A Season of Dreams

by Gilbert, Morris

  All this was running through Maury’s head, and finally, with a shudder and a clatter of the worn engine, she pulled out into the road.

  The children babbled incessantly, excited over their trip, as Maury steered the vehicle down the crooked road. The land was fenced off with barbed wire and on most of the fences were signs reading, No Trespassing—Property of Kingman Oil Company.

  Driving through the clumps of low hills and emerging into the open occasionally, Maury paid scant attention to the anticlinal domes she passed from time to time. Most of them were a hundred feet high, almost perfectly round, and smooth all over. They were baked brown and covered with a stubble of dry weeds. Each one was enclosed with a Kingman fence. On the tops of some she noted tarpaper shacks. Sometimes a wooden oil derrick lifted itself toward the sky. These derricks were decorated with a tangle of blocks and cables and had nothing of beauty to recommend them.

  Finally, after forty-five minutes, Maury brought the car to an abrupt halt at a place that was a little more attractive. A creek meandered between slight hills and under a clump of mulberry trees, where Maury and the children quickly piled out and dabbled in the creek. After a while Maury pulled off her shoes and waded along with the children. The sun was hot, and she knew that her face would be tinged with pink if she stayed out too long. She finally took a seat next to the creek, under the trees, and watched the children splashing merrily.

  A school of minnows came darting in the clear water, short silver torpedo shapes that seemed to have a single mind for they all turned left and right at exactly the same instant. “I wonder how they do that?” Maury said aloud as she watched them with interest. She took a stone, flipped it into the water, and watched as they all wheeled instantly right and disappeared.

  She lay back on the dried grass and closed her eyes, letting the quiet soak into her. She seemed to have been immersed in sound and fury ever since she had come to Oklahoma. The small cabin was busy at all times, and both inside and outside there was the constant noise of hammers banging and winches screaming as the men worked on the derrick. Accustomed to her own quiet room, to long hours of solitude, Maury did not realize how tense she had become. She lay back, letting all the strain flow out of her as she listened to the murmur of the brook and the babbling of the children’s voices. Vaguely she tried to consider how long she would stay at Pete’s and when she would go back to Chicago. Somehow it seemed to be admitting defeat to go home and leave Pete in the lurch—even though Leslie was getting better, at least enough so she could help tend the children.

  Finally the children came and they ate the sandwiches she had brought and drank lemonade she had made in a jug. “Get your playing done. We’ve got to go back.” As she expected, there was protest, but there was no help for it.

  When they got back to the car and the children were seated, Maury set the levers on the wheel, then moved to the front where the worst operation of all took place—cranking the car. She was a strong young woman; nevertheless, it took all the strength she had to turn the engine over. There was also the danger, if the engine did catch, of the crank whirling around and breaking her forearm. “I don’t need that!” she muttered grimly, struggling with the operation. Soon she was utterly frustrated, for the engine would not catch. With the sweat running down her face and her dress clinging to her body, she finally sat down on the running board, defeated.

  “Can’t you start it, Maury?” Stephen piped up.

  “No.”

  Mona turned a troubled face toward her. “Will we starve?” she asked, her voice quivering a little.

  “No, we won’t starve. We’ll just have to wait until someone comes along to help us crank this fool thing!”

  Time passed slowly and no traffic appeared, for they were off the main road. Finally Maury looked up and saw a rooster-tail of fine dust that marked the approach of a vehicle. Quickly she stood up and moved to the side of the road. As the car approached she waved frantically. The car slowed to a halt and a man got out and walked over to her. “Why, hello,” he said and pulled his hat off.

  Maury wished it had been anyone other than Ted Kingman. She thought fleetingly of the difficulties that Pete had encountered with the company and how harshly he had spoken to Ted when he’d called on them. Nevertheless, she said stiffly, “I’m having trouble with this car, Mr. Kingman. Could you help me?”

  Kingman looked at the dilapidated vehicle and smiled briefly. “I’ll see what I can do, although I’m not an expert.” He moved over and went through the routine of attempting to start the car, but after three failures, he lifted the hood. Maury and the children watched as he remained bent over, and when he finally straightened up, he was frowning.

  “You’ve got a magneto problem,” he said. “I think you’ll have to have a new one.”

  “Oh, dear,” Maury said, biting her lip. “I don’t know anything about such things. My uncle Pete will have to fix it.”

  “Well, I could take this one off and we could get a new one in town. I think they’ve got plenty—or,” he said suddenly, “there’s a wrecking yard just outside of town. If we could find a good used one, I think that would suffice.”

  Maury tried to think. It was a long way back to the rig and she also had little money. “I don’t have much cash with me,” she said. “Are they expensive?”

  Kingman shook his head, “No, we’ll try the junkyard first. Sometimes you can get one for a dollar at the wrecking yard. Get in my car.” He looked up and grinned, saying, “You kids, go get in that car over there. We’ll have a ride.”

  Five minutes later they were moving down the road, the children in the back and Maury sitting stiffly upright by Kingman. She could not help feeling that he must be better than his father, for at least he was polite—which Horace Kingman never was, according to Pete.

  Kingman, for the most part, kept up the conversation until they arrived at the small town, which consisted of no more than a dozen businesses lining a single street, with several houses flung out randomly surrounding them. “Why don’t you and the kids go in the store there while I see if I can find the part.” He pulled up in front of a white building with peeling paint and led them inside. A tall, thin woman wearing a brown dress greeted him, and he said, “See if you can fill these kids up on soda pop. I need to find a part for the car.” He turned and left, adding, “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Miss Stuart.”

  Filling the children up took two soda pops apiece and Maury herself drank a root beer. It was cold and refreshing as it slid down her throat. The woman in the brown dress was curious and asked questions, but Maury fended them off successfully.

  Finally Kingman was back, shaking his head. “Nothing in the wrecking yard, but I called to the next town. They’re sending one on the bus. It’ll be about an hour or two before it gets here.”

  “Probably two,” the store owner nodded. “You’re welcome to wait here.”

  But Kingman shook his head. “I see there’s a picture show going on down there. Kind of early in the day, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, that’s Nelson Jeter. He shows the same old cowboy movies every day,” she snorted. She shifted the cud of snuff in her lower lip, her eyes suddenly filled with humor. “He likes to see ’em himself. Reckon he must have ’em all memorized. I can tell you what it’ll be, in case you want to go—Bob Steele in Raiders of the Prairie.”

  Suddenly Ted Kingman laughed. “Sounds like a good one. How would you kids like to see Bob Steele?” Of course the answer was predetermined. He said, “How about you, Miss Stuart? You think your heart can stand all the excitement of Raiders of the Prairie?”

  “I–I suppose so,” Maury said, “but it’s really too much trouble for you, I’m afraid.”

  He waved her off saying, “I haven’t seen Bob Steele in a long time. Come along.”

  He led them to the theater, which was nothing more than an empty building with an assortment of chairs (few of which matched), a screen, and a projector in the back. Kingman paid the ten cents each ad
mission for all to a gap-toothed man who said, “You’ll like this one, folks. It’s Bob Steele and Raiders of the Prairie. Can’t be beat!”

  After they had taken their seats and waited for a few moments, the owner and projectionist came and turned the lights out. Soon, across the screen, the title came in glaring black and white.

  The sound track was scratchy at times, booming at times—almost unintelligible. Bob Steele, it seemed, had drifted into a ranch where a young woman who wore calico was tending her ailing father. The villain, a scruffy-looking man with a fierce mustache and small beady eyes, was stealing their cattle.

  “Bob’ll stop that in a hurry,” Kingman whispered to Maury. “I saw this when I was just a kid, along with about fifty other movies he made.”

  Maury was amused at the crudity of the movie. She leaned over and said, “Look! In the scene just before this, he had his hat on and now it’s off.”

  “I don’t think they’re fussy about details in this sort of movie. What they want to see is Bob beating someone half to death.”

  This Steele did. He was a small, muscular man with frosty, pale eyes and tightly curled black hair. He was constantly either leaping on a horse from behind, whipping somebody with his fists, or engaged in a chase.

  Finally the movie was over, but the kids said, “Let’s see it again.”

  Kingman looked at his watch and said, “No, the parts ought to be in now—unless you’d like to see it, Miss Stuart?”

  “No, I think once is enough,” Maury quipped.

  They left the theater and went back to the store, where Kingman purchased more drinks. Then he left them to go to the parts store. Ten minutes later he was back with the part. “I guess we can go see if we can put things together.”

  As they rode back, Kingman seemed happy. He talked about Bob Steele, Charles Starrett, Buck Jones, and Tim McCoy, the cowboy heroes of the movies. “I lived for those Saturday afternoons,” he said. “I guess I really wanted to be one of them.”

  “I guess we all want to be something other than what we are.”

  Her remark caught at Ted Kingman and he turned quickly to stare at her. He was impressed by the steadiness of this woman. Her red hair caught the gleams of the sun and there was something beautiful in the sweep and line of her jaw. “And what is it you want to be and are not?” he asked.

  Caught off guard, Maury turned to meet his eyes and she flushed slightly, then smiled. “I don’t know. Here I am an old maid and still don’t know what I want to be. Pitiful, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know that it is. I think most people don’t know what they want to be. They miss the boat sometimes.”

  “Well, you know what you want to be—president of Kingman Oil Company someday.”

  He did not answer her at once, but turned his eyes back to the dusty road. The silence ran on as the car moved down the road. He skillfully avoided the potholes and the worst of the bumps, and finally he said quietly, “I suppose so. That’s what the plan is. Sometimes, though, I think I’d like to try something else.”

  “What could be better than being president of a big oil company?” Maury was shocked at his hesitancy.

  He turned to look at her and said, “Maybe I’m like you. I just don’t know what I want to be—well, there’s the car.”

  A few minutes later, Kingman had installed the part. He started the engine and then stepped back. Pulling off his hat, he smiled at her, saying, “I enjoyed the afternoon. Maybe we can do it again some time.”

  “I doubt that. Our ways don’t go together, it seems.”

  Kingman flushed at her reference to the difficulties that her uncle was having. “I’d like to do something about it. I don’t agree with my father. He wants to own every foot of oil-rich land in the country. But I think there’s room for the small fellows, too.”

  “I wish you were president of Kingman Oil.” Suddenly Maury put out her hand and when he took it, she squeezed it firmly and rewarded him with a smile. “You’ve been very gracious. The children and I thank you.”

  When they returned to the house, Stephen and Mona were bubbling over with the adventure. Pete sat listening to them and said nothing for a time. Finally, however, when he got Maury alone, he said, “Sounds like young Kingman did a decent thing, but he’s got bad blood in him. Horace Kingman is rotten through and through—and I guess his son will do anything his old man tells him to.”

  Maury was staring out the window as he spoke. She turned to him and said, “I don’t know, Uncle Pete. He seems unhappy somehow. I don’t think he’s like his father.”

  “He’s not. According to what everybody says, he doesn’t have any insides. He’s just a flunky.”

  Maury did not argue, but all that day and for several days thereafter, she thought about the encounter. Over and over again she remembered his remarks, I guess I’m like you—just don’t know what I want to do. Somehow she felt a strange kinship with this man who was so alien to everything she knew.

  Bailey had found that work on the rig with Pete was a pleasure. Under the blazing sun, he would stay close by the side of his new friend. He had little aptitude for mechanical things, but for passing tools, pulling on cables and ropes, and moving large bulky items, he was unbeatable. Pete appreciated the help, as he still had some trouble getting around, even though his leg was healing nicely, and rewarded Bailey with small gifts whenever he could. One day, Pete returned from town to find Bailey sitting in the shadow of the oil derrick, and Pete grinned at him.

  “Payday!” he said and held up a small paper sack.

  Bailey lifted his large blue eyes to Stuart saying, “Payday? Oh, I don’t want no money, Mr. Pete.”

  “Well, it’s not money—just a present for all the work you’ve done on the rig with me, Bailey. Here!”

  Bailey took the package gingerly and peered into it. He blinked and reached inside and removed the item, holding it up. “Why, it’s a book, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, a new kind of book. First one ever to come out,” Pete nodded. “They call them Big Little Books.”

  “Well, it don’t look like no book I ever saw,” Bailey said. The book that he held was a compact volume measuring approximately three-by-four inches, but was very thick, containing over four hundred pages. Such books were published on the concept they would just fit small hands, and the price would be right for those with a little pocket change to spare. But the book was dwarfed in Bailey’s massive hands. He held it carefully with his left and ran his blunt forefinger across the title. “What does that say, Mr. Pete?” he inquired.

  Pete was startled. He had never thought that Bailey could not read, although perhaps he should have. Quickly he said, “Why, it says, Dick Tracy—Detective.”

  “Dick Tracy—Detective.” Bailey moved his finger back and forth across the words, then looked up. “What’s a detective, Mr. Pete?”

  Pete laughed and said, “Well, I guess you’ll find out when we read the book. I bet Violet would be glad to read it to you.”

  At once Bailey rose to his feet. “I sure do thank you, Mr.Pete,” he said. He stroked the book lovingly, nodded, and smiled his sweet smile, then entered the house.

  Inside he found Violet cooking, preparing lunch, and said, “Look what Mr. Pete got me—a book. It says, Dick Tracy—Detective. Will you read it to me, Violet?”

  Violet looked up, startled, then took the book from him. She opened it and saw that there were many illustrations. “Yes, I will, and there are lots of pictures for you to look at.”

  “Can we start now?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Violet said. She sat down and the big man pulled his chair as close to hers as he could possibly get. She began the adventures of the hooked-nose detective, reading slowly. Bailey loved to be read to and she was pleased that Pete had thought of such a thing.

  Soon she had a complete congregation listening to her, for Stephen and Mona came to press closely against her on the other side from Bailey, and Ray wandered in along with Pete, and they s
at on the boxes next to the children. They all listened as she read the adventures of Dick Tracy and finally she looked around and said, “Well, I’ve got to cook. We’ll have another reading this afternoon.” She handed the book to Bailey and said, “It’s your book, Bailey. You hang on to it.”

  Later Violet said, “That was a nice thing, Uncle Pete. Bailey appreciates little things like that.” She shook her head sadly. “I never will get over being sorry that he had to give up his watch to pay for our way down here. I wish I could get it back.”

  “Well, you got that truck driver’s name. If he ain’t hocked it, you could probably get it back—if we ever get any money.”

  Pete put his hand on Violet’s shoulder and grinned at her. “What’re you cooking? You can bake better stuff out of nothing than anybody I ever saw. I don’t know what we’d of done without you, Violet—you and Maury.”

  Violet smiled back, “Why, I’m making an eggless, milk-less, butterless cake.”

  “Sounds awful!”

  “Well, it probably will be.” She showed him the recipe she had found in a magazine and said, “It couldn’t turn out any worse than that Depression Pudding I made where I just dumped everything together—graham crackers and sugar and baking powder. Now that was awful!”

  “Wasn’t too good,” Pete said. He stood there talking to the young woman for a while, then mentioned, “Dent’s taking Maury to church tonight. You want to go?”

  “He didn’t ask me.”

  Her answer was so short that Pete gave her a startled look. “Why, shoot! You know he’d like to have you go along.”

  “No, I don’t want to intrude.” Violet rose, cutting the conversation off. Pete watched her for a moment, then rose and walked outside where Dent was banging away, trying to straighten out a piece of bent pipe.

  “You going to meet’n tonight?”

  “Sure am, taking Miss Maury. She needs to hear some good old Pentecostal-type preaching.”