The Son (29 page)

He looked for her reaction but she sat quietly, so he continued.

“Your father is counting on the fact that I will not be around forever, because he thinks that once he gets my money, his problems are over. What he does not seem to realize—or care about—is that even
with
my money, the ranch will still go bankrupt—it is just a question of how many millions your father will go through until it does.”

She knew then why she had been called: he wanted her to betray her father. To her surprise she did not object to this as much as she might have hoped. Her father, for all his rough-and-tumble image, was a dandy. She had always known this, perhaps because the Colonel was always pointing it out. Earning money was the furthest thing from her father’s mind, he wanted to be on magazine covers, like the Colonel had been. She had always known that the Colonel did not respect him and now she saw that Phineas—the other famous member of the family—did not respect him, either.

“Shall we get lunch? Or can you handle a little more business?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Good. Tell me what you know about the depletion allowance.”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Of course. That’s what your father knows about it as well. The depletion allowance is one of the things that makes the oil business as far from the cattle business as the North Pole is from the South. At the moment, it says that if you drill for oil, you can write twenty-seven point five percent of your proceeds off as a loss.”

“Because you spent money to drill the wells?”

“That is certainly what we tell the newspapers, though in general we have already written off about sixty percent of those costs as intangibles. The depletion allowance is something entirely different. Every year a well produces oil, even though it is putting money into your pocket, it is simultaneously reducing your tax burden.”

“You’re making a profit, but calling it a loss.”

She could see this pleased him.

“It sounds dishonest,” she added.

“It is the opposite. It is the law of the United States.”

“Still.”

“Still nothing. The law was put there for a reason. People will raise cattle even though they will lose money doing it—you do not need to incentivize the cattle business. Oil, on the other hand, is expensive to find and even more expensive to get out of the ground. It is an enormously risky enterprise. And so if the government wants us to find oil, it must encourage us to do so.”

“So we should drill.”

“Of course we should drill. How your father can still be thinking about cows is a mystery. Every bit of profit we made in the old days was based on overstocking, on using up a thousand years of grass in a decade. The way we used to fill those pastures, it was like those file cabinets there, touching on both sides, it was mining for grass. But, as you must know from listening to me this long, facts are boring, especially to men like your father. Because what does every coonass wildcatter do when he makes his first million? He buys a ranch and stocks it with Herefords, in the same way he acquires a Packard or a beautiful wife. Though he does not expect any of them to be profitable investments.

“In the meantime, the rest of us have no choice but to exist in the present. I’m getting calls from the secretary of the navy, who is telling me he does not want a single production control in place. He wants drilling, drilling, and more drilling—the only thing we have over the Germans is our oil—they are building a pipeline from here to New Jersey, where all the refineries are, and they want every goddamn drop we have.”

He was looking out the window; he was talking again but she could not follow the thread—it was more taxes—and she was beginning to feel sick, she could not bring this up to her father, it was out of the question.
This war won’t last forever
, that was what her father was always saying,
things will go back to the way they were.
She wondered what it must be like to be her father, taking himself so seriously, imagining himself a kind of royalty, though from a country no one had heard of. Of course, in his defense, people had lately begun to agree with him. The Colonel had been dead long enough that her father was now interesting to reporters; they would visit and he would tell them the Colonel’s stories, jumbled together with his own, the time he and the Colonel had charged a house full of Mexican horse thieves during the bandit wars of 1915. It was said he had once shot a man in cold blood.

Regardless, her father
was
part of a dying breed, for better or worse, most of the old-time ranching families had gone bankrupt. Most people now lived in cities—she could still not get her head around that one—the days of the frontier were gone, long gone, though there were those who preferred not to admit it. As for her father, with his heavy face, his big hands, he had finally become what he had hoped for since childhood, the representative of a bygone era, an emissary from a lost time. That he himself had not lived during this time was irrelevant—he would take the reporters out to the corrals and put on a show, rope and cut for them, he had begun to keep older, gentler horses just for visitors, which would have been unthinkable in the old days, because horses cost money and they were for work, not play.

An automobile horn on the street brought her back. Phineas was still talking.

“ . . . even if most of the Hill Country still doesn’t have electricity, even if one does encounter the occasional bucktoothed child on a donkey, this war has dragged the rest of the world into the modern age. The Polish cavalry smashed itself against German tanks, every cannibal in the South Pacific has now seen a Zero, and if there was doubt in any mind that the era of the horse was over, that question is now settled.”

She nodded. It was obvious even to her.

“Jeannie,” he said, “it will not be long before we look back on this time and think we barely used any oil at all. Which is why we need to get some wells sunk on that land. I am tired of lending your father money.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
she took the train home. It stopped for a long time in San Antonio, the air still, the sun beating against the car. She lay against the window, trying to breathe slowly, thinking of cool things, the stock tank, the spring at the casa mayor. There were soldiers everywhere, Mexicans sweating through their uniforms, heads hanging numbly, sweat pooling, their only hope that the train might move again, they were like steers on their way to Fort Worth. Thousands had been abandoned to the Japanese, who were cutting off their heads with swords. Though MacArthur himself had escaped. A little too proudly, she thought.

She searched their faces but they were all looking down. The walking dead. How many were not even men yet? She was tired of being alone, she imagined her father’s angry face,
I gave it to a soldier
, the great burden carried away. Clint and Paul had gone to a house in Carrizo. Her father had known about it beforehand.
But I am not allowed.

When she was younger and found her father working in his study she would sit next to his chair and read, or hang around his neck and look over his shoulder, and finally he would turn and silently give her a kiss, the signal to leave him alone.

That was all he had. A hug and a kiss. Though he would kiss a horse as well, give months to understanding it, more than his own daughter.

Phineas was just using her, that was true, but he had always made time for her, even when she was young; she must have been tiresome and yet he’d made a point of teaching her things. To her father, she was just in the way. An inconvenience. A thing that might have been a son.

It was all an exaggeration, it was not the entire truth, but it made her furious, the nights she’d spent alone in the house, her father and brothers in the pastures. Things had improved since Clint and Paul left, but still.
He loves you
, she thought,
but
he prefers not to think about you
. What did he prefer? Horses. Cows. Women, perhaps, though if so she hadn’t heard about it. She decided if she ever had children, she would not leave them alone for a single minute.

“I won’t have children anyway,” she said out loud.

The Negro porter in the doorway looked up, then looked away, embarrassed. The train began to move. She wondered what she would say to her father.

W
HEN SHE WAS
sixteen she had kissed one of the vaqueros, out in the stables he was supposed to be cleaning; they had stood there for ten minutes, she could feel his tongue move lightly inside her mouth. She spent the whole night thinking about him, his cheekbones and soft eyelashes, but when she went to see him the next day, he would not let her near. A week later he was gone. She knew they had not been seen; it was as if her father had merely sensed it—as if he had sensed something was making her happy—and ruined it.

Meanwhile he did not care if the family declined. He cared only for himself. Eventually they would be bankrupt and all they had ever done would be forgotten; they would be no different from the Garcias, the children of strangers in their ruined house, a young girl in a grave. She leaned against the train window and listened to the tracks rumble beneath her, it would all come to an end.

No. She would not let it. She did not know how she would stop him, but she was as sure of this as she had ever been of anything; Phineas was old, her father was a fool, and Jonas cared only about himself. Paul and Clint were happy savages, running around without a thought in their heads.
It is up to me,
she thought.
I will have to do something.

J
ORGE PICKED HER
up at the station in Carrizo. She didn’t feel like talking so she rode in the backseat, which she didn’t normally do, she wasn’t inclined to make people feel like servants. But Jorge wasn’t bothered. He seemed relieved, even. He liked being alone with his thoughts just as she did, going for a drive to think, his own life, same as her, working through problems in his mind. Somehow this embarrassed her.

As they came up the caliche driveway, the house appeared at the top of the hill, the sun blinding white on the limestone, the dark green oaks and elms, the sky a hot pale blue. The third floor would be unbearable, the second floor only slightly better: she would be sleeping on her porch tonight, ice water on the sheets and two fans blowing. There was a black coupe parked in front that she recognized as her grandmother’s. The driver, a white man, was sitting on the porch by himself, far away from the vaqueros who were noisily taking their supper.

The curtains were drawn against the sun; the house smelled of hot stone. She went upstairs and changed out of her sweaty dress, fixed her hair and face, then went down to join her father and grandmother in the dining room.

Her father smiled and got up to kiss her hello and she knew immediately something was wrong. She wondered if one of her brothers had been hurt, then reminded herself they had not even left the country yet. Of course that meant nothing: one of their vaqueros had lost his son in basic training, run over by a jeep on a military base. It all went through her head in an instant; she dismissed it just as quickly. They would not be sitting for supper if something had happened to Paul or Clint.

Her grandmother, weaker even than Phineas, did not get up; Jeannie greeted her and kissed her cheek.

“How was your trip?”

“Hot,” she said.

“And Phineas?”

“He’s well.”

Her father, who had no use for Uncle Phineas, said, “Your grandmother was just telling me she’s spoken to the people at Southwestern in Georgetown.”

She nodded.

“You can start there in August.”

“Oh, I’m not interested in that,” she said cheerfully, as if they were asking her opinion.

A look went between her father and his mother and he said: “Jeannie, it’s unpleasant, but we all have our jobs in life. Mine is to make sure this ranch stays above water. Gramammy’s there is to make sure I don’t make any mistakes.” He smiled indulgently at her grandmother. “Yours is to get a proper education.”

He does not respect her,
she realized. All the air went out of her; her talk with Phineas was just talk, it meant nothing. She felt cold. She would end up at Southwestern; she would make the best of it.

“You won’t have to go so far away this time,” her grandmother was saying.

Later she would not recall making any choice, the words seemed to come out on their own: “I am not going to be a secretary.”

“You don’t have to,” said her father.

“Or a teacher.”

“We all have our obligations, Jeannie.”

“Phineas and I were just talking about that same thing,” she said brightly. She took a drink of water.

“Well, it is true,” he said.

“He showed me the ledger.”

Her father was beginning to say something else but then her words caught up with him. She intended to stare him down but couldn’t and instead she spoke to her plate. “In fact, the ranch is not above water. It is quite the opposite.”

She looked up; her father’s face showed nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her grandmother trying to get her attention.

“I know what we lose on the cattle.”

“Well, you shouldn’t spend so much time listening to old Phineas,” he said. He tried to smile again, but couldn’t.

She began to feel sick; she wondered if she had caught a fever on the train.

“ . . . this ranch is not the right place for a young lady with your talents,” her father was saying. “You’ll report to college, which is an opportunity I myself never had, at the end of summer.”

“Your life is no harder than mine,” she said. “You ride a twenty-thousand-dollar horse but you act like we live in the poorhouse. We lose four hundred thousand dollars a year on your cattle. Phineas says he’s tired of lending you money. Something will have to be done.”

There it was: she’d declared her betrayal. He was saying
you will leave the table, you will leave the table right now
and she said: “I will not.” She couldn’t have anyway; she was sure her legs would not hold her. “Every day you pretend you are supporting the family, when all you are doing is spending the family’s money.”