My friend Ennis, up in Wyoming, he got married couple years ago. Didn't think I ever would, though." The memories came flooding back, about how Jack would mention Ennis from time to time at the beginning of their marriage. A few years later he'd stopped though. Sometimes he would laugh and start-- "You know who would love that?"-- then refuse to answer her when she asked who he meant. Probably meant Ennis, she knew now. She'd heard him speak about his 'Wyoming friend' a couple times to Bobby, too. She'd been real deaf, then, self-imposed. Jack never could keep his mouth shut proper. Luckily, she'd never been terribly good at listening.

Well, now she had Ennis's address, anyway. She'd had it all along, and especially had it when she'd sent that post card back to the post office, but now felt different. She'd talked to him on the phone. That was the start. She didn't know what she was doing or whether she had the guts to send it, but she thought to start a letter. Carrying the box of postcards to her office down the hall, she set it on the table. Lureen bit her lip, lit up a smoke, and studied the box hard. She wanted to do this. She and Jack had been friends, and she wanted to do this for him. She had been mad at Jack for a few weeks-- still sort of was-- but she needed to settle this, here and now. She needed to prove to herself that she could do something for Jack. She didn't want to be mad at Jack any more. At Randall, yes. At Ennis, no, there, too. Somehow being mad at Ennis felt like being mad at Jack. Somewhere in her mind the line between them started to blur, and she wondered why she really wanted to meet Ennis. She hoped it wasn't to try and recapture something of Jack. No, it was something else. She'd never known real love, fairy-tale Disney story love, but it made her sort of happy that Jack had. Maybe that was his recompense for the crushed face that was all she could see of him any more without the aid of a picture.

Hands not shaking at all, she pulled a piece of "Newsome Farm and Tractor" letterhead from the desk. Not knowing where to begin, she just did:

Mr. Ennis del Mar;

I've been cleaning out some of Jack's things, and there are some items pertaining to you. I thought I should return them to you. I'll send a box along in a week or two.

She considered ending the letter there, but she still felt haunted. She had to say more.

I reckon you can ken the real reason behind Jack's untimely death. I'm sorry I couldn't speak more plainly on the phone, but I hadn't quite figured out if you ought to know the truth or not. You struck me as someone who'd figure it out anyway.

I thought you would want to know I got no hard feelings. I know I didn't make Jack so very happy as a wife. He was a good man, full of energy and love, and I always wondered where he got that optimism that came so naturally to him. Maybe he had it all along, maybe he got it from carrying you around in his heart all the time. I'm just glad he had something to carry around in his heart. Mine's been empty a long time.

She paused, her breath starting to come in ragged chunks. She felt she was saying too much of the unsayable, but Jack's face, in her mind's eyes, was no longer so beat up. She could almost see his eyes twinkling, but only almost. She had to keep writing.

I thought you'd want to know that Jack did speak of you. I hadn't hardly imagined-- well, then, but I didn't want to-- but I ought to have seen in retrospect. He did speak of you. Sometimes he would tell me what jokes you would think were funny, or about your horses, or even once about your daughters. I remember he said, "they were the prettiest lil things, just like angels" or some such thing. I can't say. I know I haven't been too good of a listener, but I do feel like I know you. If you ever need anything, we're here, as good as family. That extends to your daughters, too. I don't know if Jack's parents will extend the same invitation. Not his father from the way Jack talks, but maybe his mother.

I hope I'm not asking too much when I ask you to please write back to confirm you got this letter. I know writing it is settling my mind immensely. I would have called you if I'd known where to look. I probably would have known where to look if I'd tried. I must confess I didn't try very hard, and that was wrong of me. It wasn't fair to you to find out some other way, that postcard I sent back. Sorry about that.

I am afraid my letter has run long. I imagine you are not a man of many words, if judging by your post cards gives any account. You told me you were sorry for my loss. It's true I lost one of my best friends, but I am afraid it cannot compare to your loss, and I know no apology I could issue would fix it. Hopefully my invitation can. I imagine it'd make Jack happy anyway. I always was a sucker for his smile.

Sincerely,

Lureen Newsome Twist.

The letter looked oddly long and personal sitting there on her desk. Her letters typically ran more to the one-to-two sentence variety. But she could see Jack smiling, no scars, no blood, bright blue eyes as clear as day in her head. She considered not mailing the letter, her own conscience somehow cleared just by the writing of it. But she knew, now that it was written, it was needed-- twelve hundred miles away in Wyoming.

Sunday morning found Ennis not at church-- he hadn't been since the divorce-- but instead straightening up the trailer. He cleaned just once a week, and not too thoroughly, but he didn't want Junior coming by and seeing a mess, either. She had a tendency to drop by unannounced, but Ennis didn't mind one bit.

Ennis stumbled down his trailer steps to get yesterday's mail. He wanted a smoke, and stopped to light one. Three tries, and the wind blew out his lighter each time. Sighing in frustration, he pocketed the lighter, and went for the mail. Was a windy day. That didn't surprise him much, though. Most days were in this flat god-forsaken land.

What did surprise him was a single, white envelope adorned with a pretty female hand. Even that did not surprise him as much as the return address. Childress, Texas. This had to be Lureen, he knew. He remembered her cold, emotionless voice on the phone. Was she has heartless as she sounded, he wondered? He found his hands were shaking as he reached for the trailer door, still staring at the envelope.

It's true I lost one of my best friends, but I am afraid it cannot compare to your loss, and I know no apology I could issue would fix it. He read the sentence a second time, stood to pour himself another cup of coffee, but thought better of it and poured a shot of whiskey instead. He lapsed into a recent habit of his, one he'd tried to break, but now ignored. "Whadda ya' got to say about that, Jack? Don't that beat all?" He leaned back over the letter, reread again, It's true I lost one of my best friends, but I am afraid it cannot compare to your loss, and I know no apology I could issue would fix it. Hopefully my invitation can. I imagine it'd make Jack happy anyway. I always was a sucker for his smile. "Does it make ya' happy, bud?" Ennis smiled a tight, bittersweet smile. I always was a sucker for his smile, Lureen had said. Would this recapture Jack's smile? Didn't need much recapturing for Ennis. Whenever he thought of Jack he saw that smile, all eyeteeth and mischief. But there was something desperate about the way Lureen said it, like she was desperate for that smile. Desperation. That was an emotion Ennis could understand.

Suddenly feeling older than his years, Ennis leaned back in the rickety chair. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his eye. "Fuck, Jack, what the hell am I supposed to do?" Do I just up and write her, 'yeh, glad to know you know I was fucking your husband for sixteen years and then some, so glad for the invitation, the girls and I'll be right there.' Wanted to say it all aloud to Jack but couldn't, never knew who could be listening. I imagine it'd make Jack happy anyway, she'd said. What would? Issuing the invitation? Sure, Jack'd be happy just to know Lureen was accepting all this, to know anyone was accepting all this, but what'd really make Jack happy, Ennis knew, was to know Ennis was accepting all this. It was an idea he still hadn't gotten used to. He'd made a vow, whether to himself or Jack he couldn't be sure, didn't seem to be much distinction any more, but he'd made a promise that he was going to come to terms with this. He had a lot to come to terms with. Lureen was willing to accept, out in the open of her family, it seemed, that Jack and Ennis had been in a queer relationship. Ennis was not quite as ready as all that, but that's what would make Jack Twist happy, oh boy yes. And Ennis had always been a sucker for Jack's smile.

Ennis eyed the envelope, leaning against his steering wheel. 1226. That was the right number. Now or never, and he popped open the door of the truck.

The sidewalk seemed interminably long, and he half expected someone to pop out of the bushes to beat the crap out of him before he could make it to the door. Ennis held the envelope in front of him like some sort of shield. It was his guest pass to be in this place. He was allowed. He was invited. He pushed the doorbell.

"Coming," he heard a female voice shout. Then the door swung open. "Can I help you?"

Ennis, caught off guard by the youthful face and full head of improbably-colored blonde hair, having difficulty imaging his Jack with this woman, finally understood what Jack had felt that day he'd been introduced to Alma. This woman could-- and had-- gone out, danced, dined, and held Jack Twist's hand, for 20 years, all in public. What right did Ennis del Mar have to show up at the widow's house, pretending to be something to somebody? Who was he to be here? The widower, that's who. But he hadn't really been a part of this Jack Twist's life. The Jack he knew lived on a mountain twelve hundred miles away. He didn't realize he'd been standing on the front porch without saying a word for almost a full minute.

"Can I help you," the woman repeated. When he didn't answer, she huffed, "good day," and started to close the door.

Ennis knew he had to find his voice, now and here, and claim what had been his all along, now in death, more so since he hadn't in life. "Uh, Ennis del Mar, ma'am?" He hadn't meant for it to come out as a question, like he was asking permission to be Ennis del Mar-- but in way he was.

She opened the door wider. Now she was silent. She eyed him, and he shrank from her gaze, burying his brow deeper in his hat brim, looking down, and fiddling with the envelope in his hand. When she didn't speak, he repeated, more articulately this time, "Uh, hello, Mrs. Lureen Twist? I came by to tell you I got your letter."

Now she laughed. "I meant for you to write to tell me you'd got it, not to drive to Texas."

"Oh, umm, is it not alright that I'm here, ma'am? Wouldn't be no bother for me t'head back," he lied.

"No, no! I said like family, and I meant it. Jack would want it that way. Come on in." She held the door wider and Ennis stepped into the cool air-conditioned white-tiled front foyer like he was being born a second time.