by Pamela Morsi
The constant drumming against solid rock dulled and warped the bits. Frequently they were removed and beaten back into shape. It was the tool dresser's job to keep the hot forge burning and to pound the heated bits upon the anvil into their proper dimensions.
The worst of the sun was just over when the evening tour, which Tom learned was pronounced "tower," arrived at six. There was some quick welcome, much talk of the accident, and nods of acceptance toward Tom. Each man had a few words with his night-shift counterpart. The evening tool dresser was a serious, sober fellow who accepted Tom's lack of knowledge or experience without any comment or change of expression.
Finally, the day crew began tramping back down the hill and along the riverside road to the ferry crossing.
Tom was exhausted. All he wanted was to get back to his narrow bunk at the clean cheap beds and sleep until dawn.
"Walker!" he heard called out behind him.
He stopped and turned to see Cedarleg hurrying along after him in his awkward, unsightly gait.
"You trying to catch a train, boy?" he asked Tom. "I'm practically at what counts for me as a dead-out run to catch you."
Tom shook his head and shrugged. "I'm just so blamed tired," he admitted. "I guess I thought if I slowed down I might fall asleep at the side of the road."
The older fellow chuckled. "I hear ye," he said. "It's just a matter of getting used to it. The first day without so much as a bush to get under. That sun just saps it out of ye."
Tom nodded. "My bunk isn't much better than the side of this road," he said. "But it is sure looking pretty good to me now."
"That's what I wanted to ask you," Cedarleg said. "Where exactly are you bunking?"
When Tom told him, he shook his head and tutted with disapproval.
"You cain't bunk there, that's a roustabout place."
"Huh?"
"In the oil fields," Cedarleg explained, "we're kindy clannish. Each group of workers stays among their own kind. We eat together, sleep together, socialize together. We don't mix with others."
Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Now, it ain't what you're thinking," Cedarleg told him quickly. "It ain't like tank builders think they are better than rig builders or roughnecks think they are better than roustabouts, though they probably do. It's not even like where folks is from, though most of the rig builders hail from the mountains of Tennessee and Kentucky and the tool pushers usually got factory experience up north somewhere. What it is mostly, is that the way you get to be a good tool dresser is by listening to and talking with tool dressers that got more experience than you."
"That seems reasonable."
"You see how we work," he said. "The driller and I both dressed tools in our time. But the rigs and the way they're run changes ever' day. If you're really going to learn about it, you got to be around the men that's doing it."
"So I need to find a bunk among the tool dressers," Tom said.
Cedarleg nodded. "It's the best way. You can get your own tent in the tool dresser's part of the camp. You'll be one of them and they'll share what they know with ye."
Tom nodded thoughtfully. "How much does a tent in the tool dresser's part of the camp cost?"
Cedarleg didn't answer immediately. "I don't suspect that you got much money for stepping up in the world," he said.
The statement required no reply.
"I know what you can do," Cedarleg said. "You can stay with my woman and me for a week or so 'til ye get on your feet."
"I couldn't do that."
"Sure ye can," he assured him. "The pushers' camp ain't far from the dressers and I can take you around, introduce you to some fellers."
"I couldn't impose on you and your wife."
"You wouldn't be. Ma and me, we got us a nice, tight little place and she'll love you to death. We got a boy about your age working down in Bay town. His wife is going to make me a grandpa in the fall. Ain't that something?"
Tom laughed along with him.
It was impossible, he discovered, to refuse Cedar-leg's invitation.
"Much appreciate it," Tom told him finally.
The older man clapped him on the back as if delighted. And he continued a steady stream of oil field explanation as they walked down the road.
The ferry across the Arkansas was obviously doing a steady business. The railroad crossing was fine for trains and men on foot, but there was no wagon bridge across the river. The area near the ferry docking was crowded with vehicles of all types, the drivers patiently awaiting their turn on the twenty-foot flat boat that was pulled across the river by ropes. The day tour workers made their way past a butcher's cart, around a lumber dray, and in front of a canvas-cooled milk truck. The ferrymen were just completing the loading of a heavy tanker. Already tied down in front was a brightly painted peddler's wagon. Tom stepped on board aside Cedarleg, hesitating only briefly to hold the head of a nervous horse as the ropes for the second vehicle were secured. As soon as they pushed off into the water, the two moved out of range of the tanker's disagreeable scent.
Leaning against the side rails, he drew in a deep breath of fresh air. Cedarleg had struck up a conversation with one of the boatmen and Tom was alone with his thoughts for a long moment.
He knew this river. He knew it well and today it was deceptively quiet, wide, and slow-moving. He had seen it wild and dangerous. It had tempted him to escape. Not far downstream was where Shemmy Creek flowed into it. And up that creek, six long miles, was the Methodist Indian Home. He remembered reading Tom Sawyer and dreaming of rafting down Shemmy Creek, making his way to the Arkansas and freedom forever. He'd even gone so far as trying to piece a raft together.
When Reverend McAfee had caught him, he'd blistered his backside. Years earlier three boys from the home had gone riding on logs down the flood-risen stream. All three had drowned.
"You'll be grown and heading downstream soon enough," he'd told Tom with great seriousness. "And I fear you will discover that it is far easier to begin the journey than to maneuver in the stream."
He pushed the memory away and turned from the river to admire the fashionable scene painted in an oval upon the side of the yellow-and-blue peddler's wagon. With the men on the rigs working twelve-hour shifts six days a week, most had little time to visit the stores and vendors in town. So the peddlers brought the merchandise to them.
Tom read the name above it and had only an instant to note the significance of nafee emporium before a familiar figure stepped out from behind the wagon. The two men recognized each other immediately.
"Mr. Crane! Ah, what surprise to meet soon again."
Tom stared, near dumbstruck at the sight of the strange foreign fiancé of Princess Calhoun's friend. He glanced quickly toward Cedarleg to see if he'd heard Tom addressed by another name. Gratefully he had not.
"Uh . . . uh . . . Mister uh ..."
"Bashara," the fellow supplied. "Maloof Bashara, but you please call only Maloof, yes?"
He offered his hand. Tom took it mutely, his thoughts swirling with faster fury than a June tornado. He was caught, well and for sure caught. Here was a man who knew him as Gerald, but now met him dressed as Tom. He was grease-stained, dirty, and sweaty. It was obvious that he'd just put in a day's work on a rig. He had been introduced to the peddler as a gentleman, but now he stood before him clearly as a worker.
Tom was dumbstruck and uncertain. Should he offer some explanation? What sort of explanation could it be? How well-known was he to Cessy? Would he mention the chance meeting to her? Certainly he might speak of it to his young lady. Would she tell Miss Calhoun that he was seen heading back from the oil fields in worn, dirty overalls and work boots?
"It's . . . it's good to see you again ... ah, Ma-loof," he managed to get out finally.
The foreign fellow pumped his hand with enthusiasm.
"You name Jarrett? Jarrod? Jerat?" Maloof struggled to remember correctly.
Tom ignored the implied question.
"What fun the party, yes?" Maloof said, chuckling. "We laugh, we dance, and then today . . ." He sighed dramatically. "We work again as if life is no pleasure."
Tom relaxed slightly. Apparently the foreigner didn't comprehend the disparity between Gerald Crane of last night and the man who stood before him now.
They had had fun at the party. The peddler had a keen sense of humor and the two young women were full of easy laughter. It had been a pleasant evening, but it had been Gerald's evening, not Tom's.
"Good to see you again, Maloof," he said assuming the cultured voice of Mr. Crane. "I didn't realize that you worked for Mr. Nafee." He gestured toward the wagon.
Maloof grinned, it was an expression that seemed to come easy to his nature. "Yes, I peddle the wares of the father of my future bride. I think I am to prove myself worthy."
"Does he wonder if you are worthy of her?" Tom asked.
Maloof's eyes widened with mischief. "Oh no, he thinks I am fine for her. He wonders if I am worthy of his business."
The foreign fellow had a great laugh at that. Tom raised an eyebrow and chuckled with him.
"Who's yer friend, Tom?" the words came from Cedarleg who'd stepped up beside him.
With a lightning decision, Tom introduced Cedar-leg to the peddler using Gerald's voice.
The tool pusher gave him a curious look but made no comment as he politely shook Maloof's hand.
"I am not friend," Bashara explained in his unusual way to the older man. "But not enemy for sure. We share ladies."
"You share ladies?" Cedarleg's question was incredulous.
Maloof laughed and shook his head. "No, no, I speak English no good. We do not share. We each have our own."
"Tom, you didn't tell me you had a lady," Cedarleg teased, with a well-aimed elbow poke to his ribs.
"Well, I . . . uh . . ."
"Our ladies are like sisters."
"Sisters?"
"Miss Muna and I are to be married," Maloof continued. "But just last night he met Miss Prin."
Cedarleg whistled with appreciation. ."Just in town one day and already met you a gal."
"She's a very nice young lady," Tom said. "And I am of age."
"Of age to be courting for certain," Cedarleg agreed. "And I'm a great believer in it. Been married twenty-three years myself. I'm as happy about it this evening as I was on the first day. A feller gets himself the right woman, he cain't do no better in life."
Tom smiled in tacit agreement, but wanted a change in subject. He glanced at the wagon and figured he could kill two birds with one stone.
"I need a suit, Maloof," he said. "If a man is going courting, he's got to have a suit."
The peddler's eyes alighted with pleasure. "For you, the best I've got."
Tom gave a nervous glance toward Cedarleg. "Not the best you've got. Something . . . something fine, but thrifty."
Maloof grabbed Tom by the shoulders as if measuring their width and gave a little huff of approval.
"I have perfect, perfect. For you, fine big man, perfect suit."
Maloof hurried to the back of the wagon and began sorting his merchandise.
Cedarleg was grinning at him. "So this Miss Prin," he asked. "Does she have a first name?"
"Cessy," Tom answered without hesitation.
"Cessy Prin." He said the name over thoughtfully. "I don't think I heard that name before. Is her folks here among the oil people?"
"Ah . . . no," Tom answered. "Her father has a business in Burford Corners."
"Lord boy, be careful," Cedarleg cautioned. "Them town daddies don't take too kindly to us oil field men."
"I don't believe that her daddy knows about me yet," Tom told him in a conspiratorial whisper.
Cedarleg hooted with appreciation. "So you're hooking her good and true and will have her reeled into the boat before daddy knows it's fishing season."
"Something like that."
"Lord have mercy," Cedarleg said, pointing to the clothing that Maloof was carrying. "Look at the bait."
Tom was looking at it, concern in his expression. Cedarleg already knew he had no cash, but Maloof obviously still thought him a wealthy gentlemen.
"I don't wish to spend a lot of money," he said firmly, embarrassed at the admission.
Maloof took up his words as a challenge. "I can see that you are a man who appreciates the pleasure of bargaining."
Princess Calhoun lay stretched out on the maroon velvet fainting couch in the sun parlor. It was only just sunset, but here on the east side of the house, the room was already dark and shadowless. With no lamp lit, it would have been impossible for her to see the book that she held in her hand. But it didn't matter. She had read Robert Hunter's Poverty many times and committed whole sections of his elegant words to heart. But tonight she hadn't even attempted to decipher one word.
She'd taken off her spectacles and laid them on the table beside her. She was very nearsighted and without the thick lenses that brought the world beyond the length of her arm into focus, she often felt disoriented and vulnerable. But somehow in the dim, blurry world of the sun parlor, she felt she could see into her own heart much more clearly.
She was lost in a dream, a very special dream, as familiar to her as the life she knew all around her. It was a fantasy that she had held close to her aching, lonely heart for a very long time.
In her mind's eye she saw a huge church crowded with people. All were dressed in their best finery and all looked back toward the door expectantly. She appeared there on her father's arm. Her dress was of the most delicate ivory silk, beaded and adorned with lace. As they walked to the front every eye was upon them, her father beside her was puffed up and smiling. And she, Princess Calhoun, was the bride beneath the long, frothy veil. She could not even see her own face, but she knew from the reactions all around her that she was, in her own way, beautiful.
Her father leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I am so proud of you, Princess,” he said.
Her heart took wing over the clouds. She was beautiful. Daddy was proud of her. And today, today for the very first time, she could see the man standing at the front of the church.
She closed her eyes and hugged her book to her bosom.
"Gerald," she whispered to the dark, lonely room. "Oh Gerald, I love you."
Just hearing herself say the words brought a laugh of pure joy to her throat. She had never been in love before. Never, not once. But she had believed in it. She had known that it was there.
Many of the social reformers that she so admired were not as certain. Progressives of both genders were often quick to refer to love as a "trap" and marriage as "slavery." But Princess believed the very best about both and wanted each desperately.
She and Muna had carried a torch for Bennie Blakemon when they were sixteen and still in Corsi-cana. They had called it love at the time. But it was just a game. All the girls in that end of Texas were "in love" with Blakemon. He was a big old lonesome cowboy and every female heart sighed after him.
Neither she nor Muna had ever exchanged a word with the fellow and Princess seriously doubted that he even knew that either of them were alive.
But Gerald, Gerald seemed very much to know that she was alive. Vividly she remembered the sweet taste of his mouth and the warmth of his arms around her. Their eyes had met across a distance and they had known, obviously they had both known immediately that this was the love, the one true love, that they had been waiting for.
Her own reaction had vividly shocked her. She had never before been kissed and yet she responded to the touch of his lips with an ardor that was almost unladylike. It had been as if, the moment their eyes met, their hearts did also. She recognized him immediately and had loved him all her life. How then could she be expected to remain demure and distant?
Gerald Tarkington Crane. Gerald Tarkington Crane.
She was in love. With her heart so light, Princess could no longer sit still. She jumped to her feet and, holding out her arms as if
embracing a partner, she began to waltz herself about the room as she sang in her high, nasal, slightly off-key manner:
“You had a dream, dear
I had one, too.
Mine was the best
'Cause it was . . . of. . . you."
He had danced with her. He had held her like this. Safe and protected in his arms. She had belonged there. And they had known it to be true. They had moved as one to the sweet strains of music. Together, as one.
"Miss Calhoun."
Princess gave a cry of startled dismay and dropped her arms in guilty embarrassment. She could feel the warm blush that stained her cheeks.
"Howard? You . . . you surprised me."
"My apologies, ma'am," he said. "There is a gentleman here to see you. I informed him that Mr. Calhoun was not at home and that you were not receiving visitors, but he insisted that I give you his card."
Princess hastily retrieved her spectacles and hooked them securely behind her ears before she picked up the card lying on the small silver tray. It was pure white, highly embossed with blue-black lettering and adorned with a thin gold border. It read simply: gerald tarkington crane, bedlington, NEW JERSEY.
"Oh!" Princess stared at the unexpected card. Her heart began to beat faster.
"Did you put him in the front parlor?" she asked as she hurried out into the hallway.
"Why no, ma'am. I left him standing on the porch."
"What?" Princess gazed at him horrified.
"It was at his own suggestion, since you are not receiving."
"Howard, I believe I am the one to decide whether I am receiving," she chided him gently. "I will, of course, see Mr. Crane."
She didn't even stop to glance at her hair, she simply smoothed the untidy strands that had escaped the chignon as she hurried past the stairway. It was as if she hadn't truly believed that it had happened, that she had truly met her true love and suddenly she was desperate to reassure herself that it was not just all part of the daydream that so enthralled her.
She rushed through the doorway and onto the porch.
"Mr. Crane." She spoke his name before she even saw him.
