Yellow Mesquite (16 page)

They stood side by side in silence, looking out the kitchen window. A clothesline and an oblong propane tank were visible. Weeds and briars beat about. Sand flowed over the ground like a raging river. Wind howled in the windowpanes. Big raindrops began to plop on the window, turning to mud.

Darkness was closing in.

Chapter 18

—Permian Basin—

Pumping Oil

H
ARLEY HAD EXPLAINED
that it was a company house, furnished, and rent free. The house had been vacant for over a year. Which was obvious enough.
In the cabinets were a few mismatched dishes. While Harley lit the hot-water heater, Sherylynne found a couple of aluminum pots and pans stored in the broiler below the oven door.
Everything was covered with dust, including the chenille spreads on the two beds. However, Sherylynne found clean sheets with pillowcases and blankets in plastic bags in two big cardboard boxes in a bedroom closet, and two tic pillows in a plastic bag sealed with a twist tie. A few towels and washcloths were bagged as well.
 

Harley turned back the chenille spread to the foot of the bed they had chosen to sleep in, gently lifted it off, then helped her remake it with the clean linens. There was a washing machine in the eat-in kitchen and after running for a minute the rusty-red water cleared up. Outside, near the butane tank, stood a boxlike structure which housed the well pump. The laundry line was outside, too, so there would be no laundry this night. Wind whined in the windowpanes and howled under the eves until it seemed the house might lift off its foundation. The air tasted of dry earth and it was hard to breathe.
 

In the kitchen pantry Sherylynne found a broom, a mop, and a few cleaning supplies. They took the dishes from the cabinet and washed them. The gas stove worked, and, exhausted, they sat across from each other at the Formica table, eating canned chili with saltine crackers.

They did the dishes and went to bed and made love. But while he had dreamed of their sleeping together without the stress of illegitimacy, just the two of them, finally alone, the last few days had been nerve-wracking, and he felt wired just under the skin.
 

He held Sherylynne, afterward, and talked about them being married now, how they would save money and go to New York. It should have been fun and exciting, but he sensed she was unnerved, too.

“What did Brother Watson have to say?” she asked.

“About what?”

“When he took you around back for a drink.”

Harley laughed. “He said, ‘Son, a man’s life is determined by the work he chooses and the woman he marries.’”

She was quiet. Then: “I guess that might be said for a woman, too, don’t you think?”

THEY WOKE EARLY
and made love again, but Harley sensed Sherylynne was eager to be up and about, and it felt hurried and again without passion.
 

He showered, enclosed in a moldy shower curtain hanging from a metal ring above the tub. Afterward, he dressed and sat at the kitchen table, pulling on his work boots.

“I’m going out to find a phone and give Whitehead a call,” he said. “Come along and let’s get some breakfast and buy some more groceries.”

Sherylynne stood looking out the kitchen window. She wore jeans and a plaid shirt, hair tied back with a bandanna. The wind had died down, but the sky was a reddish brown. “I never seen anything like it,” she said, dragging her finger across the sink, leaving a faint line in the thin dust.
 

“That’s Oklahoma on your finger there. Blew right on down across the panhandle.”

They drove into town and had breakfast at a truck stop on the highway. He phoned Whitehead.

“Boy, I thought you done took that car and gone to Kalamazoo.”
 

“Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to call,” Harley said. “We need to pick up a few things here in town, then I’ll be right out.”

“Naw, hell. You take yourself a couple a days to get settled in. That job can wait.”

“Thank you, but I’ll get out there soon as we get back and unload.”

“Boy, Harley Jay, you show up here today, I’m gonna sic the damn dog on you.”

ASIDE FROM FOOD
, Sherylynne bought a whole sackful of cleaners: ammonia, Comet, bleach, Joy, Brillo pads. They went into a Sears Roebuck and picked up a new shower curtain. On the way out of town, Harley pulled in at a service station and filled the Corvette in order to return it full.
 

Sherylynne gestured at a nearby liquor store. “Let’s get a bottle of wine. Then tonight we celebrate.”

They spent the day cleaning the little house, its two bedrooms, flowered wallpaper and worn linoleums. They agreed on the back room for his studio. There was the baby to consider, but they would worry about that when the time came.
 

He knew he could never entirely forgive Aunt Grace for burning his paintings. Most had only been so-so, but a few had come into being in moments when he was working over his head, beyond his normal ability. Of these few, afterward, he was never able to recall his mental state, or the process of their making. But they had been the concrete evidence of what he might eventually become. Gone now, forever.

THEY MADE LOVE
before daylight and he could tell Sherylynne was more relaxed this morning, not in any big hurry to be up and about, as they had the house in good order. She made breakfast, and he liked watching her fuss around the little kitchen. Her slender body moved in harmony with the clink and clank of dishes, the clatter of aluminum pots and pans, the kitchen already homey with good smells.
 

He ate two eggs with bacon, grits, biscuits, honey, a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice. Sherylynne had one egg, one biscuit and one coffee.
 

The sky was just beginning to lighten outside. He kissed her good-bye. “Sunday we’ll stay in bed and play all day.” She snuggled her head into his shoulder. He felt a little guilty, leaving her to entertain herself in the little house while he went off to work.

HE TURNED THE
Corvette in over the cattle guard. Half a mile in the distance, Whitehead’s house stood in silhouette against the molten red orb of the sun slipping up behind the horizon, the residue of the storm thinning.

The dog, Paladin, came loping around the house, hair bristling, teeth bared.

“Paladin,” Whitehead yelled from the porch. “Get back here, you son of a bitch!” The dog turned and trotted back, watching Harley over his shoulder.

“That’s some dog,” Harley said.

“He ain’t but a pup. He’ll get to know you.”

 
“If he doesn’t chew my leg off first.”

“Well, boy, how’s married life, anyhow?”
 

“I haven’t hardly had time to think about it.”
 

“Don’t worry; you got all the rest of your life to fret over it.” Whitehead laughed his big laugh.

Harley grinned. “Yeah, I reckon.”

“Must be some gal, get you chasing her all over the country like that. Hell, I thought you done took that car and was leaving Cheyenne.”

“I should’ve called.”

“Just like Mavis said.”

“What?”

“Said you’d be back.”

“I hate being late right off, starting my new job and all.”

“Don’t fret it, that job ain’t going nowhere.”

Harley frowned. “Must not be much of a job, don’t need anybody to do it.”

“It’s a damn good job.” Whitehead nodded over his shoulder. “Wesley Earl and his wife, they live in one of the little houses down back. Wesley Earl, he’s a pumper too. Lupe and Álvaro, they live in the other house back there. Álvaro, he’s our all-around handy man, keeps the yard up and whatever. He’s been helping Wesley Earl with the wells, but I need him around here. He’ll pump two days a week for you and two for Wesley Earl, your days off.” Whitehead looked at his watch. “Wesley Earl, he’ll be right happy to have you on board. He’s gonna take you out for a few days, show you the ropes, but he ain’t likely to show for a while. Come on in and let’s have some coffee.”

“Thanks.”

He followed Whitehead inside under the high ceilings with the white plaster walls and tiled floors. The textures and colors of the paintings on the walls were rich and sensual. He saw that the rug had been sent out.

“C’mon back in the kitchen,” Whitehead said.
 

Harley followed him through the dining room with its long table and high-backed chairs. The table was covered with a lace tablecloth and a cut-glass vase of fresh flowers. A huge crystal chandelier hung above. He tried to absorb the drawings and paintings in passing.
 

The kitchen was large, a mix of wood, plaster and Mexican tiles. It smelled of onions and garlic and coffee. In the center of the room dozens of heavy pots and pans hung from an iron rectangle suspended over a big worktable with a butcher-block top where an older Mexican woman puttered about.

“Lupe, two coffees,” Whitehead ordered.

The woman watched Harley, her eyes shaded with suspicion. She wiped her hands on a cup towel stuffed in the band of her apron, took down mugs and shuffled to the coffeepot.

“Bring it in the barn,” Whitehead said.

Harley gave him a quizzical look.
 

“My den back here. Mavis calls it the barn.”

Harley followed him out through a small study with oak filing cabinets and a rolltop desk, then into a big room with a long mirrored bar along the back wall. Wild animals seemed to be leaping through the other three walls, the heads of elk and deer and moose. A warthog, an American buffalo. A glass case held fifteen or twenty guns—rifles and shotguns and a couple of old pistols. One wall was ribbed with fishing rods, both fresh and salt water, fly rods and deep-sea rigs, a big largemouth bass and a swordfish.
 

“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.