“Night,” Jack replied.
In his room, Morgan ran over the day in his mind as he got ready for bed.
Maybe hewasan asshole because he needed Jack gone for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, as though he’d listed them on a mental sheet of paper that had turned ephemeral, vanishing with diaphanous ease.
He needed Jack to leave because. Because why? Because he needed to be alone so he could focus on the task at hand, getting the books and the feed and grain in order so he could sell.
But he wouldn’t be able to sell until spring, according to Mabel, Gus, the three old guys, and his own lawyer. So if that wasn’t going to happen for at least six months, why the hurry to get Jack out the door?
He didn’t want to answer that question, but he knew why. Because before Jack, he had truly believed that it was better to stay alone.
In the short time Morgan had known Jack, though, the young man’s company had been like a flicker of light on a dark, starless night. A swath of brightness, offering companionship and showing Morgan that the world was not so bad.
And he knew, as he brushed his teeth, then steadied himself to pee, balancing evenly on both legs, the wall at the ready in case he needed it to lean on, that the occupants of the town of Hysham—trustworthy, sturdy souls, seasoned by High Plains blizzards and blistering summers—had been trying to tell himthe same thing. That there was something worthy to be found, if only he could pull his head out of his ass to see it.
He could imagine Mabel’s reaction to Morgan kicking Jack to the curb simply because the connection between them had gotten too complicated.
Wrapping his robe around himself, he looked down the passage to where the kitchen door was slightly ajar. Beyond that, across the landing, Jack was lying on his futon. Asleep or falling asleep.
There was nothing for it but to turn out the lights, go to bed, and gird himself to be cheerful and polite in the morning. To stick to his current plan, even if it hurt.
Sending Jack away would be for the best. Jack had been headed to the coast before they’d met up, and now he would be continuing on his way, and that was that. Morgan would make him wear his new clothes and give him his money so he could buy that hot dog from the beachside vendor.
An hour after getting into bed, Morgan told himself that it was the glow bouncing off the banks of snow outside that was keeping him awake and not his own head full of thoughts, a churning that couldn’t let him find a comfortable spot on the pillow.
He should close the blinds. And he could take something to help him sleep, as sleep was the key to healing. Or he could stay awake, a form of self-punishment, darkness and shadow and restlessness, that he probably deserved.
After another hour, the sheets rumpled beneath him and above him, the twisted blankets on the verge of flinging themselves to the floor, Morgan’s body was still tight and he was still wide awake.
The post-midnight train would soon be coming, slinging itself along the tracks, announcing—two long blasts, one short,another long—the moment that it would reach the railroad crossing for the street right next to the feed and grain.
He didn’t mind the lonesome sound. It was a good reminder that it was late, time to sleep, and its regularity was a signal that the world wagged on and he was only in Hysham for a while. Then the rest of his life could continue.
The apartment was still, no activity but the old furnace in the basement battling the persistent cold. Morgan couldn’t hear Jack at all, of course not. So why did his ears ache from listening?
Then he did hear something. A foot on the stairs. The click of a door, the one at the bottom of the landing, sounding impossibly close. Or maybe the building was creaking in the cold, and the wooden floors had carried the sound to him.
A whistle of wind signaled a door being opened and closed. Morgan imagined the rush of cold air racing up the stairs, battling against the leftover warmth from the small stove in the parlor.
He pulled his robe around him over the sweatpants and T-shirt he’d worn to bed and, barefoot, tottered down the hall as quietly as he could, moving through the dark kitchen, across the landing, and into the parlor.
Which contained only darkness and long shadows, the couch, the faint glow of the stove, the easy chair at the far end of the room. The empty futon.
Jack’s leather jacket and boots were gone. The bedding was folded, as though Jack had never lain down for a good night’s rest.
So where had he gone? Not to the bathroom; Morgan had just come down the hall.
Glancing out the window, between the slats of the blinds, he saw the glint of starlight on the snow. And a lone figure, dark against the brighter blue-white surroundings, heading up theroad to the railroad crossing. Where it halted as though waiting for the train.
Maybe Morgan hadn’t told Jack that no trains would slow down, let alone stop. The fact that the train Jack came into town on stopped long enough for him to get off had been a happy accident.
It wasn’t likely to happen twice. And the idea that Jack imagined he could hop aboard a train going at least twenty-five miles an hour—maybe more, since it was the middle of the night—solidified into a horror that made Morgan cold all over.
Jack was going to try, and it was going to kill him. And then not only would Morgan actually be the asshole he was always worried about being, losing Jack would kill him, too, or whatever part of him that was worth a damn.
Even if Jack managed the jump, it was well below fucking zero degrees out. Jack’s leather coat wasn’t enough to protect him against a night such as this. He’d need a thick blanket, something to build a fire in, and heavy gloves. A hat. And damn boots that had more than a paper-thin sole.
Morgan was to blame for this. Him and no one else.
