In the Kingdom of Men

by Kim Barnes

  “Ross Junior is sure growing,” Ruthie said. “He’ll be headed to boarding school soon.”

  “Says he won’t go.” Ross ran his napkin down his mouth. “He’s a brat like all the other brats around here. Wants to live on the beach and be a bum. Might should let him go run with the nomads for a while, see how that suits him.”

  “I hear you,” Lucky said, and wagged his head. “These young people coming up today don’t know the meaning of paying their dues. We got Joey in the military academy. They’ll shape him right.”

  Ross sniffed his agreement, wiped his knuckles across his mouth, then cocked an eyebrow at Mason. “Seven thousand feet in three days.” He let the words weight the air. “You sure know how to drop a drill, McPhee.”

  Lucky slowed his chewing, looked from Ross to Mason.

  “It’s a solid crew I got,” Mason said. “Couldn’t ask for a better gang pusher than Khalifa Salim, and Saleh Misar might just be the smartest motorman I’ve ever seen. They’re the ones doing all the work.”

  “That’s right,” Ross said, and leaned back. “You got to work them as a team.” He flipped open his gold Zippo, snapped it shut, and considered Mason through a waft of smoke. “You’re a tall drink of water. Bet you played ball.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mason brought himself to attention.

  “Position?”

  “Point guard.”

  “He was the leading scorer at Shawnee,” I added. “Full-ride scholarship to Oklahoma State.” I realized too late where the comment would lead and felt myself shrinking back, wishing that I had kept my mouth shut.

  Ross lifted his chin. “Degree?”

  Mason didn’t flinch. “I had a wife to support and a job too good to pass up.”

  Ross winked my way. “Looks like you made the right decision on both counts.”

  “Anyone been following the Cardinals?” Lucky edged in. “Bet you wages Bob Gibson is headed for the Hall of Fame.” He leveled his thumb. “Now, there’s a guy your son could learn from. Grew up poor as sin. Rickets, asthma, bad heart—you name it, he had it. Started out with the Globetrotters, but he wasn’t like them other colored boys—couldn’t stand the clowning. He was serious mean. Bean his own grandmother, then meet her at first base to see if she wanted to make something of it.” Lucky rocked back. “No, sir. No one messes with old Hoot Gibson.”

  “I’m an American League man myself.” Ross snagged an ashtray and puffed his cigar back to life. Yash frowned through the sour smoke as he gathered our dishes. “Truth is I’d take boxing over baseball any day. Never saw a finer athlete than the Brown Bomber. Nazi bastards went right after him, and now the Communists got our best.” Ross frowned, rolled a speck of tobacco off his tongue. “Cassius Clay, Muhammad Ali, don’t matter what you call him or what color he is, he’s still yeller.”

  Lucky leaned in, dropped his voice into a lower register. “You want to explain to me how a man who fights like that can turn tail and run?”

  Mason cleared his throat and pushed back his coffee. “Ross, if you’ve got some time this week, I’d like to run a few ideas by you.”

  “Ideas about what?” Ross asked.

  “Working and living conditions mostly,” Mason said.

  Ross ran his eyes around the room. “I’d say conditions are looking pretty fair.”

  “I mean for my drillers.”

  Ross slid a toothpick between his teeth. “Did you swap over to Personnel while I wasn’t looking? I thought your business was getting that oil out of the ground.”

  “That’s just what I’ve been telling him,” Lucky said, eager to agree. “The Arabs never had it so good.”

  Ross didn’t take his eyes off Mason. “Is that what you’re thinking, or are you thinking something different?”

  Mason opened his palms. “It’s like they say, the biggest problems in the world could have been solved when they were small. If we treat our men right, give them more reason to give us their best, we stabilize the workforce, up production, and everyone wins.” He gave a one-sided smile, dropped his shoulders. “Hell, I’m just a roughneck. Making the machine work is what I do.”

  Ross sniffed, rubbed a smudge from his lighter. “You’re a man of high ideas, McPhee, and high ideas are what made this company. Burt Cane seems to think you’re something special. Even put in a good word for you with the board.” When Lucky’s head came up, Ross tipped his cigar. “You’d best let Doucet here teach you a thing or two before you start fixing what ain’t broke.”

  “Want to hear how your Arab friends fix things?” Lucky pointed his chin at Mason. “Few months back, couple of tribes started shooting it out right at the base of my rig. Me and the boys holed up and waited until they got their fixing done. Next morning, dump truck pulls up, they throw the bodies in and drive off.” He sat back, looked at Ross, then at Mason. “It’s mighty white of you to offer, McPhee, but them Arabs don’t need your help.” He pointed his cigarette. “And I’ll tell you this. Get crosswise with one, and he’ll kill you twice for the fun of it.”

  Ross raised his upper lip in the semblance of a smile before stubbing his cigar. “I need to get on home, see how that damn dog is faring.” He lumbered to a stand before I could offer more coffee. “Mighty grateful, Ginny Mae,” he said, and tipped his hat at Ruthie. Mason saw him to the door, came back, and dropped down next to me on the couch.

  “Hey, Yash,” he said. “Play us some tunes, why don’t you?”

  Eddy Arnold’s voice calmed the room. Lucky settled in the chair Ross had vacated, lit a cigarette, and fixed Mason with a one-eyed squint.

  “That’s a bigger dog,” he said. “You’d better watch your ass.”

  “If this workforce ever decides to rise up again,” Mason said, “it’s the company that’d better watch its ass.”

  Lucky settled his chin on his chest. “You’re acting like you done forgot what side of that triangle you’re on.”

  “That’s just my point,” Mason said. “The whole triangle is wrong. It sets the workingman against the company and against the king, and there isn’t anything balanced about it. If you can’t see that, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  Lucky ran his tongue behind his teeth, lowered his voice. “You can tell me why it’s you Ross is petting.” There was a moment’s silence, as though the sound had been sucked from the room. Mason dropped his gaze to his drink, but Lucky’s face didn’t change. “I’ve been in this place longer than you’ve been pissing standing up,” he said, “wrangled more out of those Arabs in a day than most supervisors can in a week. Why you?”

  “You’re senior foreman,” Mason said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  I looked at Ruthie, who dipped her head but stayed quiet.

  Lucky pointed his thumb. “Here’s what I’ll tell you,” he said. “No matter what the Arab workers want, the company makes all its decisions in consultation with the king. If he says jump, we ask how high. It’s him the workers got to convince.”

  “What’s the difference?” Mason asked. “We’ve got a king who thinks like an oil company and an oil company that thinks like a king.” He blew out a hard breath. “The last thing the company wants is nationalization, but if we don’t get these workers parity, we’re going to have big trouble on our hands.”

  Ruthie straightened her back. “Too much shop talk,” she said. “Let’s have another drink.”

  Mason glanced at me, then gave a one-sided grin. “Hell, Lucky, I’m green as owl shit,” he said. “Ross is right. I got a lot to learn, and I know I can learn it from you.”

  When Ruthie leaned into Lucky’s shoulder, he snorted, eased the glass from her hand, drank it empty, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket.

  “Listen,” he said. “I was fourteen, fifteen years old, running a perforating gun outside Thibodaux. I was watching this old farmer breaking his field, been at it all day, gang plow behind a seven-horse team, shires hitched three and four, pulling for all they was worth. Hard as I was working, I believe that
gent was working harder. Ate my lunch and kept him timed, an acre an hour, no fooling.” Lucky’s speech had melded into a kind of tune whose words I could barely understand. “Spring, he’s wanting to lay a new crop. Must have seen that weather coming, same as I did, because he’s hieing that team up one last row. Thunder rolling in from the south, and I’m loading the gun, getting a little jumpy. I got primary explosives, twenty-four shots going in that hole. Don’t take much—you’re reloading, rig man hits the juice a little too soon, scuffs up some static, and you’re a dead monkey.” Lucky pulled on his cigarette, and his voice dropped a notch. “Hot-hot. Air so wet you could drink it. Start feeling the hair prickling up, but I’m thinking this one last charge, and I’m done for the day, go home and down a cold Dixie.” Ruthie coughed, and he patted her head. “Sha, sha, sommeil,” he said, and then went on. “Wasn’t raining, not yet, and I thought that meant something. You know better, same as I do. When the lightning hit, thought I was killed.”

  Ruthie rolled her head. “Not my Lucky.”

  “Knocked me on my ass. When I opened my eyes, I seen that old farmer rise up and take off at a dead run, smoking like the devil out of hell, blood pouring from his ears.” Lucky hunched his shoulders, leveled one hand, quieted to a near whisper. “But them horses, they don’t get up. Lightning hit one, tapped right through. All seven went down still tied in their traces, stacked up like cordwood. Even from where I was, I could smell the stink.” He sat for a brief moment, remembering, then pinched out his cigarette. “I need to get this little girl home,” he said, and helped Ruthie to her feet.

  Mason watched him carefully, then stood to hold the door. “It may be that you and I don’t think the same, Lucky, but we’re plowing the same field.”

  Lucky gave a short grunt. “You plow your side, brother, and I’ll plow mine.” He maneuvered Ruthie down the steps, tucked her into the car, then straightened. “You’re just a pup,” he said, “but I like your spunk. You tag along with old Lucky, and you’ll learn some things. Maybe not what you expect, but you’ll learn.”

  We watched them drive away, and Mason rolled his shoulders as though shrugging off some ache.

  “Are you sore?” I asked, and rubbed his back.

  “Not so sore I can’t beat you at a game of Horse.”

  I raced him to the ball, made my first shot from the left-hand corner just as Yash stepped out onto the porch, headed for home.

  “Come on, Yash,” Mason called, and matched my shot, the ball never touching the rim.

  Yash’s grin broke white beneath the street lamp. He walked slowly to the mark, shot without dribbling, and missed the hoop by a mile, the ball sailing into the dark of the empty lot. Mason whooped and ran after it, but Yash was already waving him off.

  “I’m a chess man myself,” he called back. We watched him pedal down the street on his bike, his oiled hair disappearing before the white of his shirt. Mason paused to hear the reverberating chant of the last call to prayer before bouncing the ball my way. I made a jump shot from center, and when he missed his match, I howled, “H on you!” Lamps in the nearby houses flicked on, then off, but I didn’t care. I felt happy, as though the weight of the evening had lifted, as though nothing could touch us there in our small circle of light where the date moths cast their shadows like miniature clouds.

  Chapter Ten

  The sound of the doorbell jolted me awake. Mason groaned, shoveled the covers over his head. I lay still for a moment, waiting for Yash’s voice before remembering he had the day off.

  I pulled on my robe and stumbled down the hall. When I cracked open the door, wary of who I might find, I saw Lucky, shiny and chipper as though he hadn’t just left our table hours before. Behind him, Ruthie waved from the backseat of the Volkswagen.

  “Hot as a popcorn fart,” Lucky said. He snapped his lighter, sucked a cigarette to life. “Good day as any for a picnic.”

  Mason came in, still buttoning his shirt. “Mornings sure come early around here,” he said.

  “Waking up is what lets you know you’re still alive,” Lucky said. “Thought we could do some exploring, maybe visit spike camp, show you a thing or two. We got the sadiqi juice, but the girls might want something to cut it.”

  I looked at Mason, who ran his fingers through his hair. “Guess we got to do something,” he said.

  I ran to change my clothes, then poured a canteeen of water and a jar of the fresh lemonade Yash had left in the Frigidaire, slammed a few cheese sandwiches together, and grabbed a jar of pickles. I followed the men to the little car, a goatskin bag of emergency water hanging from the passenger door, dropped my purse and camera behind the rear seat, and squeezed in next to Ruthie. Mason positioned our lunch in the forward trunk, then squinted into the sharp glare of the sun.

  “We’re going to swap some sweat today,” Lucky said. When we reached the gate, he saluted Habib without stopping.

  “Better tell him where we’re going,” Mason said.

  “Where we going?” Lucky lipped his cigarette. “We’re wildcatters, ain’t we? Bird-doggin’. Just following our nose.”

  The stinging wind that whipped through the windows was no relief from the heat. I had gathered my hair beneath one of Mason’s cotton handkerchiefs, and still the strands pulled free. We followed the asphalt a few miles northeast toward Dhahran before forking left onto a packed sand road. Within minutes, the Volkswagen was the sole object in sight. Only flares broke the horizon, and soon they, too, were gone. A few outcroppings of dark rock, clumps of camel brush, long stretches of cracked sand flats flanked by hilly jabals. When the road gave way to meandering drifts that snaked away in front of us, Lucky got out and scouted a thin line of oil.

  “Tanker leaks the valve just a smidge, leaves a nice little trail for us to follow,” he said, and unscrewed a flask, took a long swallow and then another. I saw the way Mason watched him, the wary cast of his eyes.

  The deeper we got into the desert, the deeper the sand. Even with the big tires, we bogged. Every mile or so, the men piled out and pushed while Ruthie steered us clear. The oil marker disappeared, then appeared again as the sand whisked one direction and then the other. My mouth filled with grit, and I licked my lips. When Mason handed me the canteen of water, I drank until he tipped it down. “Better save some,” he said. “We’re a long way out.”

  Lucky grunted and pointed to a tall tamarisk. “How’s that look for a picnic, girls?” He pulled the emergency brake. “Biggest goddamn parking lot in the world.”

  I couldn’t wait to escape the sweltering car. Ruthie jumped out and ran ahead of me, kicked off her shoes, rolled her pants, and scrambled to the top of the nearest dune. I focused my camera, caught her laughing and leaping down the sand face in leggy strides. The shelter wasn’t much—more filter than shade—but we spread two blankets and arranged the food while Lucky poured the drinks. Without Yash’s attention, our lunch seemed scant: a dented can of peaches that Ruthie had brought, a few dry sandwiches, the pickles that puckered my mouth.

  “Wish I had a river to jump into,” Mason said.

  Lucky rested on his elbow. “Arabia used to be covered with streams. One of the biggest ran right through here. Wadi Sahaba.” He plucked up a small rock worn smooth as glass, worried it against his thumb. “Sand is like water. Wears down everything,” he said, and pitched the stone away.

  Even in the heat, it felt good to lie next to Mason, drowsy in the open air. When Ruthie and Lucky began kissing, I snugged my head into the crook of Mason’s shoulder, embarrassed and a little excited by their shushed giggles and moans. I realized what I wasn’t hearing—the songlike call to prayer that marked the day’s progression. When a bustard broke from behind a dune, wings set, its call a harsh bark of alarm, Lucky sat up to study the direction of its flight.

  “Wonder what’s eating that guy.” He peered to where the bird had risen, then motioned to Mason. “Let’s go see what we got.”

  Ruthie moved to my blanket, and we watched the men disap
pear around a hillock of sand. We shared a cigarette and sipped at the spiked lemonade. The tart drink made my mouth drier than it already was, and I chased it with water as hot as the air. I kept my eyes on the place where I’d last seen Mason.

  “Should we be worried?” I asked.

  Ruthie followed my gaze. “Only if we hear someone scream.”

  “I don’t think Mason or Lucky would ever scream,” I said.

  “I wasn’t talking about them.” Ruthie lay back, her dark glasses reflecting twin pinpoints of sun. I wanted to shrug off my worry as easily as she did, but I felt exposed without Mason, overwhelmed by the sense that Ruthie and I were marooned, vulnerable and alone.

  “What would you really do if something ever happened to Lucky?” I asked.

  “I would have Joey to go back to,” she said, then grew quiet, and I knew she was thinking of me.

  “If something happened to Mason, I think I would stay,” I said. “Maybe get a job and live in Singles like Linda.”

  Ruthie smirked. “You wouldn’t be single for long,” she said, “not in this crocodile pit.” She brought the cigarette to her lips. “How’s the love life these days?”

  “Good,” I said, “unless Mason is too tired or in his study.”

  She opened her eyes, looked at me. “What does he do in there, anyway?”

  “Paperwork, I guess.”

  “Drillers don’t have paperwork,” she said. “They’re roughnecks, not engineers.” She exhaled, lowered her voice. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Lucky can’t read. He bluffed his way into the service. I tried to teach him, but it just made him mad.” She lifted her shoulders. “He might act like he doesn’t understand, but he knows why he’ll never get promoted.” She flipped her cigarette to the sand. “Don’t say anything to Mason, okay? It’s hard enough for Lucky as it is.” When I nodded, she pulled up her blouse, exposing a lacy brassiere, rolled to her stomach so that the sun hit her back, and rested her head on her arms. “I’m kind of glad he’s not ambitious like Mason, you know? We have more than we need already.”