Philipp Meyer - The Son

People came and went in the Rangers. I was not always elected captain, but I always had a slot to ride. I looked after the new arrivals, whether they were younger or older, and I was beginning to see my life laid out in front of me, one year no different from the next; the faces around me would change, I would put them into the ground or give them a clap on the back as they mustered out, then I would go and see to my equipment, drop my revolvers off at the gunsmith, my tack at the saddlemaker, buy a new shirt and pants, then trade my land vouchers for a horse or whiskey or something useful.

Then I shaved off my six-month beard, figured out what company was riding out next, and put my name back on the list.

It was dark, it was loud, she could not make out where she was, there was the sound of water, a rushing like standing in the tides. Two people arguing: it is a girl, said one, this one will be a girl, then another voice, which she recognized as her father’s, saying, okay, honey . The drumming of a heart, the swell of breathing. She couldn’t move. There were children’s voices. My brothers, she thought.

Then she wasn’t sure. There were voices in Spanish and in another language she didn’t recognize, though it made a kind of sense. A burning feeling. The grass was tall and the sun was in her eyes and there was a man with a dark beard and shining helmet looking as if he wasn’t sure what to do. He stepped forward and stuck something into her again. It caught; he pulled it out and tried again and this time it went all the way through and then the man and the sun were nothing but black spots.

She opened her eyes. She was back in the enormous room. There have been times before this one, she thought. She felt a relief come over her; it was the beginning of something, not the end, she had been wrong all along, wrong her entire life.

Then it was gone. She’d made it all up. It was nothing but the mind inventing stories. Anything that did not involve its own end. The house vanished, dust blowing, she could see into the stars… she willed herself back into her thoughts.

THE TRUCK WAS going too fast, fishtailing through corners, as if the driver thought he was on tarmac instead of dirt. Something was wrong, she knew immediately, though the vehicle was just a speck still, a mile or more away, an immense cloud rising behind it. Someone had been hurt; that was plain. Do not let it be Hank . It was more a feeling than a thought. She stood in the great room and watched the dust come closer. If it is not Hank, I will never miss a day of church. Then this seemed overdramatic, a ridiculous promise, they had run out of beer for all she knew. Still, she had a feeling.

She picked up the phone and called the doctor before the truck arrived, before she even knew for certain. “This is Jeannie McCullough,” she said. “I think someone’s been hurt at our place here, I think they were bird hunting.”

She went out onto the gallery. One of the hands saw what was happening; he was riding toward the gate to intercept the truck. He rolled off his horse and pushed the gate open just as the truck shot through and then she had a different feeling, that a mistake had been made, that the man should not have let the truck through at all; she was suddenly very cold and wanted to go upstairs.

When the pickup came to a stop near the gallery, she ran down to meet it. There was Hank in the cab with one of the insurance men. All the worry went out of her, she felt foolish, she felt thank God thank God, she was smiling, she was a ridiculous person, but then the two men jumped out without looking at her and she saw she’d been wrong.

Then she was behind the truck. There was Hank, his face white, his shirt heavy and dark, bright handprints over the paint, all over the windows, the third man was holding Hank in his arms and crying. That is okay, she thought. There is more blood in him than that. She climbed into the bed, it was littered with quail, the man did not want to let go, he was holding on to Hank so tightly; honey, she was saying, honey can you hear me ; his eyes were closed but then he opened them. She put her face to his; someone was saying they were sorry they were sorry. Hank it’s me. Open your eyes. He did; he saw her. He was trying to smile and then nothing happened. His eyes changed.

A few moments later Hank’s dog arrived; it had run the entire way from the quail fields, it leaped into the truck and began licking Hank’s face and barking, trying to wake him up, tugging at his shirt and barking; it would not be pushed away. “Get this fucking dog out of here”—that was her—“someone get this fucking dog.” The pointer bit someone’s hand, then went back to licking Hank’s face, the barking was never going to stop and finally the insurance men got hold of it and lifted it off the truck. “Shhhhhh,” someone was saying, “shhh shhhh shhh,” but she didn’t know if they were talking to her or Hank’s dog.

No, she thought now, no no no . She did not want to think about this. She wished she had been struck down before she had even looked out the window. The pointer would not leave her side. She flew with it everywhere and eight years later, when it finally died, she had been incapacitated with grief, she had not been able to go to work, it was like losing her husband a second time.

He was a great man. There were men who were born like that, the hand of God all over them, Hank had been one. Losing him… she was choking. When people spoke she was underwater. She heard them and didn’t. She would think about something else. She could still feel pain, she knew she was still alive. Was it true what they said, you were like a butterfly stretching its wings, one day you were trapped here, the next you weren’t? She didn’t know. She did not want to forget. I want to remember, she thought. I will remember I will remember I will remember .

Drilling begun in the Reynolds and Midkiff pastures. Not a single room available in town. The streets are packed with men, trucks, carts, stacks of equipment; there are people sleeping in tents and ditches. Niles Gilbert is letting his pig stall for eighty dollars a week. As usual I expect anger at our skyrocketing fortune; of course it is the opposite. They see our prosperity nearly as their own, as if rent for a hog sty is no different from a few million dollars in oil.

And — for the time being — everyone is making money. Selling clothes, old tools, food, water, rooms, renting use of their cars, trucks, mules and carts, horse teams, and backyards. Grover Deshields has stopped tending his crops and is instead driving around on his tractor, charging ten dollars (a week’s wages) to pull stuck trucks out of bogholes in the drilling fields. It is rumored he waters the bogholes at night. Someday this boom will end. Though not for us.

There are now four derricks, in various states of assembly, visible from our back ridge. My father’s driller is not impressed. He thinks there will soon be a hundred or so. This despite the fact that the only other oil around here was found at Piedras Pintas. There are the Rieser and Jennings fields, but they are only gas.

AS FOR MARÍA, I have stopped even pretending to go out to the pastures. Sullivan finds me in the evening and gives me a report of the day’s activities. He has nearly caught us several times…. I expect the novelty of her to wear off but it has only gotten more intense. If I spend even an hour apart from her I can’t think of anything else, I forget the names of people, what I am supposed to be doing, any reason I have for being.