by Pamela Morsi
Cessy was charged with energy and excited as always. Her father had been bringing in oil wells since she was a little girl, but the excitement never failed to thrill her.
Mrs. Marin was clapping as if it were a theatrical performance. Howard jumped from the automobile while it was still moving, seeming to forget all his hard-won dignity as a household servant and ready to share the enthusiasm of the good old days with his former compatriots.
"Ain't she something!" King exclaimed with pride.
"Really something, Daddy," Cessy agreed. "I only wish that Gerald were here."
Her father gave a less-than-sympathetic shrug and hurried away from the automobile and up to the rig.
Cessy left the Packard and followed him through the crowd. It was an almost carnival-like atmosphere. All the workers from every rig had temporarily shut down their operations to come and watch the "P" being brought in. Their wives and families had eagerly joined them and many of the townspeople as well.
Everybody was talking at once. Everyone offering their own version of the exciting events.
"They hit pay sands at just under seven hundred feet,” one young man reported to her.
"At the rate it's pouring out of there," another told her proudly, "this one is sure to make five thousand barrels, a day just on its own."
"The Five is almost at the same depth and it's along the same rock strata, they'll be breaking it wide open tomorrow if I don't miss my guess."
"I knew this one was gonna make good," one old fellow assured her. "All that salt water and stink in the beginning, it's the perfect omen, to my thinking."
Knowing most everybody, Cessy offered smiles and greetings at almost every step. And to her dismay found that in her current circumstances as newly wed, she was commanding almost as much attention as the oil well.
"We heard you got yourself married up."
"What's your name now that you're wed?"
"It's hard to believe, our little Princess, married at last."
"I remember when you were toddling around these wells, fat-cheeked and rag-bottomed."
There were words, well wishes, and congratulations all around. Cessy had not thought about herself being the center of attention. But the gusher being named for her, and the subject of her recent hasty marriage being the main focus of local gossip, it was natural that her name would be very much on everyone's lips.
"And where is this husband of yours that we've all heard about but none of us have ever seen?" Ma asked.
"He is ... he is otherwise involved this morning," Cessy heard herself lying and was not at all pleased.
She didn't want to make excuses for Gerald, but she could hardly tell these people, whose very lives were punctuated by moments like these, that her husband had no interest in her oil well or its success.
"Well, that's too bad," Ma commiserated. "I know how Cedarleg would hate to miss something like this. And it wouldn't be half the fun for me if that old man wasn't here with me."
Cessy nodded and gave the older woman a loving hug.
"Come up to the derrick with me," Cessy begged her. "You know how I hate being the only woman up there."
Ma chuckled. "But you never hate being the one in charge."
Cessy shrugged with unconcern. "But I'm so good at it," she declared.
The two women worked their way through the crowd, speaking to one person here and another there, until they reached the area of the rig and masculine hands helped them up to the derrick floor.
Control of the oil flow had been established. The wet, black soup poured directly into the sump tank behind the rig. Cessy had never minded losing a dress to oil splatter, but the unpredictable force of the underground pressure was dangerous. At Sour Lake an unrestrained well had blown the crown block off the top of the derrick.
Acting immediately, Cessy took control of the festivities. A speech would need to be made, the workers recognized. She began lining the men up in the way she considered most appropriate. The driller and the tool pusher would stand on either side of her father. The crew of rig builders to his right, the tank builders to his left. Various pipe fitters, haulers, and roughnecks were positioned according to Cessy's interpretation of their importance and value.
"Where is your tool dresser?" Cessy asked Ce-darleg.
"The feller quit me," he answered. "Just days ago he quit me to marry up some local gal."
"He's probably here," Ma said, her eyes scanning the crowd, "As hard as he worked and this being his first, I know for sure that he could never stay away."
"You, talking about that Walker?" King Calhoun asked. "Get him up here. He deserves to take his bow as much as the rest of us. And I've been looking all over town for him."
"You still trying to find refinery money?" Cedarleg asked him.
"It's that or leave this oil in the sumps indefinitely."
Cedarleg tutted with disapproval. "That's too dangerous for my blood," he said.
The earthen pits known commonly as sumps were dug out to serve as oil reservoirs, A foot or two of water at the bottom prevented the oil from seeping into the ground. And planks laid across the top kept it from evaporating. But the air space below the planks was often a trap for volatile gases.
"Too dangerous for me," Cedarleg repeated. "The whole dang Topknot would be about as safe as a tinderbox. A machine spark, a careless cigarette, or a strike of lightning could set it off in a twinkling." „
"I don't like sump storing any more than you do, Cedarleg," King told him. "But it's store it or pump it back into the ground. Without a way to process it, it's not even worth trying to carry it away."
Cedarleg chuckled. "Mr. Calhoun, I watched you strike it rich a couple of dozen times," he said. "But I swear to gumption, this is the first time I've ever seen you, or anybody else strike it poor."
"Well, maybe if I can find your friend Walker, I can talk him into helping us out," King said. "He's young and if he's smart as you say, he'll be looking for a way to get ahead in this world."
Cedarleg whistled. "You don't know the half of it. That boy's got dreams that are frightening to behold."
"Big ideas, huh," King said.
Cedarleg nodded. "He puts me in mind of you, Mr. King Calhoun, when you were of a similar age."
Calhoun laughed. "That bad? Well, I got to find this fellow for sure."
Cedarleg turned to peruse the crowd himself. "He's got to be here somewhere. This is his first well, you know a fellow can't stay away from that."
"Yeah," King agreed. "He's out there somewhere, the whole town's out there, except for my new son-in-law, of course."
"There he is," Ma said, spotting the man in the crowd. She began waving him forward.
"Where?" Cessy asked.
"Doggone it," Ma complained. "I thought he saw me. But he's like ducked down or some such. Do you see him out there, Cedarleg? Near that scraggly growth of cow vetch?"
All four of them followed her direction, looking from face to face.
"He's got on his nice coat, the one he bought from the Nafees' peddler man," she said.
"I don't see him," Cedarleg said.
"I don't see him now, either," Ma said. "But I'd swear he was there."
"Maybe he's embarrassed to come up," Cedarleg said. "I was pretty hard on him."
"Hard on him about what?" Ma asked, and then answered her own question. "You mean about wanting to steer clear of us?"
"I was really put out with him at the time," Cedarleg admitted.
"I told you that wasn't him," Ma said. "He'd never been like that, it must have been his wife's doings or he'd have never talked that way. I know that young man and he's better than that."
"Better than what?" Cessy asked.
"Oh, Tom was thinking himself too good to bring his new town gal around to meet Ma," Cedarleg explained.
Cessy's eyes widened and she took immediate offense on Ma's behalf.
"Well, then we are definitely not holding things up a moment longer waiting
on such a fellow," Cessy declared. "Daddy, get everyone's attention."
King Calhoun nodded to her in agreement. He turned and raised his hands, causing the boisterous, milling crowd to still and quiet.
"My dear friends," he greeted them. "And I call you my friends because after all that we've been through together, that is what we are."
Applause erupted though the crowd.
Cessy couldn't help but smile. These people worked hard under dangerous conditions and in places where they were neither welcomed nor appreciated. They often complained about the lack of amenities, the rootless life, and the hardships endured by their families. But King Calhoun, oil millionaire, seemed willing to share those hardships with them and they loved him for it.
Cessy loved him, too. Her father was a fair and honorable man and he always made her so proud.
"The day I saw this crusty little knoll up here," he announced to the crowd, "I said to old Marv Hotchkiss, the geologist, I said there's oil under that ground, Marv, I can smell it from here."
He cocked his head slightly and gave a slight rise of his right eyebrow. "I know a lot of you wondered why God would give a man a nose this big, well that's why."
There were hoots of appreciation for the fine joke.
"Well, you all know Marv," King continued. "We been friends for a lot of years. But he don't trust my hunches no better than he trusts me at poker."
Several of the men offered their opinions on the same subject.
"Marv, he don't believe nothing that he can't prove by science," King said.
Nods and murmurs of agreement swept through the crowd.
"So when he made his sampling and said this hill was one of them salt domes like Spindletop"—her father shook his head—"I told him, well if it's good enough for Patillo Higgins, it'll suit King Calhoun just fine."
The shouts and cheers that greeted his words were nearly deafening.
Cessy clapped right along with them, happy, proud, excited.
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of someone. For an instant she thought that it was Gerald and her heart lightened. She wanted him here. She wanted him with her now and always.
But of course, she was mistaken. Gerald hadn't come to the well and certainly if he had, he wouldn't be out in the crowd but standing at her side where he belonged.
Chapter 18
He hadn't been able to stay away. And he was not sorry. The excitement and the sense of belonging and accomplishment that Tom felt that morning out at the "P" was something that he would never forget. Tom Walker had a part in that. It was Tom Walker who'd helped to make that happen. It was a sense of his own value that he couldn't quite adjust to. He couldn't quite accept it.
Which was one of the reasons he found himself alone the following afternoon on the river road that led to the Methodist Indian Home.
It wasn't the only reason, of course. The house was overrun with people. Two more wells had come in. He heard Calhoun estimate that he'd be pumping 25,000 barrels a day by the end of the week.
The pace and talk were frantic. Apparently a refinery needed to be built right away. Tom was puzzled as to why they hadn't built it already. The plans were drawn and the workmen ready, but something seemed to be holding them up. The only person truly in motion was Calhoun himself, who spent long days running up and down the roads and scattering telegrams across the globe like they were so much confetti.
Deliberately, Tom kept to his room, frequently claiming a headache complaint that obviously worried Cessy. Twice he had caught sight of Cedarleg. And he actually heard Ma talking to Cessy from one of the parlors.
He was going to be found out, and soon. And he didn't have the first idea of how he was going to handle it. And that was part, if not all, of the reason that Tom Walker returned that afternoon to the place he grew up.
No one was around as he passed through the entry gate. The place was completely deserted. It was eerie seeing the place deserted. He had always imagined it as it was the other day, brimming with young boys and hectic with activity.
He followed his nose to the kitchen and found the cooking woman and her two children. She was surprised to see him, but very friendly, having remembered him from the wedding.
She offered the explanation for the inordinate quiet of the place. The boys were making hay up in the north meadow. Tom remembered well the hot, hard work. There were tasks for even the youngest boy. But with each year the labor and responsibility increased. He had never appreciated the lessons that he'd learned there.
Given a free run of the place, Tom wandered about, refamiliarizing himself with the things, big and little, from his childhood. He walked through the small, sparsely furnished dormitory where he had slept six thousand nights. And on many of those he'd dreamed of his future.
His bunk and wardrobe were kept ve'ry much as they had been when he lived here, only neater than he had kept them himself. He wondered briefly about the young boy who dreamed from his bed these days. Was he anything like Tom had been? Was he as anxious to grow up and get away? Probably not.
He made his way into the little building that sheltered Reverend McAfee's schoolroom. It looked smaller than he remembered. But the smell, a mixture of library paste and chalk, was exactly the same. The desks were lined up, as ever, in crisp precision. The smaller ones in front, the largest at the back of the room.
With a smile Tom recalled how grown-up he'd thought himself to be when he was finally ensconced in the last row. He had thought himself far too adult to still be in a schoolroom.
Tom perused the brightly colored globe that sat in a stand next to the teacher's desk. With a bit of looking he found Cuba on it. He'd never heard of the place before he went there to fight. It was not nearly as big as he'd expected it to be. But then lately nothing that he thought seemed to be entirely correct.
"Ah, Mr. Crane, what a surprise."
Tom turned, startled and even a little guilty, at the sound of Reverend McAfee's voice.
"I was just looking around," Tom told him and then wished he could take the words back. Tom was obviously too successful a man to steal anything and it was only the guilty little boy inside him that would make him believe that the teacher would think he would do so.
Reverend McAfee nodded. "So what do you think of our school, Mr. Crane?" he asked.
"Why are you calling me that?"
The reverend raised an eyebrow. "That is the name that you are going by these days."
"But that isn't the name that you put on our wedding certificate," he pointed out.
The old man nodded. "The marriage license is "a legal document. It requires the use of legal names. Have you legally changed your name?"
"No."
"Then your legal name must be used in order for it to be a legal marriage." he said brusquely. "I do not believe for one moment that your intention was to deceive that wonderful young woman into believing that she was being married when she was not."
"I meant for the wedding to be legal," Tom said.
"Well, it is."
The two men stood staring at each other silently for several moments before Reverend McAfee moved over to his chair. With a puff of pure exhaustion he seated himself and Tom wondered briefly exactly what age the old gray beard actually was.
"How have you been?" he asked finally.
"Tolerable, son, thank you. I have been quite tolerable."
"Good," Tom said.
"And where have you been?" Reverend McAfee turned the question around. "After all this time, where have you been?"
Tom stood looking out the window as he answered. "Everywhere, nowhere."
"Everywhere and nowhere," Reverend McAfee repeated and then made a tutting sound of disapproval. "You have always answered the most civil questions in such an annoying way. What exactly do you mean, 'everywhere, nowhere'?"
Tom turned to look at the man, a little surprised. He had not really thought that the reverend honestly wanted his itinerary for the last eight yea
rs.
"Everywhere means that I have traveled a good deal," Tom answered. "And nowhere means that none of those places is ... is my home."
The old man's brow furrowed as he studied him more closely. Tom turned back to face trie window, unwilling to put himself under the reverend's scrutiny.
"I joined the Rough Riders," Tom continued. "I went to Cuba."
"Ah . . ." Reverend McAfee made the sound as meaningful as a long-winded oratory. "And how was that?" he asked.
Tom shrugged. "It was a lot of noise and sweat and blood. I killed men there," he said, then he turned to face the reverend once more. "But I saved a man's life, too. An important man. A man whose family would have missed him dearly. I put myself in front of his body. I deliberately took a bullet for him."
"You say it almost angrily, as if you regret it."
"I don't. I don't regret it. Do you remember how you used to say that each man's life had a purpose and that we may never know what our purpose is for being alive."
The old man was thoughtful. "No, I don't recall saying that, but I think that it's probably true."
"I think, Reverend McAfee, that my only purpose for being born was to take the bullet meant for Ambrose Dexter."
"Why would you think that?"
"You should see his house, Reverend," Tom said. "If you put every building on these grounds together, including the barn, his house is bigger. And it's in the middle of Bedlington. His family has been there since New Jersey was a colony. He is his father's only son, the last man of his line. He has four sisters who worship him and two dozen cousins who think him funny and dear. His grandmama dotes upon him, his father counts upon him, and he is the apple of his mother's eye."
"A very fortunate young man," Reverend McAfee said.
Tom nodded. "If he had been killed in Cuba, there would have been wailing and moaning and grief in that house," he said. "Oh, how they would have missed Ambrose Dexter."
