by Deeanne Gist
He couldn’t help wondering, though, if Darius had followed up. Or if Spreckelmeyer had even heard of them. Maybe he’d go to the judge’s house after work and ask him about it.
A man dressed in black with a boy in tow approached Paul Wilson, who was stacking pipe on the north side of the rig. The salty old roughneck was stout in the back, weak in the head, and had the biggest hands Tony had ever seen. He stretched one of them out and shook with the stranger.
“That’s Preacher Wortham,” Grandpa said, taking hold of the drilling line in order to judge what was going on down in the well. “Good fella.”
“Kinda young for a preacher, isn’t he?”
Grandpa glanced over at him. “Same age as us, I reckon.”
“Exactly.”
The driller shrugged. “Don’t see why God cain’t use him same as some old geezer.”
Tony studied Wortham more carefully. Nothing about him looked like any preacher he’d ever known. This one was quick to smile, broad as an ox and probably just as strong.
“That his kid?”
“He’s not married. That little fellow’s an orphan who was adopted by a local couple a few years back.”
The preacher caught sight of the derrickman up in the attic and gave a wave. “What’s the weather like up there, Jeremy?” he hollered.
“Purty near perfect, Preacher. You wanna come up and see for yourself?”
“That’s a little too high for my liking, I’m afraid.”
“Shoot. You’ve climbed plenty o’ trees in your day. This ain’t no different.”
“The difference is I got older and wiser and prefer to keep my feet planted on solid ground.”
Jeremy grabbed the casing line and leaned out over the men, dangling above them. “Well, I got older, too.”
“What about wiser?” Wortham asked.
“Married me the prettiest gal in the county, didn’t I?”
The preacher chuckled. “That you did, Jeremy Gillespie. That you did.”
“Hey there, Harley. What you doin’ out here?” Jeremy asked the kid.
The boy cracked a smile, revealing a chipped front tooth. He hooked his thumbs in the straps of his overalls and squinted up at Jeremy. “Preacher’s gonna take me fishin’ after he’s done savin’ a few souls.”
“It’s a good day fer it. Bet they’ll be biting.”
“The fish or the souls?” Harley asked.
43 Jeremy laughed. “Both, I reckon.”
Stepping up onto the derrick floor, the preacher nodded at Grandpa and offered a hand to Tony. “Howdy. I’m Ewing Wortham, pastor of the First Christian Church on Sixth Street.”
“Tony Bryant.”
“You’re new around here. Where you from?”
“Beaumont.”
“Well, welcome to town. You have a wife? Kids?”
“A mother and sister, sir.”
“Well, I’d sure like to see y’all join us on Sunday morning. Mr. Alfrey here attends our services. I’m sure he’d make room for you on the pews.”
“Sure, Bryant. You come on out with me and the missus.” Grandpa adjusted the drilling line, taking up some of the slack so it wouldn’t spring up and kink.
“Where’s your family staying?” Wortham asked. “I’d love to call on your mother and sister.”
“He don’t have no family here,” young Harley said. “He stays in Mrs. Potter’s boardinghouse and keeps purty much to himself. I ain’t never seen him go to a saloon even once.”
Tony gave the youngster a closer look. He appeared to be about ten, well fed, and with big brown eyes that, apparently, didn’t miss much.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Tony said, extending a hand.
“Howdy. I’m Harley Vandervoort.” He pumped Tony’s hand. “I have a ma and pa. If’n you come to church, you’d be able to meet ’em.”
Tony looked up at the preacher, but Wortham simply smiled.
“ ’Courst,” Harley continued, “if’n you ever go to the Slap Out, you’d see my pa there. He plays checkers near every day. ’Cept Sunday, of course. You play checkers, Mr. Bryant?”
Tony nodded. “I’ve been known to play a time or two.”
“Well, if’n you come out to the store after supper tomorrow, I’ll play you a game. But don’t feel bad if you lose. I’m the second-best player in town.”
The preacher chuckled and slapped Tony on the back. “Well, then. It’s all settled. Checkers on Wednesday. Church on Sunday.” Leaning in, he gave Tony’s shoulder a squeeze. “Though I’d wager you’ll find Sunday more to your liking. We got us some right pretty women all dressed up in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and smelling of rose water. That’s sure to be a nice change from looking at these crusty old fellows.”
Grandpa shook his head. “Everybody’s old to you. Except maybe Jeremy up there. Now go on with you. I got me a rig to run.”
Smiling, Wortham tugged on his hat. “See you Sunday.” He sauntered across the field toward the rig next door, Harley skipping behind him.
Tony had seen the mercantile called the Slap Out over on Collin Street. A game of checkers would get him out of that cramped boardinghouse and maybe even help clear his mind. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt any to visit the First Christian Church either, but he had no intention of tangling with the young ladies there. His mother and sister were counting on him. He had no time for distractions.
“Quit yer squinting at the sun, Rope Choker,” Grandpa said. “I’ve got me some tools over there that still need sharpening.”
Taking his cue, Tony returned to the grindstone and started on the next drill bit.
Marrying “down” had certainly agreed with Shirley Bunting Gillespie. The banker’s daughter had always been an attractive girl, but after her nuptials to Jeremy—a boy from the other side of the tracks—she’d come into full bloom.
Essie moved away from the refreshment table and signaled the girl with a slight nod.
Immediately, Shirley rapped her gavel on the lectern to get the group’s attention. Although she’d dressed in a no-nonsense shirtwaist of starched white cotton, trying to look more the authority figure, nothing could disguise her youthful exuberance. “It is time to resume the meeting of the Corsicana Velocipede Club, ladies.”
After making announcements, having the minutes of the last meeting read, and receiving the balance sheet—which showed the club to be in a flourishing condition both financially and numerically—Shirley had adjourned for a short break. At the sound of the gavel, the women began to make their way back to their chairs in the seed-house-turned-bicycle-club.
When the club held its weekly meeting, chairs were arranged facing the bandstand on the north wall of the massive structure, just overlooking the wooden rink that dominated the room. Bleachers flanked the rink down the length of the western wall, and on the opposite side of the building were small rooms set aside for selling bicycles and bicycle parts, along with ready-made clothing and patterns. There was also a small repair shop and an office for the staff.
“As you are all aware,” Shirley said, watching the ladies settle, “Mrs. Crook is unable to attend this evening’s meeting due to the birth of her twin baby boys a few weeks ago.”
A swelling of voices ensued as the ladies shared comments about that celebrated event.
It was sometimes difficult for the women to get away in the evenings, but with the discovery of oil, Corsicana had gone from a quiet farming community to an oil boomtown. And with that growth had come a swell of new “businesses” on the east side of Beaton Street.
And though the bicycle club had many male members, they’d not been able to attend any of the daytime meetings. In an effort to accommodate the men’s schedules—and to lure them away from the public houses—the Velocipede Club changed their Tuesday morning meetings to Tuesday evenings. Yet no men came, and the women had long since quit expecting them to.
Shirley struck the lectern three more times. “Please.”
They quieted.
“Since Mrs. Crook isn’t here to make the introductions, it is my pleasure, as your treasurer, to present our teacher, the founding member and owner of the Corsicana Velocipede Club, Miss Essie Spreckelmeyer. She is going to lead us today in a discussion about a rather delicate matter.”
The ladies tittered behind their gloved hands, not daring to speculate aloud as to what that matter might be. Shirley gave Essie an encouraging smile.
When she reached the front of the assembly, Essie placed a basket at her feet. She hadn’t braved the topic of bicycle fashion since that debacle in New York. In spite of the effusive compliments she’d received from club members for winning first place, Essie knew many of the ladies had been shocked by the newspaper accounts, most of which were grossly inaccurate.
There were only three reasons a woman’s name should ever appear in the Corsicana newspaper: being born, getting married, and keeling over dead. To provoke a full article not just in the Corsicana Weekly but in newspapers scattered across the country was nothing short of appalling.
So instead of coming home a reigning queen, she had slinked back with her tail between her legs. But it had been almost three weeks now. She decided it was time to quit her cowering. Steeling herself, she faced her peers.
“Life in a corset is one long suicide,” she began. “But nothing short of death will get us to admit it.”
The fidgeting stopped. As if everyone were playing a game of freeze tag, no one breathed, or even blinked.
“Ours is a living death, though. Fainting. Indigestion. Restriction of movement. Shortage of breath.” She placed a hand against her stomach. “Worse, it can endanger not only a woman who is quickening, but it can harm her unborn child, as well.”
She paused to make eye contact with several women in the audience. “Is an hourglass figure really worth all that?”
The murmuring started in the back, and before long many of the women were leaning sideways to whisper with a neighbor. Shirley pretended not to notice and gave Essie another encouraging smile.
Usually, Essie addressed this topic individually with her students during private lessons. Never before had she spoken so openly to the group.
Whether their rumblings were due to the injustice of the corset or the boldness of the topic, she did not know.
“Dr. Weller Van Hook of Chicago recommends cycling for women because it requires the discarding of ‘the murderous corset,’ as he calls it.”
She heard an audible gasp. Glancing over, she saw Mrs. Bogart, the retired preacher’s wife, turning an alarming shade of red.
“I’m not suggesting we throw our corsets out altogether,” Essie continued. “I do, however, strongly recommend the use of a modified corset while riding.”
She reached into her basket and held up a white eyelet bicycle corset. At the sight of the garment, several matrons in the audience covered their mouths and lowered their eyes. Mrs. Bogart sat rigid with shock.
Essie paid them no mind. “Notice its shortened length for easy bending at the waist?” She pulled until the side panels began to stretch. “See that? These panels are made of a new stretchable fabric called elastic, so it’s even more flexible. The American Lady Corset Company is offering free bicycle accident insurance for every garment purchased.”
At the sound of a bargain, some of the murmuring stopped and a couple of the ladies in the back craned their necks for a better look.
Essie continued as if she were discussing something as ordinary as how to fry a chicken. She unfurled a new advertising poster that read, “Pretty Women Who Ride Should Wear Smith’s Corsets.”
She quoted excerpts from medical journals cautioning women not to cycle in traditional corsets. She even went to the dress form she’d brought from the back room and demonstrated how to lace the corset so it wouldn’t cut off the wearer’s breath.
“An article in Lady Cyclist last week cautioned that a host of sufferings arise from ‘interference with the circulation of the blood and the prevention of the full play of the breathing organs,’ ” she said.
In conclusion, she offered ten percent off any bicycle corsets purchased at tonight’s meeting. By the time the evening was over, she had sold a half dozen new corsets.
Mrs. Lockhart approached her afterward and gave her a pat on the arm. “Quite an informative lecture, my dear.”
A few short years ago, the petite, elderly widow had worn unrelieved black from head to toe. A more traditional lady couldn’t have been found. Since learning to ride the bike, however, she had embraced the modified corset and split skirt—going so far as to wear them even when she wasn’t out cycling.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Essie said.
“What do you plan to discuss next week?”
“Bicycle Etiquette for Courting Couples.”
“Excellent. I shall look forward to it. And how is our young racer coming along?”
Essie smiled. “Splendidly. Mr. Sharpley trains with me five evenings a week. He is quite proficient on the wheel and I think this might be the year for Sullivan Oil to claim the trophy. Wouldn’t it be something if Corsicana’s hometown oil company won?”
“The townsfolk would be ecstatic. Might even name a street after you.”
Essie flushed with pleasure.
Mrs. Lockhart paused in the midst of pulling on her gloves and peered at Essie over the rim of her glasses. “But you’re training Mr.
Sharpley five evenings a week, you say? That is quite a bit of time to be spending with a young man without chaperone.”
“He’s barely eighteen,” Essie said, reining in her exasperation.
“I hardly think it qualifies.”
Mrs. Lockhart buttoned her gloves thoughtfully. “Jeremy married our little Shirley this year, and he’s eighteen.”
“And Shirley is twenty,” Essie whispered, hoping none of the other ladies could overhear. “I, as you well know, am almost twice that.”
“Tut-tut. You’re merely thirty-three. Plenty of time left yet for breeding.”
Essie rolled her eyes. She’d turn thirty-four next week but did not feel inclined to mention that fact. “Good night, Mrs. Lockhart.
I shall see you later in the week for your lesson.”
After the last of the women shuffled out, she and Shirley began to place the chairs against the wall. They’d barely cleared the first row when Jeremy stuck his head inside the door.
“Is it safe?” he asked in an exaggerated whisper that echoed off the cavernous walls.
“Jeremy!” Shirley squealed, hurrying to him. “We were just straightening up.”
The young man strode in with a cocky grin and eyes for nothing but his bride. “I came to walk you home.”
“How long have you been out there?”
“Long enough to be glad I wasn’t in here with all them harpies.”
Shirley swatted his arm. “For shame. Those ladies are the life and soul of this place. Now, come help me and Miss Essie.”
“Howdy, Miss Essie,” he said, tipping his mud-caked hat. As an oilman’s point of honor, his hat stayed filthy, but the rest of him was clean as could be. His starched and pressed blue cotton shirt fit taut across his wide shoulders. He’d cinched his denim trousers with a store-bought belt—which was a good thing, since there was nothing in the south end of his frame to hold those pants up. With the young man’s help, they quickly finished storing away the tables and chairs.
“I’ll do the sweeping,” Essie said. “You two go on.”
“Are you sure?” Shirley asked.
“Of course.”
“Thank ya, Miss Essie,” Jeremy said, grabbing Shirley’s hand.
“Good night.”
She watched the two hurry out, a smile on her lips. Such an unlikely couple. One just never could tell.
Humming to herself, she began to sweep the yawning floor when the hinges on the door squeaked once more.
“Did you forget something?” she asked, looking up.
But it wasn’t Jer
emy or Shirley or even one of her club members in the doorway. It was the new toolie her father had hired the previous week.
chapter FOUR
“WHY, MR. Bryant. What brings you here?” Essie asked.
The new hire stood in the threshold of her clubhouse, dressed much the way Jeremy had been, but the effect was entirely different.
Jeremy had the shoulders, but this man had the chest, forearms, and legs to go with it.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
Closing the door behind him, he took off his hat and revealed a thick mat of brown tousled hair. She noted that this past week in the sun had added a bit of color to his face.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
He glanced over the rink as he moved toward her, obviously impressed by the size of the place. His black boots tracked mud across her floor, but she knew better than to scold him. Oilmen put as much stock in slush-marked boots as they did their hats.
At least she hadn’t swept that part of the floor yet. Perhaps she’d make him do it. The thought made her smile.
He took stock of her Parisian toque hat and the cherry velvet bows decorating her chest, elbows, and waist. Stopping at the edge of her skirt with its full four-yard sweep, he tapped his hat against his thigh.
“Miss Spreckelmeyer, are you aware your operation is just about ready for the boneyard? All the boys in Pennsylvania have switched from cable-tool rigs to rotary drills. If you don’t make improvements, you’ll be obsolete before the year is out.”
Her lips parted.
“I’ve already spoken to your father about it,” he continued, giving her no chance to reply. “But he said you were in charge of deciding what supplies he needed and when. So I’ve come to discuss it with you.”
Staring at him, she had no idea how to respond.
He put his hat back on his head and rested his hands on his hips.
“You do know what a cable tool and rotary drill are, don’t you?”
Good heavens. “Mr. Bryant. How on earth did those Morgans let a man of your qualities slip through their fingers?”
