The Son

Chapter Thirty-nine. Diaries of Peter McCullough, JULY 7, 1917

Slept only a few hours, thinking of her on the other side of the house. She did not report for breakfast and if she left her room at all, she must have done it quietly as an owl. When I went for lunch I found dishes in the drying rack, freshly washed; she had been there, I had missed her. Lost interest in eating and returned to my office.

Picked up and set down at least two dozen books. Considered, then dismissed, calling Sally. Overcome with need to tell someone about this. If I could climb to the roof and announce it with a bullhorn…

But I am happy simply knowing she is in the same house. If there is any question of whether it is better to love or to be loved… the answer is obvious. I wonder if my father would agree. I wonder if he has ever felt this way; like all men of ambition I suspect he is incapable of it. I want to weep for him. I would trade everything in this house, everything we own, to keep feeling this, and at this thought, I do begin to weep, for my father, for María, for the Niles Gilberts and the Pedros.

FORTUNATELY OR NOT, I was pulled from this morass of emotion by events that required my action. Around two P.M. there was a loud noise. When I got up to investigate I could no longer see the top of the derrick sticking up over the brush.

AS IT TURNED out, the driller had hit a gas pocket and lost control of the rig. One of the hands rode the derrick to the ground; by some miracle he is still alive (they say drunks fall better). By a second miracle the gas did not ignite and by a third miracle (from the common perspective) there is oil now flowing steadily into our pastures, down the hill and into the stream.

By evening the entire town had arrived, looking at the fallen derrick where it lay in a swamp of oily mud. It was plain this was a coup of monstrous proportion, that what few worries we might have had are now over, we are even further removed from the daily lives of the citizenry. But the townspeople did not seem to understand this. They almost seemed to think it was their good fortune. People were dipping cups into the mud to taste the oil as if it were coffee.

It is as my father says. Men are meant to be ruled. The poor man prefers to associate, in mind if not in body, with the rich and successful. He rarely allows himself to consider that his poverty and his neighbor’s riches are inextricably linked, for this would require action, and it is easier for him to think of all the reasons he is superior to his other neighbors, who are just poorer than he is.

As the crowd pressed around the fallen derrick, the lake of oil growing larger, the driller, whose back teeth were still well afloat, could not decide whether or not to ignite the well. Gas can travel hundreds of yards aboveground, flashing at the smallest provocation; it is not uncommon for spectators to be immolated in this fashion, hours or even days after a well comes in.

After more whiskey to clear his head, he decided not to flare the well. The oil was flowing, not gushing. There could not be much gas. Or so he reckoned. I reckoned he was drunk. I told everyone to stay clear of the well, though when I saw Niles Gilbert and his two porcine offspring clomping out of the viscous mud, having stood nearly at the mouth of the burbling black spring, I began to wish for a divine spark. It occurred to me, as I watched the oil flow down the hill, that soon there will be nothing left to subdue the pride of men. There is nothing we will not have mastered. Except, of course, ourselves.

THE VAQUEROS ARE using horses and fresnoes to build a dyke, but they are losing the battle. A jimberjawed Yankee farmer offered to rent us his new Hart-Parr tractor. Had he been born here, he would have simply driven it over, but being from the North he thinks only of what fattens his pocket. After some consideration I agreed to pay him. The oil is flowing strongly into the stream — the fresnoes are not designed for emergency work.

Nonetheless everyone was in a good mood and proceeded to get drunk, including the fallen derrickman and the partially crushed floorhand. People from Carrizo began to show up, though what attraction there was — a black pit, a sulfurous stench, even more money flowing into their wealthiest neighbor’s pocket — I did not understand. The Colonel appeared at midnight, having driven all the way from Wichita Falls at sixty miles an hour, blowing out a tire from the speed.

He found me in my office. Through the windows came a faint odor of brimstone, as if Old Nick himself were having a smoke on our gallery. By sheer coincidence, I am sure, this is also the odor of money.

“Son,” said the Colonel. He hugged me. He was already as drunk as the others. “From now on, you can pay for all the brush-clearing you want.”

Not a word about María. In a moment of panic I went and checked her room: she was asleep in her bed, sighing about something. I watched for a long time until she stirred.

JULY 8, 1917

This morning I find her waiting for me downstairs.

“Very exciting news, no?”

I shrug. I am only thinking about what she’s lost; I’m happy the oil was found on our land, instead of hers.

“Will you have much work today?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I have some errands in Carrizo, if you want to come.”

She agrees, which puts me in a good mood about everything, even the steady stream of cars going to and from the drilling site, the gates left open — fifty heifers found on the road this morning.

When we get to Carrizo there is nothing in particular either of us want to do. On a whim we decide on Piedras Negras for lunch (Nuevo Laredo is brought up; María does not want to go there). It will be a three-hour drive; we will be home late; we do not discuss this. She ties her hair back to keep it out of the wind; I steal glances, her warm mouth, dark eyelashes, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.

When we finally reach the town, around four in the afternoon, I am nervous, wondering about the Carrancistas, Villistas, Zapatistas, but María does not seem concerned. We ignore the shoeshine boys and lottery vendors and find a cantina where we sit on the patio under an arbor. We order arrachera eels, grilled fish, tortillas sobaqueras, chopped avocados and tomatoes. She has a tequila sour; I have a Carta Blanca. We cannot fish all the food; she stares at it. We hesitate at ordering more drinks. We hesitate again at the car.

Instead of heading home we drive farther into the country to see the old San Bernardo Mission. It is a small old ruin, a single story, nothing on the scale of the cathedrals of Mexico City, but in its time it was the upper reach of Spanish influence here. All the northern expeditions left from and returned to it; you could sense the relief the riders must have had when the mission, with its dome and archways, appeared on the horizon. And the fear they must have had when they left it. This land was far more dangerous than New Mexico ever was.

It occurs to me that the San Bernardo is not much older, fifty or sixty years, than the Garcias’ casa mayor. I become quiet. María either reads my thoughts or thinks my silence is due to something else, because she takes my hand, and puts her head against my shoulder.

“It is nice to be out of your house,” she says.

We walk slowly, small steps, waiting for something important to be said. She does not let go of my hand, but she will not look at me either.

“And your wife? When will she return?”

“Never, I hope.”

“Will you divorce her?”

“If I can.”

“She is the beautiful woman in the pictures.”

“She comes from a good family.”

“She looks it.”

“You know she married me because her family is bankrupt. She thought she was marrying a younger version of my father, but unfortunately that is my brother Phineas.”

“Perhaps she preferred you because you are handsome.”

“Certainly not.”

“Certainly,” she says. “Your brother has a weasel face.”

“My wife wants me to be a different person.” I shrug. “I am happy she is gone.”

We continue to walk. I expect her to let go of my hand, but she swings our locked arms back and forth, as if we are children, and holds on firmly.

When we reach the car she says: “We will be very late driving home, no?”

Some part of me, the part that takes over when there is something at stake, says: “I’m expected back.”

“Oh,” she says, and looks away.

She sits in the car, arms crossed, looking out over the mission and the brasada to the south, while I get the engine started.

When I get in with her, I swallow and say: “Perhaps it will not be safe to make the drive after dark.”

“Perhaps not,” she says.

We find a hotel by the railroad depot.

“How is this?”

Now she won’t look at me. We are silent as if we are an old couple having a fight. It’s cooler and the ceiling fans are turning but I feel the sweat running down my back. Every noise amplified, my boots scuffing the floor, the counter creaking when I lean to sign the register. I hesitate, then write Mr. and Mrs. Garcia. The clerk winks. Our room is on the second floor. We walk up the stairs, silent, then into the room, silent.

“Well?” I say.

She sits on the bed and looks at everything but me. The furnishings are cheap; someone has carved their initials into the headboard.

“This is wrong,” she says. “We should go back.”

I blurt out, “No quiero vivir sin ti.”

“Say it in English.”

“I will not live if you leave me,” I say.

She goes back to looking at the floor, but I think she is smiling. “I wondered if your hesitations were because of the way I look.”

“No,” I say.

“This is when you tell me I’m beautiful,” she says. She laughs. She pats the bed next to her. “Come over here.”

“I love you,” I say.

“I believe you,” she says.

JULY 9, 1917

We are on the bed facing each other, her leg is thrown over me, but we are not moving; she is lying sleepily against me. I watch my finger go along her arm, her shoulder, her throat, then back down her arm. The glow from the railroad comes through the window.

“Touch my back,” she says.

I spend a long time drawing lazy shapes, then kiss her to let her know my intentions. She pulls me on top of her and sighs. She begins to move her hips.

Afterward we fall asleep like that. When we wake we do it again.

“I would be happy if we never left this bed.”

“Me too,” I say.

She kisses me and then again and again and again and I close my eyes.

In the morning, when the light comes through the curtains, I wonder if the spell will have passed, but she looks at me with the sun shining brightly on us and puts her head against my neck. I can feel her there, breathing me in.