Chapter Text
Like all the stock on the Twist ranch, she was a black baldy. Long-lashed brown eyes cloudy with feverish rime peered out of a stark white face, too big for the sick-starved black body. Ribs poked out from hide like an old washboard. The pale head looked like nothing so much as the skull of an animal already dead. When John Twist shot the heifer between the eyes, Jack was faintly surprised to discover there was enough blood still left in her to dye her white face red.
When Jack was a boy, maybe four or five years old, he had tried to name all the calves born on the ranch. In those days, there had been too many calves to name. His father had put a stop to it, and quick. Jack learned not to cry, and not to name the cows. He watched the heifer topple and only felt relieved when her body hit the earth with a solid thump.
“Any more sick?” Jack said.
The old man shook his head. “Not that I can tell. But I can’t get no vet out here lately.”
It was not yet five in the morning. Purple twilight teased the horizon. The evening’s last star sputtered and faded overhead. It was many hours before Jack’s alarm clock would have sounded at home in Childress, Texas, but a body never forgets the ranch.
Chipped enamel mug of whiskey-spiked coffee in one hand, Jack waved his father forward as he brought the tractor around, wedged the front-end loader underneath the carcass and tipped it into the ditch with a mechanical heave. They made good time. The heifer was six feet under when the sun’s first red rays painted the prairie.
“Quit your dawdlin, boy,” said the old man. “We got work to do, yet.”
According to John Twist, his son was perpetually dawdling. This opinion was shared by Jack’s recently ex-wife, though she might have put it differently, using words like “commitment issues” or “lack of follow-through.” These qualities did not seem to bother her at home, but they were particularly irritating to her when they impacted Jack’s sales performance and, consequently, the bottom line of Newsome Family Farm and Tractor Supply. The business would once again have a Newsome at the helm once their divorce was finalized, for which Lureen’s father would likely have been rejoicing in heaven had he managed to get there. Jack, on the other hand, felt that he was perpetually traveling at speed. A former rodeo bull rider, he could not shake the notion that he was riding life one-handed, spurs dug in deep and thighs clamped tight, bucking and spinning, and that one day it would all end in the mud.
He helped his father load up the farm truck with shiny barbed wire spools purchased at a surplus sale in Gillette. The truck was not road-safe, and the running board was rusted straight through. The cab was a long way from the ground. Jack hauled himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain. His father rolled his eyes.
“Pa, I been thinkin,” Jack said after they had been driving a minute. He had reached the bottom of his coffee mug. “I mean, I been readin, county ag reports and such. You know, the soil round here is run down, the grass is gone bad. Not just on the ranch, I mean, but all over the prairie, Wyoming, Montana, the Dakotas. Not sustainable, you know what I mean. There’s some guys out west been experimentin with soil restoration. They leave little piles of hay all round, and underneath it, the grass grows back better, greener, more nutritious like. So I was thinkin, say we give it a try, see how that grass comes up next year?”
“Nineteen fuckin years you think you’re too good for this place, and now you want a act like a fuckin soil expert, that right?”
This was more or less the answer Jack had expected. Outside the window, pale green hay fields dulled blueish gray by the early morning light pitched and rolled, landlocked open ocean breakers swollen with the desolate wind of the northern plains. Scrawny stock lowed mournfully as they passed. The grass looked like shit.
The old man parked the truck at the edge of the eastern pasture beside a long row of bare fence posts. “Don’t matter anyway,” he said, looking straight ahead. “There ain’t goin a be a next year.”
“What do you mean?”
“This operation ain’t worth the land it’s sat on. Don’t look like much up here. Nothin but scrubgrass, sand, couple a skinny fuckin cows. But underground, underground’s where the money’s at.”
“Pa, you ain’t serious.”
The old man laughed in that way he had, body pushing air through his lungs in short mechanical bursts, a joyless sound. He got out of the truck. Jack followed.
Lightning Flat, Wyoming had died before Jack was ever born. The post office had closed in 1937. For as long as Jack had been alive, any postal business done by the Twists of Lightning Flat had been carried out over forty miles away, in Weston. But John Twist was, if nothing else, a stubborn son of a bitch. When every other ranch in Lighting Flat had folded, he dug in his heels, last bullheaded motherfucker left swimming in a sea of abandoned homesteads swallowed first by grasshoppers, drought, depression, and finally coal.
“New mine’s set a start up this time next year,” he said. “We’ll ship stock in October like always. Sell the mama cows for dog food.”
“Where you goin a go? You and Mama?”
The old man climbed into the bed of the pickup and hurled a spool of barbed wire to the dry grass. “What do you care?”
Jack did care, but he knew there was no point in arguing. The wire spool kicked up a cloud of dust where it landed. The truth came out then. The Twist ranch was twice-mortgaged and bleeding out the interest. It was either foreclosure or sale.
Jack pulled on his gloves. He stood with his weight on his right leg, careful not to look his father in the eye. “Tell you what, Pa,” he said. “I’m goin a come away from this divorce with some money. Whole lot of it. Lureen and I, we ain’t worked out in the end, but she’s one hell of a businesswoman. What I’m sayin is, you ain’t got a sell. I could help you.”
“Not another word out a you, boy.”
“I ain’t no boy. I’m just tryin a help you, what.”
“I don’t need your fuckin money.” That tone of voice didn’t bode well, but in thirty-nine years of life, Jack had never developed a knack for self preservation.
“Hell, you don’t want the ranch no more, I’ll buy it off a you,” he said. “But you and Mama ain’t got a go nowhere.”
John Twist hadn’t smacked his son around since Jack had gotten old enough to smack the old man right back. But he got close. The old man snarled like a wild dog and levered his open palm up and behind his head, took a swing. Checked it at the last moment.
Jack blinked, but he didn’t flinch. “Just think about it, Pa,” he said.
“Tell you what, I don’t need to think about it. This is my spread, it’s my decision. I ain’t your fuckin charity case. You buy it, what you goin a do with it, anyhow? Not hardly forty and needin a use a block to get your sorry ass up on horseback like yous older than my daddy. Naw, the coal company can turn this place into a mine for all I care, but I ain’t takin your money. Ain’t never sellin to you.”
Jack turned back to the fence. He unrolled a length of wire and wrapped it one, two, three times around the near post, hefted the roll of barbed wire and marched to the far end of the pasture, gait uneven, left knee popping, vertebrae grinding. Sweat rolled down his arms and collected where his gloves gapped loose at the wrist. The old man had dug the posts by himself. There were no ranch hands—no people at all—left in Lightning Flat. Last year, Jack hadn’t been by when the fence needed fixing, and the old man had laid two hundred yards of fence by himself from start to finish.
They worked in silence on opposite ends of the pasture. By the time they were done, Jack’s body ached like he’d been flattened by a steamroller. He tried not to show it. But his father took one look at him, laughed that joyless laugh, and Jack knew he could tell.
Jack returned to the house around ten o’clock. He limped through the back door, tossed his gloves to the floor and kicked his shoes off in the entryway. He hung his hat neatly next to his father’s empty hook. The old man was still out in the pasture minding the calves, and he would be out in the pasture past sundown.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Twist canned tomatoes. The tuneful hum of a pentecostal hymn mingled with the smell of buttered toast and the gentle clink of years-old Ball brand mason jars. The tomatoes had apparently done better than the cows that summer. Pounds and pounds of bright red and orange overflowed in baskets and milk crates on the kitchen counter. Jack kissed his mother on the cheek and moved to serve himself breakfast. Mrs. Twist shooed him away.
“You sit down, Jack honey,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Jack wanted to object to his mother’s coddling, but his knee thanked her for it. He hobbled obediently to the kitchen table and eased himself into his usual chair.
“Your wife called while you was out,” Mrs. Twist said, setting a heaping plate of scrambled eggs and toast on the table in front of him. Jack’s mother had never met Lureen and suspected that she wouldn’t much like her if she did. Still, she was uncomfortable with the idea of divorce. Though she knew it was coming and had no desire to prevent it, Mrs. Twist did not wish to hasten her son’s ignoble descent into marital separation by appending the “ex” to his wife a moment too soon.
“Said she sent some papers in the mail,” she continued while Jack ate. “Something from Bobby’s school, and something else from the bank, but don’t ask me what. Oh, and she said someone called the house down in Childress tryin a get in touch with you. A fishin buddy of yours?”
The fork stopped halfway to his mouth. Cheerful yellow egg wobbled precipitously on the tines.
“She give a name?”
“No. She said you’d know who.”
Jack chewed. Mrs. Twist looked at him expectantly. He swallowed.
“Ain’t got a clue,” he said. Then, pretending it was an afterthought, “Maybe Ennis.” Ennis was always his first thought, but rarely the right one. Still, he didn’t know who else it could be.
“Ennis,” his mother repeated. The name sounded familiar in her mouth. Jack didn’t know how to feel about it. “You boys still see each other?”
He took another uneasy bite of egg. “I saw him in May, before… But I don’t know. Maybe not.”
Mrs. Twist turned back to the stove. Fresh-washed tomatoes plunked one by one into boiling water then straight away into an ice bath, the perennial summertime juggling act of a Wyoming rancher’s wife. Mrs. Twist divested the prepared tomatoes of their skins with machine-like efficiency, halved them with a neat snick of her mother’s paring knife. The knife had been passed down to her upon her mother’s death in 1955 along with a pair of poultry shears, a silver pie server, three chipped china bowls, an ancient foot-powered Singer sewing machine, and a single pepper shaker. It was as sharp as it ever had been.
Jack pushed the toast around on his plate. It was almost burnt, the way his father liked it, and its bitter crunch irritated the lingering yellowed bruise of his jaw. He had lately avoided mirrors, but he knew he looked out of season. Underneath the careless stubble, his face was an apple past its prime, ready to be juiced for cider.
“How long’ve you known Pa’s goin a sell the ranch?” He said.
Mrs. Twist paused, packed red mason jar suspended over the mouth of the canning pot between tight-clutched rubber tongs. “When did you find out?”
“Few hours ago.”
“ Few hours ago …” She shook her head as she lowered the jar into the pot. “I told that man to just get it on over with, but he sure done put it off a long while. I would a said somethin sooner, but he said he wanted a tell you hisself.”
“How long?”
“We thought on it for a good long time, real long time. He never wanted a do it. But it was a real bad winter. We lost ten calves in that blizzard, snow piled so high it covered them right up, poor things, and he just couldn’t dig them all out on time, not all by his lonesome. The coal company must a got wind of it ‘cause they sent someone down in person to have a talk with your daddy, brought him some papers to sign. That was in March.”
“ March .” Mrs. Twist sighed. “March,” Jack said again.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“You know what it was he signed?”
“The sale ain’t closed yet, if that’s what you mean. The agent said they’s aimin a close in October.”
“So it’s not over yet.”
Mrs. Twist sealed the simmering pot, solemn lid clattering shut. She smiled a sad old smile. “Baby, it’s over.”
Mrs. Twist was alone on the sagging back porch when the distant speck of Ennis Del Mar’s truck climbed over the edge of the prairie and started its slow rumble down the long gravel drive. Jeans, shirts, and sheets swung from the clothesline. Eyes on the horizon, she pinned her Sunday dress alongside them.
It was a hot day. The sky above was clear blue, but a westerly wind blew in fast and hard from the Pacific. The air possessed the anxious quality of an August thunderstorm. He drove with the windows of his pickup rolled down. When the truck arrived in front of the Twists’ stucco ranch house, he threw it into park and leapt out without stopping to roll them back up.
Ennis, long, lean and serious, the product of hard living and hard working, was the quintessential picture of a Wyoming ranch hand. Yet, Mrs. Twist’s first impression of him was that of a man out of place, of a jigsaw puzzle piece cut to the wrong shape. He held himself with spring-loaded stillness. It was the look of a man teetering on the narrow ledge of heartbreak.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” As he spoke, he compulsively adjusted the tuck of his shirt. “I’m lookin for Jack Twist. Was wonderin if I might find him here.”
Ennis didn’t introduce himself, and Mrs. Twist didn’t ask who he was.
“You came to the right place,” she said. “He’s just there, out in the big shed workin on the tractor.”
Some silent understanding passed between them. Ennis tipped his hat and made his way through the patchy weeds without another word.
The big shed was a saggy little building only just larger than the tool shed on the other side of the house, a gray-brown smudge perched atop the green earth. Ennis pulled aside the paint-peeling splinter-shot door. It creaked mournfully. Inside, Jack’s fancy Texas work boots, newly scuffed and battered but still recognizable, stuck out from underneath a dented Generation II John Deere tractor.
The wave of relief that washed over Ennis at the sight of those boots was so powerful it nearly took his feet out from under him. He stood there, just looking at them, until he could trust his voice to speak without shaking.
“Hey, Jack.”
The boots wriggled first, the denim-clad legs, and then the rest of Jack appeared. He sat up awkwardly, favoring his left leg. “Thought I heard your voice,” he said, wide-eyed. “Thought I was goin crazy. Or dreamin.”
Ennis’ heart skipped, and not in a good way. Jack had lost weight. His grease-stained shirt hung loose on his haggard frame, a few days of unkempt stubble prickled at his cheeks. The left side of his face was painted from chin to cheekbone with the recent memory of some vicious impact.
“Jesus. You look like shit.”
“Don’t I know it.” For a moment, Ennis thought Jack might stand up and greet him in their usual way, but he lowered himself beneath the belly of the tractor once again, still not putting any weight on his left knee, Ennis saw, hiding his face from view.
“Lureen said you was in an accident.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re gettin a divorce.”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell happened?”
Still under the tractor, Jack asked, “Ennis, what’re you doin here?”
Ennis gave no answer. Between them, there was a mutual awareness of thick, humid claustrophobia settling under the low beams of the tractor shed. After two decades of open-air backcountry rendezvous, the nearness of their bodies below a sky-shuttering ceiling was strange and unfamiliar. They chafed. Hot, sticky, dusty, close.
“Hang on a minute.” Jack took his time getting out from underneath, head swimming in the soupy summer brine. He grabbed his hat off the wood plank floor and stuck it on his head, still sat on the ground. “It’s August sixth. Thought you couldn’t get the time off.”
“I told Stoutamire it was an emergency. ‘Sides, it’s just for the weekend.”
Jack hadn’t known he could be an emergency. “Thought you was supposed to be runnin the baler all August,” he said.
“They’ll find someone else. Just for the weekend.”
Unsure what else to do, Ennis sat down on the floor next to him. He leaned his back against the tractor’s front tire.
“What’s wrong with it?” He asked finally.
“Alignment. It’s always turnin left.”
They looked at one another for a long moment. Ennis settled his hand in the space between them, palm facing up. Jack declined the invitation, jumped the gate, went straight for the heart of it right there up against the tractor tire and brought their lips, tongues, chests together with forceful energy, his hand already at Ennis’ belt buckle when suddenly he said stop, stop, not here, though he was the one that had started it, and his grease-blacked fingers never stilled, teasing the cool metal.
Ennis shuddered. “Sent you a postcard. Came back stamped ‘Return to Sender,’” he said, voice thick. “Thought maybe…”
“I’m here,” said Jack nonsensically.
Ennis pressed his lips to Jack’s forehead with rare, secret tenderness, then to the rotten bruise, and that was what finally did it. Jack pushed him away.
“I, uh, don’t live in Childress no more. Gettin divorced.”
“Yeah, I got that much figured.”
Jack re-fastened his shirt snaps where they had come undone. “Right.” Readjusted his hat. “Tell you what, friend, I got a whole lot a work to do just now.”
Ennis stood, kiss-reddened mouth a tight line of hurt. He was over-familiar with the receiving end of rejection. But he had never received it from Jack.
Jack, just as uncomfortable doing the rejecting, offered a rambling half-explanation. “My old man’s been runnin this place all by his lonesome,” he said. “It ain’t right, he can’t manage no more, and you know we ain’t never seen eye to eye on nothin, but I growed up on this spread, it don’t seem right a let it all go, Ennis, you can see that, can’t you…” As he spoke, Jack struggled to get his feet underneath him, leaning on the broad body of the dull green tractor for support. Ennis was mad enough that he almost let him do it on his own, but then Jack’s bad knee buckled. Ennis caught him around the shoulders in an almost-embrace. The fabric of Jack’s worn old shirt was warm to the touch.
Unable to help himself, Jack brought his hands to Ennis’ shoulder blades, closing the circle. Something in Ennis softened.
“Fine, then,” he said. “What all needs doin?”
“What?”
“You said you got a lot a work to do. Another set a hands’ll make it go faster.” Jack said nothing. “Came all the way out here to see you,” Ennis continued, and Jack held him a little tighter. Ennis let his head fall forward onto Jack’s shoulder, knocking his hat askew again, and finally admitted what the hell he was doing in Lightning Flat. “I was real worried about you, bud,” he said.
Summer seeped through the cracks in the shed door. They swayed unsteadily in the slow liquid light, boots kicking up dust. Jack whispered into Ennis’ collarbone.
“We’re behind on everythin. I got a get this fixed up.”
“I got nowhere else to be all weekend,” said Ennis.
And so it was that when John Twist returned to the house in the late afternoon, mud-streaked and saddle-sore, he discovered Ennis Del Mar on top of his roof replacing the rotten shingles.
Dinner was a stilted affair. Mrs. Twist served yesterday’s tuna casserole. When Jack, finally coming away from the John Deere tractor some time after five p.m., told his mother that yes he thought Ennis would be staying for supper, she hurriedly sacked the garden and the chest freezer, putting together as lavish a meal as she could manage in forty-five minutes. Alongside the tuna casserole, relocated to her favorite floral-patterned dish, she produced a side of zucchini in a dill cream sauce and a sweet-and-sour red cabbage salad. John Twist did not remark upon the change in menu, but he looked at Ennis full on with his narrow-set eyes and spit forcefully into a tin mug, which he kept on the kitchen table for that express purpose. He said a sardonic grace, served himself first, avoided the zucchini. Out the living room window, a looming tower of cumulonimbus purpled the western horizon.
Jack was abnormally quiet. He picked at his salad morosely in between bouts of vicious, no-holds-barred staring matches against his father, which Jack repeatedly instigated and then lost. Ennis, not usually talkative, found himself carrying the conversation with Mrs. Twist. He dropped it often.
The old man broke his silence. “I suppose,” he said, addressing Jack, “you think your friend is goin a stay the night, too.”
“Ennis can do what he wants,” Jack muttered. “I ain’t his keeper.”
Ennis sank under the weight of three pairs of eyes. “If you’ll have me, sir,” he said finally.
Chair legs scraped against the white washed wood plank floor with an animal squeal. John Twist marched his muddy boots up the stairs. He left his dirty plate on the table. Mrs. Twist acted as though nothing were amiss. Maybe nothing was.
“We got sleepin bags and extra blankets in the cupboard,” she said. “Take as many as you want, and you can sleep down here or up in Jack’s room, whatever you like.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Jack led him to the cupboard under the stairs, opened the door to broom and dustpan, feather duster, bottles of bleach, the odd Christmas decoration. He piled Ennis’ arms with blankets. Their hands brushed briefly together, tingling where they met. Smell of ozone in the air. The flannel sleeping bag was wedged deep in the narrowest back corner. Jack bent to pick it up, hissing through his teeth as he straightened, shifting his weight to the right.
“You maybe want some ice for that knee, bud?”
Jack stiffened. “Maybe you should sleep downstairs.”
He set the sleeping bag on top of Ennis’ stack of blankets, something unkind in that dull woolen friction, and followed his father up the stairs. Ennis stared dumbly at the plaid patterned flannel. He heard Jack’s door slam shut.
“He’s not takin the news well. Bout the sale, I mean,” said Mrs. Twist kindly.
“What sale?”
“He ain’t said?”
Ennis shook his head. Mrs. Twist sighed.
“Sometimes,” she said, “that boy is just like his daddy.”
The storm finally broke loose in the late evening. Fat pellets of rain pelted the window panes, whole house shaking with pealing thunder. Ennis lay awake on the living room floor. For the first time that he could recall, his prayers had been answered. Jack was alive and well, or well enough. Still, hollow disappointment settled beneath his breastbone. He watched the ceiling and wondered if Jack slept.
When he joined Ennis on the porch the following morning, two mugs of coffee in hand, Jack was clean-scrubbed and contrite. His face was freshly shaven, mustache neatly trimmed, and he wore a fine pair of crease-ironed jeans. The rain-dappled prairie shimmered green and gold in the early light. Jack handed a mug to Ennis, who accepted it without looking, clutched it tightly between his palms but didn’t drink. He hunched over the porch railing. It shifted under his weight.
“We sure needed that rain,” Jack said.
“Yup.”
“It’s a good thing you got that roof taken care of.”
Ennis squinted into the low sun. The porch railing was damp. His sleeves were wet at the elbows. He said nothing.
“Ennis, I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, I’d ask what the hell’s got into you, but you’d just bite my head off before I could finish askin.”
Jack leaned down next to him. Shoulders brushing. Now both their sleeves were wet. Jack searched for the right words and couldn’t find them.
The last time they had seen each other, they had fought, and badly. The argument new, but the wound still the same old wound that festered at the poisoned root of everything. Jack had wanted a life together. Ennis had refused him. Ennis had thought that what they had between them was exclusive. Jack, apparently, had not. This last revelation, hardly a revelation at all, had brought Ennis to his knees.
Privately, Ennis felt that their relationship was a decades-long war of attrition, sometimes against each other, sometimes against the world, and no matter what always a losing fight. He had been under the impression, though, that they were both in it until the bloody end. Their present difficulty seemed different somehow. Since Ennis had met him, Jack had combined optimism and quick smiles with a tendency towards moodiness and a professional-grade talent for bitching, but the heaviness that hung over him now and the volatility of his behavior surpassed anything Ennis had been subjected to in the last twenty years. He itched for something to hold on to.
“It was a car accident. Got T-boned at a busy intersection.” Jack glanced at the pristine chrome on the brand new Ford he had parked in the driveway and added, “Was drivin Lureen’s car.”
Before Ennis could reply, John Twist clattered onto the porch in his overalls and trucker cap. He let the door slam shut behind him.
“You two plannin on standin there all fuckin mornin, or was you thinkin you might get some work done before the trumpets sound on Judgment Day?”
The look of pure exasperation on Jack’s face sent Ennis twenty years back in time. He saw Jack-the-nineteen-year-old boy, sick to death of spending all night out with the sheep, hungry and needy and crazy to be a rodeo star. Ennis took his first sip of coffee. It was strong and black. How he liked it.
“Yes sir,” he said.
The old man ignored him. “What the hell you so dressed up for?” His beady eyes fixed on Jack. “You goin a church or somethin?”
“No sir.”
He spit. Foamy saliva hit the mud with an audible thwak . “Let’s git on with it, then.”
They worked into the blue afternoon. Jack hung close by Ennis’ side. As if to make up for his standoffishness yesterday, Jack found ways to touch Ennis—the small of his back, the nape of his neck, the ropy muscle of his thigh—any time his father turned his back. Ennis felt motionsick. Heat unspooled low in his belly and then snarled and tangled itself around his heart. He did not try to touch Jack, guessing correctly that Jack needed to give and could not just then open himself up for taking. When Jack limped or brought a steadying hand to his sore back, Ennis did not try to help.
He did not stay for dinner, citing a six-hour drive to Signal that night and a twelve-hour workday the next morning. Mrs. Twist packed him a tupperware full of pasta salad for the road. Jack walked him out to his truck. Their boots sank into the damp earth.
The windows were still wide open, the way Ennis had left them yesterday afternoon. The interior of the cab smelled storm-damp and stale. Jack grasped at Ennis’ shirt front and pulled him in close but not close enough, toes treading on toes, breath mingling with breath, but not closing the distance, momentum paused mid swing. They were partially hidden by the truck bed, but Jack had a clear line of sight into the kitchen window.
“I can’t come next weekend,” Ennis said. Jack let go of his shirt. Ennis still held Mrs. Twist’s pasta salad. Feeling abruptly untethered, he reached for the nearest anchor he could find, and before he could think too hard about it added, “I’ve got the girls all next week. But I’ll be here the week after. Swear I will.”
Jack’s blue eyes widened. For the first time in a long while, he dared to hope. “You better mean that, Ennis. If you say that to me, you better fuckin mean it, or so help me God…”
Ennis, not one for goodbyes, put a hand on the door handle. He turned away. He turned back again. And like it was normal, like it was something they had ever done before, he leaned in close and pressed his lips to Jack’s in a chaste kiss. A husband-and-wife kiss, an off-to-work kiss, a see-you-later-be-back-soon kiss. Eternity unfurled itself in that narrow gap of time, closed-mouth promise welling with the unspoken forever always. The ground underneath their feet seemed to shift, like the whole world had taken one step to the right.
Jack said drive safe, and Ennis said okay. Two weeks later, Ennis came back with Mrs. Twist’s tupperware.