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.
I want to know everything. The way a child learns the world by tasting it . . . I want to take every part of her into my mouth; I find myself wondering about her former lovers, how she was with her sisters, her father, her mother, who she was at university, where the separate parts of her come from.
I AM UP before the light and she is still sleeping, relaxed, her hands thrown behind her head, face to one arm, her knees leaning in as if she has fallen asleep on a beach . . . I watch the sun brighten as it touches her, the smooth skin along her neck (a red mark I clumsily left), an ear, the hollow behind her cheek, her chin (slightly pointed), her lips (slightly chapped), while her eyes, which are nearly black except for a few flecks of gold, flicker in a dream. Without waking, she realizes I am not lying next to her and she reaches for me and pulls me over.
Still the shadow has not appeared. Have begun to look in all the dark places, out of the corner of my eye, but . . . nothing. Pedro—I can only recall his face as a younger man, and Lourdes, too, as a younger, more beautiful woman, as if, in my mind, they are aging in reverse.
JULY 23, 1917
A rush of air from the north, high of eighty degrees. We wake up alert and clearheaded—we must be outside. As there is an unspoken agreement about spending any time near the Garcia land, we pack a basket into the Chandler and head for Nuevo Laredo. As I drive, she encourages my hands to wander; we make a brief stop along the way. I consider the fact that I have never done this before—never made love to a woman outside the confines of a bedroom. I wonder if she has, feel briefly jealous despite my former sentiment about her old lovers, but the feeling passes and I am content again.
When we reach Nuevo Laredo the ugliness of the city is somehow overwhelming.
“This will not do,” I say.
“We will make it beautiful for everyone else,” she says. She leans her head against my shoulder.
We are looking for a cantina (or hotel, she reminds me) but as we approach the plaza de toros there are several drunk Americans, well dressed, calling loudly after the Mexican girls; one of them stares into the car, says something to his friends about María. I nearly stop to have a word, but she tells me to keep driving. We make another slow circle through the town, past the Alma Latina, where a trio of mariachis sit with no one to play for, and then somehow our eyes seem to catch on all the congales, and we decide instead to drive along the river.
After we have put a good distance between us and the city we stop where a small hill affords a good view over the savannah. There is an old long-armed oak with soft grass underneath.
We are lying on a blanket, looking out over the endless land and sky, when María says: “I like to imagine this at the beginning of time, when the grass was very tall and there were wild horses.”
“Horses have only been here a few hundred years,” I say.
“I prefer to forget that.”
“It’s buffalo you would see.”
“Except there is little to like about a buffalo,” she says. “What is the point of a buffalo?”
I shrug.
“But you prefer them. Okay, I will imagine buffalo instead, though they are hairy, smelly, inelegant, and have horns.”
“They belong here,” I say.
“In my mind, the horses do as well. And if the horses do not, I do not. And if I do not, you do not. In your world there is nothing but buffalo and sad Indians.”
“And then a gallant Spaniard appears on horseback. And shoots them.”
“It’s true. I’m a hypocrite.”
I kiss her neck.
“My father thought there were still mustangs here. He said he often saw their footprints, without shoes.”
“It’s possible,” I say.
“I used to dream about them.”
I think of all the mustangs we shot. But Pedro had done it too. Everyone had done it.
I look around. At the bottom of the hill is a stream that feeds the Rio Bravo. Along the water are persimmons and hackberries and pecans, cedar elms. I can hear green jays calling.
We lie and make love in the sun, despite the fact that we can see, in the distance, the workers moving in the onion fields along the river. María finds them picturesque; I can’t help feeling sorry for them.
“Are you sure you want to be with me?” she says. “I think you would prefer a revolutionary.”
I kiss her again.
“I am just old and sentimental,” she says.
“Younger than me.”
“Women age in dog years.”
I look at her.
“Even me,” she says. She shrugs again. “But for now I think our wine has gotten hot.”
She stands and walks down the hill to put the bottles in the stream. I worry she’ll catch a goathead, but her soles are tougher than mine. I watch her disappear over the hill, her small hips swaying, the scars on her back, her hair curled on top of her head.
When she is gone a few minutes I guess she might be relieving herself, but when she still doesn’t return I decide to find her, consider putting on my boots, don’t, then make my way through the tall brown grass, worrying about snakes and burrs and thorns. I find her lying in the creek. Her hair is loose and streaming around her, the stones white beneath her. I take three or four bounding steps and then she looks up.
“I have always liked being outside,” she says.
She pats the water as if it is our bed. I lie down in it. I notice how white and freckled I am, tan only at the arms, scraggly hairs everywhere . . . but then that feeling passes.
We lie as if we are the first people on earth, or the last, the sun coming down on us, the water cold, our every action of the utmost importance, as if, like children, we know that no one else really exists.
Finally we climb the hill to the blanket. The sun dries us and she curls against me and falls asleep. There is nothing missing. I wonder if I have ever been this happy and then I wonder again about my father, if he has ever felt anything like this. Even as a young man, I cannot see it. He is like my brother, a gun aimed squarely at the world.
Chapter Forty-six
Eli McCullough
Our commission ran out in 1860. The state was split over secession, with the cotton men and everyone who read their newspapers in favor, and everyone else against. But the Rebels needed Texas; without our cotton, beef, and ports the Confederacy could not stand.
That summer, Dallas burned. As in any conspiracy of prophets, a series of miracles surrounded the fires. The first was that all the buildings had been empty—not a single soul hurt—though an entire block had been torched. The second miracle was there were no eyewitnesses. The third and final miracle was that even though there was nothing an Abolitionist liked better than the sound of his own voice—every time an oxcart or soapbox caught fire in Kansas, a dozen Free-Soilers would turn themselves in, hoping to be hanged for their crimes—no soft sister came forward to claim the Dallas fires. The cotton men had burned their own buildings to bring us into the war and before the sun came up the next day, their newspapers were blaming escaped slaves and Yankees, whose next step would be to burn all of Texas, right after they got done raping all the white women.
By the end of summer, most Texans were certain that if slavery was abolished, the whole of the South would Africani
ze, no proper woman would be safe, amalgamation would be the order of the day. Though in the next breath they would tell you that the war had nothing to do with slavery. It was about human dignity, self-governance, freedom itself, the rights of the states; it was a war to keep us free from the meddling hand of Washington. Never mind that Washington had kept us from becoming part of Mexico again. Never mind they were keeping the Indians at bay.
It is worth noting that even then, no one thought slavery would last forever. The tide was strongly against it, not just in America, but all the world over. But the plantation owners figured if they could get another twenty years out of the institution, it was worth convincing everyone to fight. That was when the acquisitive spirit began to wake inside me. There was no point being a small man.
AFTER THE SECESSION vote, the state began to empty out. Half the Rangers I knew lit for California—they were not going to die so a rich man could keep his niggers. Close on their heels was any Texan who had ever said a word against the slaveocracy, or the cotton men, or was suspected of voting for Lincoln. And plenty of secessionists left as well. Over many of the wagon trains headed west, away from the war, the Confederate flag could be seen flying proudly. They were in favor of the war as long as they did not have to fight it themselves, and I have always thought that is why California turned out the way it did.
WHILE NOT EXACTLY sound on the goose, slavery struck me as the natural state: we had slaves, the Indians had slaves, you shall enjoy the spoils of your enemies, which the Lord your God has given you. The faces of Christ and his mother have adorned many a sword; all the heroes of Texas had made their names in the fight against Mexico. For them the war had been a golden arrangement and I could not see why this one ought to be any different.
IF YOU WEREN’T lined into a Texas cavalry unit, you’d be drafted and sent east to fight afoot, and so any right-thinking man who didn’t have a horse quickly begged, borrowed, or stole one. I signed with the Mounted Rifles under McCullough (no relation) and we were put under Sibley and sent to take New Mexico from the Federals.
Things went agee from the start. Our leader, Colonel Sibley, found the march considerable boring, and a few weeks into it, he retired to the bed of his wagon, accompanied by two prostitutes and a barrel of who-hit-John. There was an uproar from the fire-eaters, who imagined they were fighting for human dignity and freedom from the northern elite, but more cat wagons were requisitioned and the complaining stopped. The rest of us were already calling ourselves the RMN men—Rich Man’s Niggers—in honor of those brave souls who’d inspired our fight for freedom. As for Sibley, as long as he shared his whiskey, we did not mind him.
THE NEWSPAPERS SAID we’d have an easy fight against the Yankee farmers but it was not long before we detected a miscalculation. There were not many grangers to be found among the New Mexicans. In fact they appeared to have grown up the same as we had, hunting and fighting Indians, and after a few months they got behind us and burned our whole supply train. Sibley became down in the mouth and retired again to his whore-equipped ambulance; the rest of us took a vote and decided to return to Texas. The newspapers said that since New Mexico was teeming with aborigines, we didn’t want it anyway, and thus our retreat was more properly considered a great victory.
RICHMOND WAS FIFTEEN hundred miles away; they mostly forgot we existed. Belts were tight—the new governor was inaugurated in homespun—but everyone had enough to eat. Except for the shortage of young men on the streets, and occasional news of Yankee ships sunk in our harbors, you would not have known a war was going on at all. Being now a lieutenant I could come and go as I pleased, but there were not many places to go. The Comanches had taken back a smart sprinkle of their old territory; the frontier had collapsed several hundred miles. On every stretch of lonely backroad where the Indians didn’t lurk, you’d find the Home Guard. There was a fifty-dollar bounty on Confederate deserters, and if they didn’t know you personally, they were likely to tear up your leave papers, put a noose around your neck, and take your carcass to trade for their pieces of silver.
Judge Black had plenty of pull, so I stayed at his house when I got bored with the barracks, drinking his claret, sleeping in his office, calling for sandwiches on the dumbwaiter. I read a few books but mostly I drank whiskey and smoked cigars and planned my future. It had become clear to me that the lives of the rich and famous were not so different from the lives of the Comanches: you did what you pleased and answered to no one. I saw myself finishing out the war as a captain or major, at which point I’d go into cattle or shipping. One thing I knew: I was done working for other men.
As for the judge’s three daughters, one had died of a fever and the other two were still unmarried. The elder was twenty-two, a cremello like the judge, fair of skin and temperament, with my brother’s tendency toward books and deep thoughts. There had been some scandal associated with her, but no one would discuss it. The younger was more proper, in the exact form of her mother, a dusky beauty with a taste for the finer things and impeccable public behavior.
I abused myself thinking about them, but the judge had expectations that his daughters would marry Harvard men, or sons of Sam Houston, or at least sons of bankers. I was an unreliable lieutenant, whose time on earth would likely be short, and it would not do to make any investment in me. So when the door to my room opened and closed quietly one night, I wagered it was Millie, the quadroon who’d just been added to the judge’s household.
She came and sat on the bed. I looked at her in the light from the window. It was Madeline, the older daughter.
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” she said.
I didn’t. She had pale skin and red hair; her face was covered in freckles but she had big green eyes and a soft mouth. Everything about her was finely done, and though in the past I’d found kissing girls that pretty to be like biting into a green persimmon, I patted the mattress and she lay down next to me.
Her breath was sweet, which I guessed to be from her mother’s sherry. When she saw I would take no initiative, she straddled me. It was not long before I determined that she had waylaid her maidenhead sometime in the distant past.
Unfortunately I felt cowardly as a Dutchman. The judge would never forgive me; at best he’d expect me to marry her. Not to mention she was drunk, and, I thought, slightly crazy; there was no telling how the story might play when the sun rose. She detected my cowardice and lay on top of me. Unlike most of the women who consented to my company in those days, she was sweet and clean. I ran my fingers through her hair—finer than corn silk—but I did not think she’d appreciate the comparison so I kept it to myself.
“Am I not pretty enough?”
“You’re too pretty,” I said.
“But . . .” She touched me and reminded me of my failure.
“There is a lot on my mind,” I told her.
“Because you’re going back to fight this awful war for the slavers.”
“It’s for Texas,” I said.
“Texas is not Jefferson Davis,” she said.
“This is not good talk.”
“Who will hear me?”
“I can hear you.”
“Don’t be silly. Texas is worth fighting for, but not the slavers. And I am not sure there is a difference right now.”
“This is some house to be a Free-Soiler in,” I said.
“I told my father he was a coward and the reason slavery hadn’t ended was that men like him didn’t speak up. And men like you, who are going to fight for it. Though of course unlike him, you have no choice.” Then she said, “Do you have syphilis?”
“No,” I said.
“He has been warning me against you since I was twelve.”
“Did he say I had the pox?”
“He said if I looked the word up in Johnson’s there would be a picture of your face.”
I was quiet.
“I am joking you,” she said. “I was just wondering. Given your history.”
“Well, I don’t have i
t,” I said.
“I’ll lay with you despite your pox. I love you and now you’re going off to die.”
I did not know what to make of her.
“Well,” she said. “Do you love me?”
“Jesus,” I said.
“I’m kidding.” She sighed. “All right, I’ll go.”
“I’m going to die of old age,” I said.
“Don’t be hurt.”
“I’m not.”
“You shouldn’t be afraid of him.”
“I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of what will happen if you spend too much time with me.”
“Well, I’m sure you would like that honor, but you’re about five years too late. As I’m sure you’ve heard.” She began to move her hips. I allowed my hands under her shift. I knew even then I was not doing right. I will not lay it on anyone else. But I told myself she was a young girl and whatever affection she possessed would be gone by the time the dew burned off the morning grass.
For most of the night we were enthusiastic and in the morning she snuck back to her room. I expected a speech about us being married in the eyes of God, as that was the price of milk in those days, but all she said was: “My mother and father are going to San Antonio.”
That night we did it several more times and each time I took precautions.
“You’re afraid you’ll have to marry me,” she said.
“I don’t mind marrying you.” I hadn’t thought about it until that moment, but I knew it was true and I didn’t regret saying it.
“Well, that is a very sweet way to put it.”
I ignored her. “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I said. “You don’t have to worry.”