by Pamela Morsi
"Get out, Daddy, I'm taking the car," she ordered.
Her father did as he was bid but looked at her askance. "Princess, you don't know how to drive an automobile."
"Oh, Daddy, you know me, when I set my mind to it, I can do anything."
Chapter Twenty-One
Tom had not had time to make it all the way to the school. Cessy, who had lurched and sputtered all the way down the river road, came to an abrupt halt beside him, not a half mile from the Shemmy Creek turn off.
His eyes alighted with hope at the sight of her in the Packard, but she wasn't ready to give him hope yet.
"Get in," she ordered.
Without question he followed her instruction.
"I didn't know you are an auto driver," he said.
"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," she said as she took her foot off the clutch, causing the car to jerk forward, nearly knocking Tom dramatically into the windshield.
He put his hands upon the door and the dash to brace himself as several more lurches ensued, but then the annoying Packard sort of got its footing and went barreling down the road once more.
Cessy glanced over at him. He looked handsome, dashing, as desirable as ever. He looked strong, forceful, masculine. She marveled that she had ever believed him to be the delicate gentleman that was Gerald Crane.
He also looked tired. She was tired, too. They'd been awake for nearly thirty-six hours. The best decisions were probably not made under those conditions. Deliberately she kept that in mind.
She careened the Packard to a stop at the special place, the picnic place. She got out and began walking into the cool glade without so much as a word or glance back.
Cessy heard him hurrying after her, but she refused to wait on him. She refused to take any notice.
This was their place. It was a place so dear to her. It was where he had asked her to wed him. He had claimed to be in love with her, but it was the love of money that had fueled their rush to the altar. Now it was to be the lack of money that would save their marriage.
It took her a few moments to find the rock, but she did and she knelt down to put her hand upon it.
"Still cold?" he asked as he came up beside her.
Slowly she looked up at him.
"Someone told me that there is an underground spring here," she said. "A small river of cold water just below the surface."
"Someone told you?" His gaze was questioning.
"Gerald told me," she said, more specifically.
He shook his head.
"No, not Gerald," he said. "Gerald couldn't have told you that, because he wouldn't have known. He's lived all his life inside, warm and protected. It was Tom who was with you at this place before. It was Tom who got you Queen Anne's lace and cattails. This is Tom's place."
"And who am I here with this evening?" she asked.
He smiled at her. "With your husband, of course."
She nodded.
"My husband, who married me for my money."
He did not reply. He sat down on the grass across from her and took her hand in his own. It was warm, so very warm. A stark contrast to the coldness of the rock.
She broke from his grasp and lay her hand on the cool surface of the stone once more.
"Do you know that wealth can be like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like your underground creek," she said. "Wealth can be hidden from view. Sometimes the people that you would never believe have money have it in cartloads. And the people that you think are rich as Croesus turn out to be surprisingly insolvent."
"Yes, I suppose that's true."
"And that's what has happened," she said.
Tom nodded. "Yes, I guess so. As Gerald, I appeared to be quite wealthy and in fact I had nothing."
"Oh I wasn't thinking of you, or of Gerald," she said. "I was thinking of myself," she said.
He was sitting cross-legged in the grass, a sprig of broom sedge extending from the corner of his lips.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, you see, you seem to think that you married a very wealthy woman and that you will get to live in luxury all your life. You see those big oil wells coming in and you think they are money in the bank. But they are not at all."
"I don't understand what you're saying."
"King Calhoun looks very prosperous, very wealthy. It's how an oil man must look if he ever expects to have backers. Backers are one of the most key elements to success in the oil business. Even Sinclair or Rockefeller cannot amass enough money for a project like this on their own."
"I suppose not," Tom agreed.
"Certainly it is a good thing to strike oil. And we do have all of that flowing into those sump tanks. But without a way to process it, it's worthless."
"Worthless?"
Cessy looked at him and shook her head. "You may be Toolie Tom, the hero of the day," she said. "But I'm afraid that you still have a lot to learn about the oil business."
"I'm sure I do," he agreed.
"Crude oil, the so-called black gold that we get out of the ground, has no value in itself," she said. "It has to be refined into products. Mostly we use it to make lamp and heating oil, although if those contraptions like my father's Packard really catch on like he thinks they will, it can be used to make gasoline."
"I agree with your father," Tom said. "It's clear that the internal combustion engine is the future and it runs on gasoline."
"Perhaps so," Cessy agreed. "But that is the future and this is the present. Did you ever wonder why no other oil company has come to Topknot?"
Tom's brow furrowed thoughtfully.
"I guess I never thought about it," he admitted.
"It looks very strange here, you know, if you've been to Jackson or Corsicana or Spindletop," she said. "At all the other major fields, and I truly do believe this one is going to be major, there are a half- dozen oil companies cramped up against each other, trying to drill out of the same zone."
"This is my first oil field," Tom told her. "How would I know that? But it's better, isn't it, if your father controls all the oil here?"
She nodded.
"Yes," she agreed. "It's theoretically better. But the reason that no one else is here is not because no one but my father thinks that there is oil here. It's because there is no refinery in this area and no pipeline to one at all."
Tom began to twirl the sprig of broom sedge in the corner of his mouth as if pondering deeply.
"Unfortunately for Topknot and Burford Corners, there is no way to get the crude oil from the well to anyplace that can make it into something usable and marketable."
"Then why did your father drill here?" he asked.
"Because he believed that there was oil here and he believed that he would get the financing to build his own refinery. That is what he wanted. To be first and to own the refinery and therefore to control the field."
Tom nodded with appreciation. "It sounds like a good strategy," he said.
"Yes, I think it was a good strategy," she said. "But it was a risk. And a risk that has not paid off. Daddy has not been able to get the financing. He has gone to virtually every oil-friendly bank in the country and been turned down again and again. The banks believe that there is more than enough oil in production already. The supply of it currently exceeds the demand. And that bringing new fields into production will only drive down the value of the fields that they are already invested in."
"But that is only in the short term," Tom said. "These bankers are simply not looking far enough ahead."
"They are looking at their pocketbooks today," Cessy told him. "And they have decided not to loan my father the money that he needs. My father must build a refinery to get the value out of the oil. And as each day goes by it becomes less and less likely that it will happen."
Tom was silent, thoughtful for a long moment.
"I'm sorry," he said finally.
"Yes, I am too," she said. "When I told Daddy that you marrie
d me for my money, can you imagine what he said."
"No, I can't."
"He said that the joke was on you, because there is no money."
Tom nodded slowly, as if deep in thought.
Cessy raised her chin and kept her tone falsely bright. "I think that you should keep our current poverty clearly in mind when you make your decision," Cessy said.
"My decision?"
"About whether you wish to continue our marriage," she said.
Tom's mouth fell open in surprise. The sprig of broom sedge fell to the ground.
"You said that you were going to divorce me," he pointed out.
"I was very angry at the time," she admitted, swallowing no small amount of pride. "But I'm not sure that divorce at this time would be the best thing to do."
"Are you saying that you still love me?" he asked softly.
"No, I am not saying that at all," she assured him hastily. "I am not sure how I feel about you, or if I can ever care for you as I did."
"But you want to stay married to me."
She hesitated only a moment.
"I . . . fear that I may be with child," she said.
"Already?"
"My . . . my courses were due this week," she said. "It is early, of course, to know. But it seems I am late. If it were true, if I were in a family way, then I would not wish to try to raise a child without a father, even if that father were a lesser man than I might wish him to be."
She saw him blanch and knew her words had wounded him as sorely as she had intended.
"We are both without sleep and just now learning the truth about each other," she continued. "I suggest we meet here at this time, one week from today. By then I shall know if I am with child and you will know whether or not you are willing to take on a wife who not only cannot support you, but who will expect you to support her."
Once the smoke and fumes had cleared, the oil camp was reestablished in its old location. It was amazing how much longer it took to set things back in order than to disorder them in the first place. The evacuation had taken hours. Most of the work week was spent getting everyone moved back into their campsites.
And a changing neighborhood was also evident. As the wells came in, many of the men from the drilling crews were packing up and moving on. It was pumpers that were needed now. And they arrived, unwilling to spend anymore time than necessary in the camp. They would be living in Burford Corners for some time to come. They were ready to build shotgun shacks and foursquare houses.
While the genteel society of Burford Corners, such as it was, did not welcome the pumper families with open arms, the merchants were as excited and enthusiastic as if they, too, had struck oil on the crest of Topknot hill.
All of this happiness and prosperity, however, hinged upon the Royal Oil Company and rumors about company troubles were beginning to surface.
Where indeed was all this oil going to go? How much could be held in sumps for how long? Was there to be a refinery in Burford Corners or not?
The man who could have answered those questions boarded a train on Thursday with his new son- in-law, Toolie Tom, at his side. He was more now than the hero. King Calhoun had clearly singled him out for better things. There was talk of letting the young man be driller on the next well or perhaps even making him a pusher. Whatever, it was quite an honor even if he was King's son-in-law, although how that was working out no one could really tell.
Tom, it seemed, was back living with Ma and Cedarleg.
The train was an express, but it still took a good while to make its way across half the country. They boarded at dawn and were in Chicago past supper- time. In the darkness they slept through the cornfields and cottages to awaken to a Pennsylvania dawn. It was midafternoon when they freshened up at the Elvira Hotel in downtown Bedlington.
"Just let me do the talking," Tom suggested. "I know these people. I believe that I can trust them. And I hope that they will trust me."
"Lord, I ain't going to say a word," King assured him. "The dang bellboy even looks down his nose at me."
Tom laughed and straightened his father-in-law's collar. "That's because you don't look like you are an oil baron," he said.
"I'm the brokest oil baron you ever saw," King said.
"You're not broke," Tom assured him. "You're merely lacking in financing."
The two walked the length of Broad Street commenting on both the quaintness of the hundred-year-old buildings and the cleanliness of the brick streets.
Tom mentally prepared himself. He held his head high as he glanced around, nodding politely to a matron here, a businessman there. He was as good as any of them. He was a man of his own making.
Dexter Savings Bank was on the corner of Philpott and Broad. The two stopped in front.
"Are you ready?" King asked him.
"I suppose I'm ready as I'll ever be," Tom told him.
"Don't feel bad if they turn you down," King said. "They are bankers. Bankers and oil are just one of those combinations that never quite mix."
Tom sighed heavily and cracked a grin. "I'm just hoping that a little gunpowder in the stew will make it blend a little more nicely."
Inside they found fine marble floors, well-polished, dark walnut paneling, a chandelier overhead with real electric lighting.
Tom walked directly up to the balding man at the front desk.
"I am here to see Mr. Dexter," he said.
"Which Mr. Dexter, sir," the man said. "There are two."
"Mr. Ambrose Dexter," Tom replied.
"Do you have an appointment, sir?"
"No, I do not," he said.
The man gave only a cursory glance toward the book beside him.
"Then it will be absolutely impossible to see Mr. Dexter today," he said.
Tom sighed, deliberately keeping his fear and disappointment in check.
"Then I will speak to the elder Mr. Dexter, please," he said.
The clerk gave a snort of annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Impossible, the elder Mr. Wheeling Dexter sees only a very select group of our bank's depositors."
"Perhaps I can make an appointment with Mr. Ambrose Dexter for sometime next week, sir."
Beside him Tom heard King Calhoun sigh and from the corner of his eye he could see the older man's shoulders slump. He couldn't allow Calhoun to give up. He simply couldn't allow it. It was too important. They were much, much too close.
"Do you know who I am?" Tom asked the question just a little bit too loudly.
"I have never seen you before in my life," the balding man answered with the conceited self-assurance that anyone who it would be important for him to know he would recognize on sight.
"I am, sir, for your information Ger—" He covered his gaff with a hasty cough. "I am Thomas T. Walker," he said.
"Very nice," the clerk said, clearly unimpressed.
"Go tell Mr. Ambrose Dexter that I am here," Tom said.
"I told you that Mr. Dexter has no—"
Tom slammed his fist down upon the clerk's desk. Every human in the bank jumped at the unexpected sound.
Tom kept his voice soft, quiet, and extremely civil. "Apparently you did not hear me," he said. "I told you to tell Mr. Dexter that I am here. So do it."
The clerk, now clearly rattled, hurried back to the glass-paned doors at the back of the bank.
Inside Tom was shaking. So much depended upon this. So much was riding on the coattails of a long-ago war. But not everything, he reminded himself. Cessy was still willing to marry him. She was willing to live with him, to be married to him even if he were only an out-of-work tool dresser. That's what really mattered. She and he. The rest of this was just ... it was just money.
"Tom! My God, Tom!"
Ambi came exploding out of his door. He stopped only an instant to open up the one beside his.
"Father, Tom Walker is here," he said.
Then Ambi was there, cranking his hand as if it were a pump handle and talking a mile a minute in that oh-so-clever and sophis
ticated tone that he had.
His father was there, too, patting him on the back and expressing how glad they were to see him.
"Come on back into the office," the older man said. "We have so much to catch up on."
Tom was almost led away when he stopped and turned to the man behind him.
"Mr. Dexter, Ambi, please allow me to introduce my father-in-law, Mr. King Calhoun of Royal Oil."
"Mr. Calhoun, a pleasure," the elder Mr. Dexter said.
Ambi repeated the greeting.
They made their way into the corner office where Ambi's father still held sway, although it seemed most of the business had been turned over to his son.
The clerk was sent for tea and the four were shortly enjoying an afternoon respite.
"You're married, Tom?" Ambi said.
"Yes," he answered. "Just recently."
"It's been almost two years since I tied the knot," Ambi said.
"You're married also? To anyone I know?"
Young Dexter blushed vividly. "Why Diedre, of course."
"Diedre Willingham?"
Tom was shocked.
"Why, yes, of course, who else," Ambi answered. "You must have known . . . well, I wore my heart on my sleeve for years. Surely you knew that I cared for her."
"I had no idea."
"Why else would I have made such a mess of our friendship," he said.
Tom was dumbfounded.
Ambi turned to a curious King Calhoun. "After the war, your son-in-law stayed with us to recover from his wound," Ambi explained. "He met many of our friends. He is such a cutup, as I'm sure you know. And we all loved him. My wife, who was just past her coming out at that time, became interested in him. He mentioned that he was thinking of marrying her. I had been waiting for her to grow up for a very long time."
Ambi turned back to address the rest of his words to Tom.
"I said some terrible things at that time," he admitted. "Things that I did not mean. And things that I would have taken back a hundred times. But then you were gone and no word all these years. I thought I would never see you again."
"No need to worry about that," Tom said. "Like the bad penny, I always turn up."