In the Kingdom of Men (22 page)

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.

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 disappear 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.”

“I don’t think it’s about more with Mason,” I said. “At least not more money or things. He just wants to make a difference.”

Ruthie drew up one side of her face. “An idealist,” she said. “Gee, we haven’t had idealism around here since 1952. Really, it’s kind of sweet.”

I raised my head to the sound of voices, saw Mason and Lucky reappear, followed by a man riding a large white donkey. Ruthie sat up quickly and pulled down her blouse. The Bedouin waited until Mason encouraged him forward before dismounting and greeting us.

“This here is Sahid,” Mason said. “Says he’s traveling alone, hoping to find work at Ras Tanura. He’s got a hell of a long way to go.”

When Mason passed Sahid the canteen, he swallowed and grimaced and swallowed again, then gratefully accepted the cigarette that Lucky offered.

I showed Sahid my camera. “Okay?” I asked. He smiled as I focused, his teeth stained with coffee, his nose a broken line. How old was he? I wondered. Forty? Sixty? When he looked at Ruthie, she pulled the blanket’s corner to cover her bare legs. He gestured, said something that made Lucky burst out laughing.

“Hey, babe!” Lucky said. “He wants to know if he can marry you. He’s willing to barter the donkey.”

“You’re the ass.” Ruthie rolled the blanket to her waist, grabbed the can of peaches, and pitched it at Lucky. He used his pocketknife to jack open the tin and spear the peaches one by one. Sahid took each slice in his fingers, paying no mind to the flies that hovered at his mouth. The men conversed for a minute longer, Sahid’s face growing more serious as he swept one hand along the horizon before saying his good-byes and leading his donkey north, stopping once to bend and tunnel his finger in the sand, revealing a sprout of green grass, which the animal cropped in one bite. Sahid looked back at us, seemed to consider, then bore west as though he were suddenly sure of his direction.

“We’d best head back,” Mason said, moving to help gather what food remained.

“So says Sahid.” Lucky visored his eyes against the sun cutting the
jabals
. “Thinks there’s djinn in this place.”

Mason weighed the water bag in his hand, then scouted the dunes, and I saw the dark edge of worry crease his brow. Lucky slapped the dust from his pants.

“Okay, gals,” he said. “All aboard.”

If the heat had seemed stifling before, it now seemed unbearable. Sweat chafing beneath my arms, the taste of cheese and hot lemonade souring in my throat, I closed my eyes, breathed the hot wind as Lucky geared us between the towering mounds of sand.

Mason pointed across the dashboard. “That way,” he said.

“Better get your bearings, son,” Lucky said. “We’re headed right.”

“We don’t want it to get dark on us,” Mason said.

Lucky flicked his cigarette out the window, growled a laugh. “You worry like an old lady,” he said. He skirted a garden of black rock, took a pull off his flask.

“Let the girls have some,” Ruthie said. She reached forward, then passed the flask to me, but I shook my head.

“What about water?” I asked.

“We got plenty,” Lucky said.

“We got what’s left in the bag,” Mason said. Lucky looked at him and then away.

We topped a razor-backed dune, a pennant of sand blowing from its peak, and rode the slip face like a wave, only to stall again. Each time the car sank to its hubs, we got out to dig and push until we were grimed and exhausted. Ruthie dropped her face into her hands.

“Let us rest for a while, will you?”

Lucky clicked off the ignition, and the sounds of the desert settled around us. The call of strange birds was followed by a high catlike keening, and I remembered the story Mason had told me of
a Bedouin at the gate, begging for help because some wild animal had dragged his child from their tent. By the time the trackers found what remained of the boy, they had only a leg bone to bury.

“Still got a few good hours of daylight,” Lucky said. “Worse that can happen is we sleep right here. I got to piss.” He opened his door and moved behind the car, toeing the depth of the sand into which we’d settled, then stuck his head back in the window. “Come on, McPhee. Let’s crawl up and get sighted,” he said. “Pistol is beneath the seat, ladies. Just make sure you’re not pointing it at a white man.” We watched them scamper up the slope, then stand straight against the deepening sky.

Ruthie leaned against my shoulder. “I just want to go home.”

“Maybe they’ll send someone to find us,” I said, then remembered we hadn’t told Habib where we were going.

A shout came down from the dune, and I peered into the distance until I made out the form of a camel, a man looming high on its back, rifle slung across his shoulder, dagger tucked at his waist. The camel knelt at the Arab’s command. I thought at first it was Sahid, but I could tell by his upright carriage that this man was younger. He offered Mason and Lucky his own goatskin bag before gesturing toward the Volkswagen, and I heard their voices rising in laughter.

Ruthie ducked to see out my window. “What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know, but it seems okay.”

The men trekked back to the car, Mason in the lead. He pulled open my door. “Sahid sent help,” he said, and pointed to the camel. “You two ride. We’ll walk.”

I grabbed my purse, hung the camera around my neck. “Where are we going?” I asked.

Mason lifted his eyebrows. “Guess we’re going to meet Abdullah’s family.”

The man pulled back his
ghutra
, and I felt my heart jump with recognition.

“So you have come for my mother’s fried locust,” Abdullah
said. When I saw the flash of his wide smile, I laughed aloud, resisting the impulse to hug him like a long-lost friend.