‘Yeah.’
Tom had heard it all before. The promoters, the talkers, the salesmen. Lies, promises, fantasies. He felt a familiar mixture of feelings. He had grown disgusted at the gap between the hundred-dollar descriptions and the ten-cent reality. He’d worked on a dozen independent wildcats these last few years, all of them the same as this. Worn-out equipment, local farm-hands recruited for the heavy work, the project always teetering on the edge of financial collapse. Industry wisdom was that you had to drill forty-five wildcats for every one that hit oil, and those were the odds for the industry at large. The odds facing independents were worse than that because they couldn’t afford to buy access to the sweetest drill sites and because they often ran out of money before drilling deep enough. Here in East Texas, there wasn’t a single indication of oil. Not one. A few wildcats had been drilled and nothing had ever been found. When guys from Big Oil saw wells like this, they slapped their thighs and promised to drink every barrel to come out of the hole.
But Tom’s disgust had another source. Himself. He knew the odds. He knew the set-up. And yet time after time, he couldn’t resist the lure. Perhaps this new well would strike it big. Perhaps this new promoter-geologist really did have a patch of land with potential. So time after time, Tom spent money he didn’t have buying worthless chits of paper in worthless enterprises. Sometimes he worked whole months for paper instead of money. In California, he’d become famous as ‘the only man to lose his shirt on Signal Hill’, to quote a newspaper headline of the time. He’d become obsessive about trying one more time and succeeding. Each well was a new horizon. Maybe this time, maybe, just maybe …
Harrelson paid off the farm-hand riggers. Three bucks a day was dirt cheap, even for these poverty-stricken parts, but if the rain wouldn’t come, the harvest would be feeble, and three bucks a day doing something useful was better than no bucks a day scratching at dust and praying for rain …
Harrelson wandered back to Tom, pushing his wallet away in a side pocket.
‘Give you a lift?’
‘Nope. No need.’
‘Anything I can do to cheer you up? Hey, what you say, you come over tomorrow, eat some chicken with me and Mrs Holling? She’s been saying she hasn’t seen you for a while.’
Mrs Holling was the landowner on whose land they were drilling. Harrelson sponged off her shamelessly, lied to her endlessly. Tom assumed that they slept together, but didn’t know it for a fact. Although Holling’s husband was dead, Harrelson technically had a wife and family a hundred and thirty miles away in Dallas.
‘It’s OK. I got plans.’
‘The hell you have. How could you have – educated man in a shithole like this? No sign of that wife of yours, I guess?’
‘No.’
‘Shame that. Mrs Holling thinks the world of her. Look, quit stalling. We’ll see you tomorrow. Round about six.’
‘Yeah, OK.’
‘And hey, look, I didn’t mean to bust your balls over that cave-in. Could have happened to anyone. And look, I feel bad. I owe you. I’m going to sign you up for some more interests, before I ever get to those wise guys from Houston. I’ll sign you up for another half per cent, free, gratis and for nothing. No. Don’t say nothing. It’s yours. You deserve it. Hop in the car. I’ll give you a ride back.’
Pipsqueak jumped into the car with a bark, then Tom followed her in. He’d never owned a car. Never come close. Too poor to find the three hundred bucks. He felt ashamed. The Ford’s suspension was built for a giant with iron buttocks. Tom was jolted so badly, his head almost hit the windscreen post. Another half per cent would be nice. In theory (and he knew that the well had been sold out at least twice over), Tom now had a ten per cent stake in the property. If there was oil there, he’d have ten per cent of it. His luck had been so bad, so long, it had to turn some time. The car hit a particularly vicious pothole. The engine stalled and died. Harrelson gazed out into the road. He didn’t try to restart the car. Tom realised he’d let the engine die on purpose.
‘Hell’s name, goddamn it!’
Tom knew he was meant to respond, but didn’t. Harrelson waited a moment, then went on without a question from Tom.
‘Aw hell, bud, I just realised I might’ve spoken out too soon. I made a promise to Ed Manninger that I wouldn’t give any more interests away without payment. Wouldn’t care nothing for that, of course, but he made me write something down. I’m worried that that half per cent I just gave you wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.’
Silence.
‘I’m real sorry about that, Tom. I should’ve thought before speaking.’
Silence.
‘I meant it about dinner tomorrow, though. Chicken. A man gets tired of hog and hominy.’
Silence.
Then: ‘How much?’ It was Tom asking.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t have to pay anything like the Houston guys. I mean, you been central to this whole enterprise. That’s why I feel bad bawling you out for a stupid cave-in.’
‘How much?’
‘Let’s say two hundred bucks – hell, no. Forget it, forget it. Hundred and fifty. Thirty a week for five weeks. You should have it all paid down by the time we make a strike.’
‘I can’t live on fifteen a week, Titch.’
‘Hell, you don’t have to. Ain’t I trying to offer you a chicken dinner?’
Silence.
In the gathering darkness, a big grey bird flew with heavy wingbeats across the roadway in front of them. In the distance, they could hear a thousand-wheeled freight train come clattering towards them through the night.
‘OK.’
‘That’d be thirty a week for five weeks.’
‘I said OK.’
Silence.
‘Starting now, bud. I can’t get to the paperwork till I got an instalment. Plus I promised the boiler guy he’d have thirty bucks advance this Monday.’
Hating himself, Tom took the grainy grease-shined dollars from his pocket. He divided them into two piles and handed the bigger one to Harrelson.
The freight train was close now and it sounded like thunder.
102
Night.
Alan lay with his face pressed to the ground. The soil was muddy, and he could taste wet clay on his lips, smell it oozing up his nose. Overhead, the night sky was screaming in pain. Shell bursts turned the air to metal, while the horizon around was tongued and spattered with fire.
Alan pushed himself forward using toes and elbows. His right hand held a revolver, which he was careful to keep out of the mud. His left hand slipped and rolled on something that had a different wetness to the wetness of everything else. Alan knew what sort of thing that was: a head, an arm, a torso. He didn’t want to look, but a German flare burst above him and he caught a brief glimpse of some torn human fragment, before he snatched his gaze away and looked forwards.
Tom was there. A hundred yards ahead.
Typically brave, typically impulsive, typically disobeying his typewritten orders, Tom was making his way through the wire.
Couldn’t he see he’d never make it? Alan wanted to rush forwards and haul him back, but he knew that to stand up here was to die. He urged his limbs forward, but he found himself in a nightmare breaststroke on a slope of liquid clay. He was shouting something, or felt like he was, but the clay in his mouth clogged the words, or perhaps the shells had simply deafened him.
Way ahead of him, Tom’s dark figure stood up beyond the wire. He was shooting. Attacking the German lines single-handed. He was crazy. The war had turned him crazy. As Alan watched, the figure sank down. Not suddenly, but slowly, softly. It seemed like he was sinking into something. Alan stood up to run towards him.
The noise was deafening.
The air split.
He woke up.
Lottie was awake and stroking his forehead anxiously. When Alan’s eyes opened and came into focus, her gaze softened and her anxiety faded.
‘Sorry, darling, was I shouting?’
�
��Yes.’
‘Another dream.’
‘I know.’
‘I do apologise. Perhaps I should sleep in my dressing room. The last thing that a woman in your condition needs is –’
‘Darling, please don’t be a fathead.’
‘I’m serious. You need a full night’s –’
‘I need a husband who isn’t a fathead.’ Lottie sat up in bed, and arranged the pillows behind Alan so he would sit up too. ‘Your dreams are becoming more frequent and they’re becoming worse.’
‘They’re not –’
‘Yes they are, at least if the amount of shouting is anything to go by.’
‘But still, they’re only dreams. As soon as I wake up, I feel –’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t only love you when you’re awake. I’ve had enough of you ignoring the problem.’
Alan rubbed his eyes. The dream didn’t quite fade upon waking. It was still there with him now. A kind of nameless horror, the memory of those awful offensives, death everywhere, and Tom sinking like a shadow to the ground. He gazed around the room: the heavy red-tasseled curtains, Lottie’s things gleaming silver on her dressing table, photographs of their children, of Lottie and her parents, of Alan and George in Persia. The two worlds fought for mastery, and the daytime world began to win. But Alan knew that as soon as he lay down to sleep, the contest would start again and the war would return. He hadn’t told Lottie, but he dreamed of the war every night now, it was just that he didn’t always end up shouting.
‘It’s not a question of ignoring it, dear,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it. That’s all.’
‘Perhaps not, but we haven’t tried.’
Alan looked at her. She had the blooming skin of pregnancy, as well as the misty look in her eyes that showed that a part of her attention was always somewhere else. He stroked a length of short auburn hair from her cheek and raised his eyebrows.
‘I have the name of a doctor,’ she said. ‘He studied with Dr Freud in Vienna, but apparently he’s not in the least intimidating. A friend of mine saw him and said he was very helpful, very understanding.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Dr Westerfeld. John, I think. He has a practice in Harley Street.’
Alan nodded. ‘A doctor? A psychiatrist, I suppose? I’m not sure. I really don’t think –’
‘Darling, you’re being a nincompoop.’
‘I’d go if I thought there was any real –’
‘Why is it that men are so brave about some things and such cowards about others? If it doesn’t help, then don’t go back.’
Alan swallowed. His blond hair was gummed to his scalp with the sweat of the dream. She was right, of course. It was only his discomfort at the idea that stopped him going. And if he was being absolutely honest, there were times, even during the day, when he felt inexplicably out of sorts. Even that morning when Reynolds had so splendidly burst in on them, Alan had felt it. For the most part, he’d been happy, full of joy at seeing Reynolds again, full of excitement for Alanto’s progress in Persia. But, even as they’d built refineries out of mustard pots, he’d felt oddly disconnected, a kind of weary disenchantment with everything. With Reynolds, with Alanto, with oil, even with Lottie.
‘Very well. You’re right. I’ll see him, but I’ll also move into the dressing room. I won’t have you disturbed.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you too.’
Lottie nodded. Alan kissed her, saw her snuggle back down, then padded silently to the single bed in his dressing room next door. He got into bed, turned the light off, and closed his eyes.
Sleep came.
His lips were caked in clay. The bitter, mineral taste filled his mouth. He raised his eyes. A short distance ahead, Tom moved purposefully towards the enemy.
103
Ten wasted years.
Tom didn’t kid himself. There are different ways you can succeed. You can make money. You can build a career. Or if you’re a bust at work, you can always find love, start a family, be content.
But Tom had failed in all ways, all dimensions. He had watched the rise of Alanto Oil in Persia, and resented it bitterly. He read about other men’s successes in America and resented them too. Wherever he turned, he saw happy families and loving couples, and he resented them all.
More than a decade since the war ended, Tom had nothing to show for it, nothing but loss.
Take that day in April 1922. Tom had been left penniless on the steps of the Long Beach courthouse. He’d had two bucks, a little change, and a loving white mongrel. He’d felt desolate and shattered. Then came the voice: ‘Tom? Is that you?’
It had been Rebecca. She’d paid off her debts in Wyoming and come out west to Los Angeles. With her debts cleared, she was starting out afresh, working as a typist for some Hollywood studio. She’d read in the papers about Tom’s story – that awful headline about the only man to lose his shirt on Signal Hill. She’d at once wanted to come and find him.
It had been a shock to see her. She was instantly familiar. Olive-skinned, thin, angular, Tom (despite his prior doubts) had found her deeply attractive without quite making it to beautiful. Until he’d got to her eyes. They were different from anything Tom had known in a woman. They were dark, perceptive, piercing but never hostile. It was her eyes that Tom recognised at once, as though he’d seen them just yesterday.
She’d come as a friend, but by the time Tom had spent the best part of his two bucks fifty-five cents on buying her lunch, they were well on their way to becoming lovers. The months passed. They lived together. They slept together. They were very nearly happy.
Yet Tom found it almost impossible to settle. He had to take jobs as a lowly rigger, when just a short time before he’d been on the verge of millions. He was living in a one-bed apartment paid for by his ex-prostitute lover, when his one-time twin was the Managing Director of the world’s youngest and most exciting oil company. The land that he’d drilled on – old Ma Hershey’s twenty-seven sandy acres – had turned the Faries brothers into multi-multi-multi-millionaires. Tom blamed his luck incessantly. He became angry and vengeful towards the world. He resented Rebecca’s contentment. He resented her.
The strain showed.
He spent too much money on idiot oil ventures. He stayed out drinking. He occasionally (just occasionally) slept with women other than Rebecca.
And so it finished – or should have done. But one evening, in spring 1923, just about one year from their meeting on the courthouse steps, Rebecca had an announcement to make. She was pregnant. Tom was shocked, but honourable. He asked her right away to marry him, and he did it graciously and even gallantly. They were married quickly and quietly, and their baby – Mitchell – was born six months later.
Mitchell was a strong little lad, with powerful lungs and his parents’ dark hair. Tom was extremely fond of ‘Mighty Mitch’, but his feelings for his son didn’t compensate for a difficult relationship with the boy’s mother. Tom somehow felt that a shotgun wedding wasn’t the same as a real wedding, and his womanising grew more frequent. Meanwhile, his work life went from bad to worse. Up and down the Californian industry, Tom was known by his nickname of ‘Twenty-Seven Acres’ or just plain ‘Twenty-Seven’. Each time he heard the name, he fought the man using it. He fought with fists and bottles and, once, even a rigger’s handspike. Within the space of twelve months, he’d been fired by Standard of California twice, Union Oil twice, Shell and Gulf once each.
The troubled family moved to Texas, hoping that Tom could leave his reputation behind and settle down. The nicknames grew fewer, but Tom still found a settled life impossible. News of Alan’s growing successes followed him round and gnawed at him. An ordinary life with ordinary successes and failures was impossible when Alan was living an extraordinary one in England. Even the name Alan had chosen – Alanto; Alan and Tom – seemed to Tom like a carefully chosen insult. He followed news of the company’s growth with obsessional care, and
everything he learned pushed him further into anger and self-loathing.
He drifted away from the big companies, preferring to work for the little guys. He was paid less and he squandered more. Each failure fed the fire for another attempt. Each attempt led directly to another failure.
Twice Rebecca had moved away, taking Mitchell with her. The first time she’d been away for just five weeks, the second time for eight months. On both occasions she’d taken herself off to a farmer’s widow who’d been kind to her when Tom was working the oilfields of the Gulf Coast. She’d stayed there, helped out the old lady, looked after her growing boy.
Both times, Tom had hesitated between an angry restlessness and the hope of rescuing something valuable from his disintegrated family life. The second time especially, during that long eight-month gap, he’d stormed around, taken jobs and lost them, stuck more capital than he possessed into the most wild-eyed and even fraudulent oil schemes going. He’d begun drinking more than he should and ended up brawling in moonshine joints where the men he brawled with were big fisted Texan cattle ranchers who gave every bit as good as they got. But eventually, both times, Tom had become sickened at his own attempts to ruin his life. Twice he had crawled out to Rebecca to woo her back with promises of reform and pleas for patience. Twice she had accepted.
But just two months earlier, as Tom’s reforms had evaporated again, Rebecca’s patience had finally snapped. She’d left him once again, for the ‘absolute last and final time’. She wanted to save Mitch from his father. She wanted Mitch to be proud of his parents, not ashamed. Tom was on his own now, bitter and despairing.
Ten wasted years.
The car dropped Tom in the dirt yard, beeped a farewell, and was about to swing off into the night. Then, on a sudden impulse, Tom leaped forward, forcing Harrelson to stop the car.
‘Jeez, bud. You don’t want to jump out like that. I almost ran into you.’
‘One question. Just one question, Titch. You promised some money to that boiler guy. When did you make your promise?’
The Sons of Adam Page 30