A reporter eased up behind Coots. "What are you going to do now?"
Disgust washed over Coots's face. "Blow it out. What the hell do you think we're going to do, sprinkle water on it?"
"Look, this is all Greek to us. We know you guys are tired; so are we. We're doing a job just the way you are. What do you say, give us a break, okay?"
No sleep and too little food was making Coots hostile. He
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looked at the newsman; his face was weary, his voice tired. "When the nitro gets here, we're going to wrap it in asbestos that's soaked in water. We'll attach it to the end of that extension, that one over there that's jutting out." Coots pointed a thick-gloved fist in the direction of a D-7. "Our plan is to blow the two wells on each end at the same time. Timing here is crucial. Then we're going to take a shot at the middle one, the poison one. See those pits over there? The detonator wire leads into those pits. This is the best way since the wire runs are closer together. We'll pack the nitro in a drum. You guys are too close; get back now. That's it; no more talk!" He started to walk away.
"What happens if some of that asbestos comes loose or one of those insulating wires has a hot spot?"
Coots turned. "We won't be around to care. I told you, we're taking every human precaution. We're going to double-wrap the asbestos; we'll check the booster caps ten times, maybe eleven. If the insulated wire is defective, someone is going to have to ask for a refund." The joke was flat-sounding, and the newsman didn't get it at first. "You got any more questions?"
"Good luck, Mr. Buckalew. Okay, guys, let's move back, like the man said."
Coots took a minute to stare at the monster shooting upward. He'd never seen such a fire. For the hundredth time he worried if he really had the expertise to kill the horror that surrounded him. The heat was so intense he could feel the skin on his face peeling. His stubble of beard had been singed off yesterday. The heat was getting worse, an indication that the well was ready to blow. He needed a man to drive the Cat carrying the asbestos. Who? All his men were old, like himself, with children and grandchildren. None of them had the steady nerves required to handle the job. He was going to have to ask for a volunteer. He looked around at the tired men, at Riley and his crew. All were bone-weary.
Two hours later, he heard the sound of the Coleman helicopter. "That's it!" Coots shouted. "He'll set down on Number Three in a few minutes. I need a volunteer to drive the Cat." He waited.
Riley looked around. He'd thought about nothing but this since Cole took off for the nitro. He knew he was that volunteer. He waited a moment longer. Coots hadn't looked his way once. He sucked in his breath. "I got a driving license."
The relief in Coots's face made Riley smile. "You're it,
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Coots poured himself a cup of coffee that was so black and thick, it looked like tar. His eyes bulged when he swallowed it. "Tastes like something Tess makes on the Fourth of July. I ain't gonna kid you, Riley. What you're volunteering for is more dangerous than Cole flying the nitro here. If you ever had thoughts of one-upping your cousin, this will do it."
Riley danced around the makeshift office on tired feet. "Just tell me what to do, Coots. If it doesn't work, none of us will be alive to care."
Coots outlined the job in detail. "The way I see it, boy, is we got maybe another forty-five minutes and then she blows."
"Let's go," Riley said. "I have to see Cole before I do anything."
"Make it quick. We're on a countdown."
Riley stared at his cousin as Coots and his men carried the nitro off the helicopter. "You're an ugly son of a bitch! I was never so glad to see anyone in my life! The doctor is over there waiting for you. Cole ..."
"Do you think Sumi will still love me if they cut my leg off?" Cole asked groggily.
"Hell, yes."
"Good. Who's driving the Cat?"
"You're looking at him. The least I can do for you is finish what you started. Wish me luck, Cole."
" You're what...?'
"I'm driving the nitro. You did your share; now it's my turn. I can handle it! I gotta go; we're on a countdown. If... you know ... you'll know what to..."
"I don't plan to dance on your grave with this leg, so you damn well better..." Cole's thumb shot up.
Riley returned Cole's vote of confidence. "What say we tie one on when this is over?" Cole nodded.
Cole watched his cousin as he loped off. For a moment he gave in to the pain, but only for a moment. His eyes went to the stern-looking doctor. "Change the dressing and give me another shot. I'm not leaving here till my cousin is standing next to me. I'll not hold you responsible, Doctor."
"I brought a crutch," the doctor muttered. "Will you at least use it for now?" Cole nodded.
Riley sat in the Cat, his tired mind reviewing what Coots had told him. He crossed his fingers and made the sign of the
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cross, the way he always did before a test when he was a kid in school.
All about him the fire raged, crackling and splintering in his ears—deafening. His skin felt charred. Even his red suit was black now. Sweat poured down Riley's face and from his armpits. His throat was thick with smoke. He swiped at the sweat dripping into his eyes with a filthy rag. He could use some radar right now. His eyes were on Coots's flag watching for the countdown. He prayed for better visibility. All about him thick gray-black smoke circled like some obscene monster bent on attacking him. The Cat moved backward, the drum holding the nitro in its asbestos cover secure—for the moment. Riley continued to sweat. The rig moved slowly when the flag waved. He wiped the sweat from his forehead a second time. If the nitroglycerine didn't hit just the right spot, it wouldn't kill the fire. He strained his eyes to stay steady with the flag, his mind playing back the picture of the detonator wire that led into the pit and then spliced into the plunger. At the last split second his gaze went to Cole and then to the flag.
Seconds later his part of the job was over. He was still alive! Riley leaped from the Cat and ran, diving for cover the last fifty yards. He crawled the rest of the way to safety. Three seconds later he heard Coots yell "Hit it!" He strained to hear Coots bellow the same order three more times.
When Riley raised his head, the prairie was clearly visible. Just seconds ago the thundering inferno had blocked the view of the prairie. He felt faint.
The shouts that echoed upward and around him made his adrenaline flow. Jesus, they'd done it and they were alive. No casualties but Cole, and he was alive. Being alive was all that mattered.
Riley got to his feet. From here on in, it was Coots's show.
Coots walked away from the aftermath of the fire. He wanted to be alone, to think, but first he needed to strut.
He looked back over his shoulder. Satisfied that his moment of glory with the newspapers and the Colemans was over, he hitched up his Levi's, rocked back on his heels, and then cocked his grimy Stetson at an angle. He squared his shoulders like a gunslinger. He flexed his fingers, filthy with soot, before he hooked them into his belt. He was ready. He was singing the words to "Deep in the Heart of Texas" as he strutted his way to his pickup truck. For those few moments,
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he felt like a king. It wasn't till he was in his truck and away from the fire site that his shoulders slumped. It was over, behind him now. Past. History. He'd redeemed himself in his own eyes, but what the hell did that mean? A man needed someone to pat him on the back, someone to say, you did a great job, and my God, you could have gotten killed; God was watching out for you, you dumb bastard.
His eyes were watering, probably from all the soot and grime. He rubbed at his eyes with his filthy shirt sleeve. Ivy should have called, or sent a message out to the field... something. He'd expected it, wanted her to call. Lacey, too. It was too much to expect Tess to stir herself and come around.
All these years he thought he hated Buckalew Big Wells; now that he was cutting loose, he worried that he'd hate his friend's small apartment with the k
itchen he could barely move around in and the stall shower that was made for a midget. He knew the refrigerator would be empty. There wasn't even a decent TV set, just an ancient fifteen-inch black-and-white job. He'd checked it all out.
He had money now. Riley had told him about the fund his grandfather was setting up to bail out the oil industry. He'd be back on his feet in no time, he'd get himself a nice new condo with a spare room for Ivy. He was on a roll now, thanks to Riley.
Coots let himself into Joe Wilson's apartment and headed straight for the midget shower. On his way he noticed the blinking red light on his friend's answering machine. He shivered and he noticed his hand was shaking as he pressed the play button and waited. Lacey's voice spoke to him, halting and unsure at first, but then it changed to a warm, caring concern. "Pop, this is Lacey. I just heard about the fire. I called Mama and she said she didn't know any details. Ivy called me at work and told me what she knew. I've been glued to the television. I saw you after the fire. God, Pop, you could have been hurt. I'm so proud of you, Pop. You're a hero! I realized when you were out there fighting the fire that I. ... I left home with things unsaid and hard feelings. ... If something had happened to you, I don't know what ... I'm glad you're okay, Pop. Here's my number if you want to call...."
Coots's shoulders straightened a little as he waited for the next message. Tess must have told the whole world where he could be reached. The Colemans, one after another, left congratulatory messages. He preened a little when he heard Tess's
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voice. "You coulda killed yourself, Coots Buckalew, and for what? To get your picture in the paper. You should know that your insurance lapsed." Tess's voice changed slightly when she said abruptly, "I'm glad you came out alive. I mean it, Coots."
Coots felt his eyes start to water again. He knuckled them. Ivy's voice shouted at him. "Pappy! You made it! Man, I was rooting for you all the way. I even brought my TV to the office. I kept telling everyone you were my old man. You know how I feel about Riley, right? Every time I saw one of the news bulletins, I only looked for you. Jeez, Pappy, I'm glad you're okay. Lacey's been burning up the wires asking for details. I told her what I know. She said she was going to call. Give her a break, Pappy, and be as kind to her as you've always been to me. When I spoke to Mama, she was real upset. She said if there was one thing you knew how to do, it was put out a fire. She's real proud of you, Pappy, but she's real upset because you've... gone. End of message. I love you, Pappy."
Coots blinked to ease the burning in his eyes. The damn feeling wouldn't go away, even after a steaming hot shower. When he felt whistle-clean, he dressed, shaved, and brushed his hair into place. Now he was ready to make some phone calls. He leaned back in the one comfortable chair and picked up the phone. He'd return the calls in the order they came in. Then he'd get some sleep. All he wanted now was sleep. That's what he wanted, but he needed something else; he needed his family.
A tired smile crossed Coots's face. "I can get two extra days early next month," Lacey told him. "Ivy said she could, too, so we'll both be coming home, and it doesn't matter where home is as long as you're there. I love you, Pop, and I'm glad everything ended up okay. Take care of yourself."
Coots knew he should call Tess next, but he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to her. He dialed Ivy's number and grinned at her excited voice. "I knew if anyone could pull it off, it would be you. I'm so proud of you, Pappy, I could just bust! Why don't you get some sack time and let fame and notoriety wait till tomorrow? Take the phone off the hook. Uh, Pappy, how is Riley? He's okay, isn't he? I mean, he looked okay on television and all, but—"
"Lookin' good, honey. That kid has a head on his shoulders. Didja see how he gave me all the credit? Takes a big man to do something like that. Tomorrow I'll give you all
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the details of what his granddaddy is goin' to do for all us oilmen. Thanks for callin', honey."
Two down and one to go. Coots squirmed in his chair. Should he call Tess or not? It would be the polite thing to do. Jeez, she had called him. The girls said she was concerned. What the hell, he could always hang up if she got a burr in her bloomers and started whining and bitching. It was a good five minutes before he could bring himself to punch out the numbers on the phone. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until the phone went unanswered. He counted the rings —eleven, twelve, thirteen. He slammed the phone back onto the cradle. Thirteen was unlucky. Damn, he should have hung up on the twelfth ring. He felt both aggravated and relieved that Tess hadn't answered the phone. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he missed the stringy old bobcat. They'd been together for a lot of years. An itch that wouldn't go away, a blister that hurt. An old shoe and an old sock.
As Coots reached out to sleep, he could feel the tears slipping down his leathery cheeks. He cried then for the would-haves, the could-haves, the should-haves.
The morning papers carried pictures of Coots's crew, Riley, and assorted Texas oilmen. There was a picture of Cole leaning on his crutch with his fist in the air. The moment he saw it, Riley decided to get a print from the Austin Gazette and have it framed for Sumi. A second picture worthy of framing was one of himself and Coots at the poison well site. Coots had his arm around his shoulder, and they were talking earnestly. The caption underneath quoted Coots as saying he was grateful to Riley Coleman and his grandfather, Shadaharu Hasegawa, who had set up a fund to get the Texas oil industry on its feet.
Power ... the power of love. His grandfather's love.
He was home free. Coleman Oil was intact.
He'd faltered, but he hadn't fallen. His grandfather had seen to that.
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iUfUiii CHAPTER }))}))}}} TWENTY-FIVE """"'
Tess sat alone at her baronial dining room table. For the first time in her life she was alone. Coots had been gone for a month, and she missed him. She picked at her dry toast. Her appetite was gone and she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a hearty meal—probably not since the day Coots came by for the rest of his things.
The moment the door closed behind him, it was all downhill. She'd spent hours walking from room to room, and more hours poring over astrology books. Saturn and Pluto were out of alignment. She'd charted and scribbled and finally tossed the whole mess into the trash. She alternated between fear and anger—anger that Coots had walked out on her and fear that she would wither and shrivel up in Buckalew Big Wells with no one to talk to for the rest of her life.
Tears gathered on Tess's false eyelashes. She tried blinking them away, but the glue was sticky and the miserable things were so heavy, she couldn't keep her eyes open. She ripped them off and tossed them into an ashtray. They were trash now, just like everything else in her life. Trash, trash, trash. Even she was trash. "Tess Buckalew, you are nothing but trash, poor white trash," she bleated. She'd pissed her whole life away, and for what? To be alone. Everyone was gone. Her daughters were gone; Coots was gone. Her family. Suddenly all the things she'd wished for weren't important. If she could make wishes now, she'd wish for Lacey and Ivy and Coots to walk in the door. She couldn't hold the tears in check any longer. She sobbed for her loss.
She stopped suddenly. She was a mother. She was a wife. Lacey and Ivy hadn't disowned her. Coots hadn't divorced her. . . yet. Maybe, just maybe.
Before she could change her mind, she punched out a series of numbers on the phone. Her voice was hoarse and choked when she identified herself, saying she wanted to put Buckalew Big Wells on the market. "And," she told the voice
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on the other end of the phone, "I want to buy a three-bedroom house in town."
The second call was to Eastern Airlines. She booked a seat on the evening flight to New York. Lacey would open the door to her; she wouldn't turn her away, not when she heard what she had to say. It was only too late if you didn't try. She'd stop and see Ivy on the way back. Ivy was in town now, in her new apartment, with a job she loved. Ivy would open the door.
Her heart beat
faster when she thought of Coots. They'd come a long way together, and only an old fool would let it all slip through her fingers. If she had to, she'd get down on her knees and beg Coots to take her back.
It took Tess a long time to wash the hair spray and gook out of her hair, and even longer to remove the caked-on makeup. When she emerged from the shower, she put on the dress she'd worn the day Billie Coleman came to lunch. When she looked in the mirror she wanted to cry. She'd never been a beautiful woman, and she hadn't aged well at all. The makeup she'd plastered on her face had accentuated the wrinkles and her scrawny neck. How could she have been so blind? Ivy had always told her she wore too much and had said, "But, Mama, you're pretty; you don't need all that junk." Beauty, then, was truly in the eye of the beholder. Ivy thought she was pretty. Lacey tried to help, and she hadn't listened. Once again she howled her anguish.
Tess sat down on the upholstered toilet seat and reached for a tissue. She blew her nose again and again. "You are a jerk, Tess Buckalew," she said aloud. "Talking to the bathroom walls isn't the answer. You have to go to your family and tell it like it is. You have to hope and pray they are more understanding than you were." She paused, worried. What if they don't want anything to do with me? What will I do then? Then a tiny voice said, 'You will pull up your socks and move forward. You have the rest of your life to make up for the past.'
Tess stared into the mirror again. She should put on a little makeup, at least some moisturizer. Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, she'd scare the passengers on the plane. She looked at her watch. She had three hours before her flight to New York. Time to bake her Poor Man's Cake for Lacey and Ivy. One for Coots, too. They all loved that cake. That's exactly what she'd do. It wasn't much in the way of a peace offering, but maybe if she said the right things ...
Tess measured out flour and shortening; she knew the recipe by heart. Her mind raced. This feeling, this need of family, was
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