“Have a seat there, Harley Jay.” Whitehead gestured at a leather sofa. “Lupe’ll be here in a minute. You hungry?”
“No, sir. Couldn’t eat another bite. Thanks.”
A brass telescope, a big marine compass and a sextant inlaid with ivory were couched in a felt-lined glass case.
“Boy, this is some room,” Harley said. The room was different, all right. Aside from the nice things—the old brass, the fine guns with their smell of bluing and oil, and the two small paintings, one by Russell and one by Remington—the mirrors behind the bar were the cheap gold-and-black marbled type he’d seen in pizza joints in Dallas. A big chair made entirely out of steer horns stood alongside a life-size plaster cast of a medieval suit of armor. Other paintings depicted cowboys and bullfighters on black velvet.
“This here’s my room,” Whitehead said. “I told Mavis, ‘Mavis,’ I said, ‘a man’s gotta have some room for his own self.’ I mean, it’s all right if she wants to dinky up the rest of the house, but a man’s house is his castle. She said, ‘Wendell, in your case a man’s house is his barn!’ ” He laughed his big rolling laugh. “Been calling it the barn ever’ since.”
Lupe appeared with two cups of coffee on a tray.
Whitehead took one of the cups, motioning for Harley to take the other. Harley nodded his thanks to Lupe.
“When we first built this joint, Mavis brought one a them tippy-toe faggots out from Dallas to decorate it. I run that son of a bitch plumb outta the country. I told her, ‘Mavis,’ I said, ‘prissy up the rest of the house any way you like, but don’t be bringing him in here.’ ”
Harley thought Whitehead suited his room perfectly—fierce eagle eyes, high mane of sandy red hair—he would look right at home up there on the wall with the warthog.
A chime sounded behind the bar. Whitehead grinned and set his cup down. “That’s Mavis. See there? Won’t even set foot in here. Had that little gong hooked up so she can call me. God a'mighty, I’m on call, a servant in my own house.”
Whitehead went out. Harley heard voices from beyond the study; then Whitehead returned, followed by Lupe.
“Mavis wants you to come out and say hello.”
Lupe took up the tray with the two coffees and they followed her out, the thick folds of her old-fashioned Mexican dress rustling as she shuffled ahead.
They passed through the study and out a side door into the terrarium. Up front, toward the road, a set of sliding glass doors opened to the swimming pool. Mavis, wearing a simple dressing gown, sat at a patio table amid a large collection of exotic plants. A pot of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice, hot rolls and The Wall Street Journal lay on the table before her. She rose, smiling, and held out her hand. “How lovely to see you again, dear.”
He took her hand. “Nice to see you too.”
“Wendell tells me you’ve had a dreadful time getting here. Are you comfortably settled now?”
“Oh, yes, thanks. We spent all day yesterday cleaning, and the place looks pretty good.”
Mavis frowned. “Wendell…didn’t you have that house cleaned?”
“W’hell, they wasn’t nothing wrong with that house.”
“Wendell Whitehead—” Mavis began, then stopped with an exasperated sigh. “I should have seen to it myself.” She turned back to Harley. “I’m so sorry, dear. And on your honeymoon.”
“No, no. It’s fine. We like it a lot.”
“It’s my own fault.” She brightened again. “We would love to have you and Sherylynne over for dinner. How does Friday sound?”
“Uh, Friday?”
“A little welcome for the two of you. She must be a darling young woman.”
“Thank you. That’s very nice.”
“Friday, then. Wonderful. Here, dear, have a croissant with your coffee.”
“Thanks, but I just had a big breakfast.”
Mavis sighed with humorous resignation. “Just as well. They’re quite awful, really.”
A pickup came easing into sight from around back and stopped in front near the pool. Harley saw now that the pool had been built in the shape of a cowboy boot.
“Wesley Earl,” Whitehead announced, looking at his watch again. “Right on time, thirty minutes late, sure as clockwork. Whitehead set his cup down and started out. Harley set his cup alongside and followed.
“Friday,” Mrs. Whitehead said after him. “For dinner. Say sevenish?”
“Thank you. I’ll check with Sherylynne and let you know for sure in the morning.”
“HOSS, I’M PLUMB tickled to death to show you around,” Wesley Earl said, grinning. “Gonna cut my workload right half into.”
Wesley Earl was probably thirty, a thin, bandy-legged man with weathered lines in his face and a perennial grin wrapped around a perennial knot of chewing tobacco, a worn Yankees baseball cap cupped low over squinting eyes. Harley liked him right off.
“This here’s the pump-jack and that there’s the tank, and what you gotta do is keep that old donkey engine running and keep up with what it’s making.”
“Making?”
“How much it’s making. See that hatch? That’s where you gauge it.”
Harley had followed him out to the lease in one of Whitehead’s company pickups, ten or fifteen miles out on the Lamesa highway to where a white caliche road turned off the pavement and ran straight as a ruled line for a mile or so, then stopped, circling around a pump-jack nodding up and down in slow motion. In every direction were pump-jacks as far as you could see, sucking up crude under a clear blue sky.
“See that old engine there? That’s a one-cylinder Ajax, two-cycle.” The motor was popping away—bump-thump, bump-thump, bump-thump. “You know anything about engines? Hell, it don’t matter. Most a these pumps got Fenton Morris four-cycles on ’em, but that ain’t important right yet. Now, this crude oil’s full of crap, so you got to shake it out, thief it. You draw a sample up from the bottom of that tank through the hatch there on top. Then you run a B.S. on it.”
“A what?”
Wesley Earl grinned and spat to one side. “We call it a bull shit and water test, but B.S. stands for bottom sediment, or settlement, I ain’t sure which. It gets over one percent, won’t nobody buy it.”
“What’s that box-looking outfit there?”
“Heater treater. See that other little tank there? Gas cooks off to it.” Wesley Earl grinned slyly. “I tell you something, hoss, you can cut your gas bill flat down to nothing on that drip gas. I run it in that pickup there and in my own car all the time. Little noisy and rough on the valves, but the price is right.”
Wesley Earl stopped abruptly, studying the ground at his feet. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly, hunkering down.
Harley made out what looked like dog tracks in the soft caliche.
“That dang wolf been here again.”
“Wolf?”
Wesley Earl squinted out across the scrubby landscape in the direction the tracks led. He knelt and placed his hand on the caliche next to the track. “Lookit that sucker. Big’un, ain’t he?” The track was the size of his fist.
“How do you know it’s not a dog?”
“Big for a dog. Been some talk of a wolf hereabouts.” They stood for a moment looking out across the empty plains, its array of pump-jacks nodding up and down. Then Wesley Earl went back to the business at hand. “Now, this here’s a heater separator. I’ll show you how that’s different from a heater treater.”
By the end of the day Harley figured he had the job down pat.
HE DROVE THE company pickup into the yard and shut the engine off. He had gone by the Greyhound bus depot and loaded his and Sherylynne’s things into the truck bed. She met him at the door, her face troubled.
“What?”
“I-I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this.”
He watched her, a slow feeling of dread.
“Harley…I got my period.”
It took a moment to register.
Her hands picked
at each other. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
He felt an emptiness, a sudden loss.
“I guess I was just late,” she said. “That happens sometimes, you know?”
“I’m sorry, Sherylynne. Are you feeling okay?”
Tears filled her eyes. She hooked her arm in his, drew him inside. “I hope you’re not sorry…you know, that we married?”
“Are you serious?” He stopped. “Why? Are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, after all the running around we’ve been doing, the money we’ve been saving for New York is about gone. I guess if we want to look on the bright side, we can use the baby money toward replenishing that pot.”
“I should get fitted for a diaphragm.”
They spent a pensive evening. That night he drifted into sleep, Sherylynne spooned in his arms. His heart went out to her, feeling her disappointment. It had been a shock at first; then they had gotten used to the idea and had begun to make new plans. He loved her more than ever. Who else would follow him and his dream like this? He promised himself he’d make her life as comfortable and happy as possible.
Chapter 19
A Lovely Dinner
ON FRIDAY EVENING Harley drove Sherylynne out to the Whiteheads’ in the company pickup. Sherylynne, bucked up with two shots of vodka in orange juice, looked stunning in her new dress, a simple wine-colored shift with three-quarter-length sleeves she had bought at a consignment shop in Dallas. He felt comfortable in starched jeans, white shirt, a Levi’s jacket and polished shoes.
“My god,” Sherylynne whispered as they approached the big sprawling house.
“Don’t worry, they’re just like anybody else,” he said, though he doubted whether that was true.
Paladin came snarling across the yard just as Whitehead came out onto the portico. “Paladin, get back here!”
Harley got out, cautious, and opened the door for Sherylynne.
“Well, by god a’mighty,” Whitehead said, grinning his old eagle-eyed grin, holding Paladin back by his collar. Whitehead wore dark Western-cut pants with mother-of-pearl snaps on the back pockets, expensive boots, and a blue dress shirt open at the neck.
“Mr. Whitehead, this is Sherylynne. Sherylynne, Mr. Whitehead.”
Whitehead grabbed Sherylynne’s hand and jerked it up and down like the handle on a well pump. “Boy, you done all right for yourself, didn’t you, now!”
Sherylynne glowed, cheeks flushed behind the freckles on her cheeks.
“Now this here’s a gal worth going after, all right,” Whitehead said.
Harley grinned and winked at Sherylynne.
“W’hell, let’s don’t just stand out here in the damn yard all night. Come in. C’mon in.”
The dog trotted along at Sherylynne’s side, trying to nose at her, Whitehead holding him off.
Mavis came from the dining room as they entered from the foyer. She wore a simple dress with a matching short-waisted jacket, hair done up in back, a little makeup now but no jewelry other than a single strand of pearls. She looked a good deal healthier than when he had first seen her a few days earlier.
“Mrs. Whitehead, my wife, Sherylynne. Sherylynne, Mrs. Whitehead.”
“Mavis, dear. Please call me Mavis. We’ve so looked forward to meeting you.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Harley’s talked so much about y’all, I feel like I know you already.”
“We’ve grown very fond of him in a very short time, happy for both of you.”
“Let’s have a drank on it,” Whitehead said. “Lupe, she’s busy with dinner, but I’m damn good bartender myself. What’re you dranking?”
“Can I give you a hand?” Sherylynne asked as he started for the kitchen.
“Sure! Get yourself on in here, girl. Harley Jay, what’s your poison? Bourbon, I’d bet. Jack Daniel’s on the rocks?”
“Sounds good. Thanks.”
“I’ll have a sombrero, please,” Mavis said. “Meanwhile, there are hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table here.
“She’s lovely,” Mavis confided when Sherylynne had followed Whitehead into the kitchen.”
“Thanks. Nice of you to have us over. Something sure smells good.”
“Braised quail with a chestnut puree on wild rice.”
“Sounds good.” He told her about quail hunting with his uncle Jay. She wanted to know where he had learned about art. He mentioned Crump and Sidney, the art magazines he subscribed to, Sidney’s assigned reading. She spoke of artists and movements in New York, mentioning painters he’d never heard of. He realized that she knew more about art than he could ever have imagined. He began to understand, too, that, limited as he was, he served as a minor release for her artistic interests; he couldn’t imagine her talking to Whitehead about anything, much less art. Harley wanted to ask about her own interests, her own roots in the arts, but it seemed inappropriate, as if questioning her expertise.
Whitehead returned carrying a tray with the drinks, laughing his big laugh as Sherylynne, carrying coasters and napkins, followed him into the living room.
“That Faustus McKevin, he thought he had me snookered on that Paint Rock deal, but I done beat him at his own shenanigan. You oughta seen his face!”
Sherylynne’s eyes glistened. “I just don’t see how you could ever start out with nothing and end up with all this.” Her enthralled gaze wandered over the room.
“See that ink drawing,” Harley said. “That’s a Robert Motherwell. Can you believe it? A real Motherwell, right out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“What do you mean, ‘middle of nowhere’?” Whitehead said with an indignant snort. “Boy, this here’s the center of the civilized world.”
“I thought all these pictures were in museums in New York or somewhere. I can’t get over it. Right here.”
“That’s ’cause we paid through the nose,” Whitehead said.
“Does art really cost a lot?” Sherylynne asked.
“Cost whatever you wanna pay for it. Now, I got some good art back yonder. Some of it cost a lot; some didn’t cost diddly-squat. Just like anything else, you gotta finagle if you wanna make a deal.”
They had hardly finished their drinks when Lupe came and stood in the doorway, her face a grid of wrinkles, a black shawl over her rounded shoulders. “Dinner, señora.”
Candlelight glimmered in the crystal chandelier over the table, in the glassware, the china, the polished silver on the lace tablecloth. The entire room glowed, bathed in countless reflections of softly gleaming light. Harley thought of the painters Monet and Bonnard, imagined the scene through their eyes. Each would have a field day with the light in this glittery setting. Even Whitehead’s craggy coarseness seemed to soften, tempered in such genteel refinement.
Harley looked across the table at Sherylynne, her expression rapt. He took a moment, trying to remember which fork went with the salad, which glass was for water and which for wine.
Lupe brought in chilled plates thinly bedded with romaine lettuce and placed one before each of them. The younger girl rolled a cart in with fresh vegetables in separate dishes. She tossed everything together in a large wooden bowl. Lupe and the girl worked quietly, serving the salads with cruets of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, a touch of honey.
“The table is so pretty,” Sherylynne said.
“Thank you, dear.”
“By god,” Whitehead grumbled. “We always gotta eat this damn rabbit food before we can get down to the real deal.”
“That little sketch up there, that a Gauguin?” Harley asked, his gazed on one of the drawings on the wall behind Sherylynne.
Mavis smiled. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t seen many of his drawings. Just paintings. I wonder why you don’t see a lot of his drawings like you do with other artists?”
“Someone said he went to Tahiti and painted from postcards.”
“No… Is that true?”
Mavis laughed. “You mustn’t take it
so seriously.”
“Postcards?”
“Well, perhaps he didn’t. I don’t know where I heard that.”
They finished the salad and the girl took away the bowls and came back with a ceramic pot of soup. She ladled into Harley’s bowl and added a scoop of sour cream. “Thanks,” he said. “Looks good.”
Mavis smiled. “I do hope you enjoy it, dear.”
Whitehead grinned and winked at Sherylynne. “Hell, I like my soup and salad right along with dinner. A feller could starve to death spreading it all out like this.”
“It smells wonderful,” Sherylynne said with feeling.
Harley glanced at her. Wonderful was an odd word from Sherylynne. She was like himself in that respect; good was about as wonderful as anything ever got. Maybe great if you really wanted to get carried away.
“Do you enjoy cooking?” Mavis asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” Sherylynne’s gaze traveled over the table. “I mean, I never done anything like this, but I do like to cook. I make a real mean chicken gumbo.”
“I bet you’re a terrific cook,” Mavis said.
“This is just real wonderful,” Sherylynne said again. “What is it, anyway?”
“It’s cold, that’s what the hell it is,” Whitehead said.
“Wendell, stop complaining. It’s supposed to be cold.” Mavis smiled at Sherylynne again. “Apricots. Soak them in warm water, then puree in a blender. Add a little wine and lemon juice. I’ll give you the recipe if you like.”
“I’d really adore it,” Sherylynne said.
Harley glanced at Sherylynne. Adore?
“It may be a little tart for the main course,” Mavis said. “Quail has such a delicate flavor.”
“Yes, doesn’t it,” Sherylynne agreed.
Lupe brought out the quail arranged on a platter. There were eight of the small birds. Mavis explained that they were stuffed with diced pears and onions soaked in Calvados. Each was roasted to a golden-brown and bedded in a nest of chestnut dressing flavored lightly with honey and balsamic vinegar. The girl arrived with side dishes of glazed carrots and creamed asparagus tips.
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