Yellow Mesquite (14 page)

A woman in black came out onto the portico behind Whitehead and stood, shading her eyes, watching him.
 

Harley lowered his gaze. “Sorry if this is a bad time.”
 

Whitehead leaned forward, frowning. “Boy, do I know you?”

“You picked me up hitchhiking. About a year ago. You were racing that other fellow to Dallas.”
 

Whitehead stared. “Well, by god a’mighty.”

“You gave me your card, said if I ever wanted a job…”

“By god a’mighty,” Whitehead said again.

“I wouldn’t have come on out here, ’cept I come so far.”

“You’re that artist kid.”
 

“Wendell, who is it?” The woman leaned against the porch’s support column, the back of one hand pressed against her forehead. She looked sick.

“Just this boy,” Whitehead said.

“I guess I’ve come at a bad time.”

“What does he want?”

“Looking for a job,” Whitehead said over his shoulder.

“I heard about your son in town. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have come, but—”

“Yeah, this is a bad time for Mavis, my wife here.”
 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, a nod of apology in her direction. “I’ll come back some other time if it’s okay.”
 

Whitehead looked up the road. “How’d you get out here, anyhow?”

“Caught a ride from Midland. Left Dallas in a car, but it threw a rod and I had to junk it.”
 

“You hitchin’ back?”

“I’ll go back to Midland, look around there.”

“Wendell,” said the woman, “bring the young man in for a cold drink.”

Whitehead glanced at the woman, then back at Harley, hesitant. “Sure… Come on in the house and let’s get you something cold for your trouble.”
 

 
“I might come back later on, after you all are feeling better, if that’s all right.”
 

 
The woman took a few steps toward him, shading her eyes again. “It’s so unbearably hot out here. We’d love to have you join us for a nice cool drink.”

 
Whitehead looked from one to the other. “Boy, c’mon in; get a little something to cool down your gizzard.”
 

 
“You would be doing me a kindness,” the woman said. He saw she was dressed in plain black and wore no makeup, yet she looked very elegant, very dignified. He liked her instantly, though he couldn’t imagine what he might possibly have in common with this refined woman who spoke such precise English.

 
“This is my wife, Mavis,” Whitehead said. “I plumb forget your name, son.”

 
“Harley. Harley Jay Buchanan.” He nodded to Mrs. Whitehead. “Pleased to meet you.”

 
“That’s right, by god. Harley Jay Buchanan. Separation, Texas. How ’bout that?”

 
“Please,” Mavis said, her eyes settling over him like a warm blanket. “Do come in and cool off.”

 
“I don’t want to intrude…”

 
She smiled faintly. “What type of job are you interested in, if I may ask?”
 

 
“Any job,” he said, embarrassed that he had no particular skills. “Something in the oilfield.”

 
“I’m sure you’ll find something. In the meantime, Lupe will make you a nice cool drink.”

 
“Please, don’t go to any trouble.”

 
“It ain’t no trouble a-tall,” Whitehead said. “We got Meskins to do it.”

 
Whitehead ushered him toward the house, the dog trotting stiffly alongside.
 

The woman stood back and ushered him in. The house was spacious, cool air blowing from vents, beams in the high ceiling.

 
Harley stopped abruptly, his attention locked on a painting on the wall. “That’s…that’s a
de Kooning
,” he whispered. He couldn’t help but step closer to see if it was real.

 
Mavis hesitated, a look of surprise. “Why…yes. You’re familiar with de Kooning?”

 
“He’s one of my favorites of the Abstract Expressionists.”

 
Mavis’s attentive gaze lingered on him, her smile curious.

 
“That pitcher’s worth a few bucks, all right,” Whitehead said.

 
In addition, a small Kline, a Jasper Johns and the Rauschenberg Whitehead had mentioned a year before decorated the walls, all in the one room, each with its own light, like in a museum.

 
Harley saw now that coffee and rolls had been spilled over the rug.

 
“A little accident,” Mavis said, following his gaze.

 
“Where the hell’s that Lupe, anyway?” Whitehead grumbled.
 

 
“I shouldn’t be surprised if she were halfway to Mexico by now,” Mavis said, glancing at Whitehead, a little light brightening her eyes.

 
Whitehead looked at Mavis. He laughed unexpectedly, as though he hadn’t laughed in a long time and found it a great relief. “Har-har-a-har-har! By god, I thought there for a minute I might be clearing the trail for her, too! A-har-a-har-har-har!”
 

 
Mavis laughed, a small tinkling laugh, and Harley saw that something had passed between them, an inside joke of some sort.

 
Mavis began picking up the rolls, putting them back on the

tray. “This rug will have to be sent out.”
 

 
“I’ll give you a hand,” Harley said.

 
“Oh, how nice. Thank you.”

 
“Boy, Harley Jay, how’d you like a job pumpin’ wells?”

 
“I’d like it. What’s pumping wells?”
 

 
“It’s keeping them pump-jacks going. You get a lease on a buncha wells, take care of ’em, see they keep pumpin’ up that gold. I could use me another good hand to help old Wesley Earl. What d’you say?”

 
“Yessir. I’ll take it.” He wondered why Whitehead hadn’t had any jobs just minutes before, and now he did.

 
“Hell, boy, ain’t you even gonna ask about the pay?”
 

 
“I figure you’d pay the going rate.”

 
“By god. Do you know what the going rate is?”

 
“No. But I figure you do.”

 
“Boy, you might be a good artist, but you ain’t got no mind fer bidness. When you wanna start?”

 
“Can it hold off a few days? I’ve got to get another car, a couple’a things to work out first.”

 
Mavis smiled. Her gaze had been fixed on him ever since she stepped out onto the portico. “Then it’s settled. Marvelous!”

 
“Yes-sir-ree. We gonna get you fixed right up, make oilfield trash out of you in no time.”

 
Mavis frowned. “Wendell, I do wish you wouldn’t use that awful term.”
 

 
Whitehead winked at him. “By god, I need me a good boy like yourself around here. I damn sure do!”

Chapter 15

Return

T
HIS HAD BEEN
a mistake, this letting the Whiteheads talk him into taking their son’s Corvette to go get Sherylynne. While it might be “expedient,” as Mrs. Whitehead had said, he felt a claustrophobic sense of obligation. He had enough money to buy another junker, but finding one, waiting for his check to clear, the paperwork—that stuff took time.
 

Then, too, there was something unsettling about the whole deal, something beyond the obligation. First, Whitehead claimed he didn’t have any jobs; then all of a sudden he not only had a job, but seemed eager for Harley to take it. Harley sensed it was Mrs. Whitehead he was trying to please. He should have been pleased at he use of the car, but he had a vague sense of being used.

THE SUN WAS
disappearing, the evening sky darkening when he slowed and turned off Gaston into the graveled drive alongside Aunt Grace’s boarding house.

He spotted Sherylynne, her lovely disjointed saunter, as she swung along from the rear of the boardinghouse toward the garage apartments. He blinked the headlights on and off. She stopped, staring in the twilight as he swung out and made as if to drive into his bay in the garage. She looked momentarily confused as he brought the car to a stop and got out.
 

“Harley Jay!” she cried, and rushed at him, bursting into tears. She held tight, trembling against him, her face buried against his neck. “Harley Jay!” she sniffled, clutching his shirtfront.
 

He tilted her head back, held her at arm’s length, thumbed tears from her cheek.
 

“Well, kiddo,” he said softly, “we’re off to Midland. So what do you think about that?”

She loosened her hold on him. “You got the job?”

“Big as all get-out.”
 

“Where in the world did you get that car?” she asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Our old Ford threw a rod. I had to junk it. That car belongs to my new boss and his wife, a ’54 Corvette. It was their son’s, but he blew himself up out there in California, making a homemade bomb. Mrs. Whitehead, she insisted I take that car to come get you. She’s really nice. I didn’t want to take it, but it seemed the most direct way to get everything settled. I don’t mean I don’t appreciate it. I do.”

Sherylynne stared at the Corvette. “You mean, they
gave
you that car?”

“Just to come get you. There’s a company pickup, too, but we’ll get you a car of some kind when we get back and settled in a bit.”

“I can’t believe anybody would let a complete stranger drive off in something like that…”

“It’s a little strange, all right.”

“You said their son blew himself up? making a bomb? What kinda people are these, anyway?”

“Yeah, I feel a little funny, driving his car, him dead and all.”

“And you did get the job?”

“I could’ve started today, but, well, I’m gonna be a few days late.”

He took her hand, led her to the car and removed a little store-wrapped box tied with a bow.

“I got you this,” he said.
 

“A ring?”

“Just a wedding band. Go on, open it up.”

She ripped the paper off and snapped the box open to reveal a narrow gold band set in a crease of blue velvet.
 

“I hope it fits.” He took it from her and slipped it on her ring finger.
 

“Perfect,” she said happily. “The difference between respectability and disgrace.”

“Don’t talk like that. Anyway, we’ll get you a nice engagement ring, later.”

“When are we getting married?”

“The sooner the better. I’ve got to get that car back, get on that job.” He paused. “How did it go with Aunt Grace?”

Sherylynne’s eyes clouded in the twilight. “Harley…I don’t know how to tell you this…”

He felt himself tightening with apprehension. “This what?”

“Aunt Grace, she burned some of your paintings.”
 

It took a moment to register. “She…
what
?”

“She’s a crazy woman. Mother always said she had a temper, but I never seen anything like that.”

Harley stared, his gaze fixed in disbelief.
 

“I tried to stop her,” Sherylynne said. “She asked me if I was pregnant, and I told her yes and that we were getting married. She called me a whore, said I was trash. She cleaned out your room, put all of your things in the garage here.”

He covered his face with both hands. “Burned my paintings?”

“In the burn barrel back there. I’m really sorry.”

He lowered his hands, took a deep breath and let it out. “Listen,” he said, “first thing in the morning, we’re going to pack and ship everything to Midland. If you’re agreeable, we’ll stop in Separation and get married. Our seventy-two-hour waiting period is up, and it’s right on the way.”
 

“Meet your family? That’s kinda scary.”

“C’mon, let’s go get a hamburger; then I’m going to find a hotel room. You can come stay with me if you want.”

“You mean…all night?”

“Up to you.”

He could see she was thinking it over, torn. “I’d better not,” she said, “I don’t want to make her any madder than she already is. Besides, I need to get my things together.” She brightened a little. “But I’d like to go for a burger.”

“We’ll find a supermarket, pick up some empty boxes, some duct tape.” He opened the door and she got into the passenger seat, looking all about at the car, flushed, eyes aglow.
 

Harley backed the car around just as Aunt Grace appeared on the back step, eyes piercing, clutching a white lace handkerchief to her throat.

Harley put his foot on the brake, and slid to a short stop in the gravel. The knuckles on his hands were pale, trembling. He opened the car door and got out.
 

“Harley…what’re you…” Sherylynne began, little more than a whisper.
 

Aunt Grace took a step back, one forefinger hooked inside her collar, mouth pinched, eyes big, as he stepped around the car and stopped a few feet from her.

“You burned some of my paintings?”

Aunt Grace’s eyes rimmed with tears. She said nothing.

“I oughta burn your damn house down!” he said.

Aunt Grace’s eyes widened, chin trembling. “I–I’ll call the police!”

“Go ahead. Call ‘em. You owe me for those paintings.”

Aunt Grace removed her glasses, touched at her eyes with the handkerchief, folder her heavy arms beneath her breasts.
 

Harley lingered but a moment. Then he went back around, slid in behind the wheel and eased down the graveled driveway onto Gaston.
 

Sherylynne let go an audible sigh of relief.
 

HARLEY DROVE UP
to the garage apartment the next morning at sunrise. Sherylynne was up, showered and dressed, her things packed and taped shut in the boxes they’d got from dumpsters the night before. She had packed Harley’s things as well. The trunk and passenger seat wouldn’t hold much, but they didn’t have much. Even so, he had to make three trips to the Greyhound bus station. He took the remaining paintings off the stretchers, rolled them together in a tube-shape, and secured them with the duct tape. Except for their immediate clothes and essentials, he had everything shipped to the bus station in Midland.