The Son (62 page)

By the time Lucho showed her to her cabin, the sun was going down and most of the men had returned from fishing or shooting. She was wearing heels and a skirt and blouse and cursing herself for forgetting the bug spray. None of the men appeared to have showered or shaved in several days. The average oilman’s ranch had a main house of limestone with heavy wood floors and leather furniture; the lodge here was a crude plank structure with stapled screen windows and unfinished walls. It might have been the hunting camp of some backwoods mayor, jury-rigged electrical cables, old refrigerators and televisions. She knew all of the men present, Rich Estes, Calvin McCall, Aubrey Stokes, T.J. Garnet, a half-dozen others, all dressed in their oldest clothes, pale legs under Bermuda shorts, bellies hanging. She had brought jeans but decided not to change—the worst thing would have been to give off the impression that she cared to fit in, to let them know how flattered she was. They were all good men, but they were the type who demanded submission.

Dinner was beans and tortillas, beef or cabrito, piles of fried catfish caught that morning, a platter of fried squirrel riddled with number-six pellets; if you counted what these men might have been earning had they not been hunting and fishing, it was probably the most expensive meal ever eaten. Travis Giddings was picking out the squirrel heads and methodically sucking them, his shirt covered in gravy. Drinks were Big Red or sweet tea or Pearl beer, but mostly whiskey in a paper cup. Then there were trays of peach cobbler and buckets of ice cream. But there was no loud talk, no cursing; it was like a locker room when the teacher walks in. She let slip that she would only be staying a night or two at most, saw the relief. Lucho began passing a handle of whiskey; she put the bottle to her mouth, lifted it high and held it for a long time as if she intended to drink the whole thing. Of course she kept her tongue pressed to the rim, letting barely any into her mouth, but there were cheers and laughter and within a few minutes a stream of
fuck
s and
shit
s like a dam had broken,
everyone likes the drunk girl,
she thought. Maybe that was not fair.

She pretended disgust at the mess, laughed at the dirty jokes, and when four women showed up (strippers? prostitutes?) she didn’t react. Lucho gave her a look and she knew it had not been his idea; she winked to show he shouldn’t worry. She was safe—any one of these men would have jumped in front of a train for her—but they were not above making her feel uncomfortable. She wondered who had ordered the girls, maybe Marvin Sanders, who had never really liked her, or maybe Pat Cullen, or maybe it was Lucho himself, whatever he was pretending now. Maybe they had invited her to test her. Or maybe they had presumed she could handle it, or maybe they had not thought of her at all.

Sitting in the dirty armchair, watching the girls circulate, the lights dim, the windows open, a record player going with Merle Haggard, she sipped from her 7 and 7, drunk despite her best efforts. Everyone looked terrible; everyone said what they meant. It was a pleasant feeling of companionship; she had known these men for decades. Many of them had sat with her when Hank died, and despite their behavior since, here she was, safe and protected. She began to relax and then Marvin Sanders looked at her and said something and then the girls looked at her, too. There were three bottles of whiskey circulating. She wondered if any of the men were doing harder stuff, though this was not that kind of place, and these were not, for the most part, those kinds of men. Drinking until your car went into the bar ditch or you blacked out at the controls of your Cessna: yes. Smoking reefer: no. One of the girls was standing next to her, a brunette with theatrical black eye makeup, wearing nothing but a bra and panties. Then she was sitting in Jeannie’s lap. Jeannie could feel the girl’s crotch rubbing somewhere above hers, it was soft and entirely wrong, she wished she had put on pants or something thicker. She started to push the girl off, then stopped, everyone was watching, the girl was watching, did she care what Jeannie wanted? No, the man who was paying her had told her to do this; the girl would see it through. It went on a half minute, then a minute; there was cheap vanilla perfume, there was a strange intensity in the girl’s eyes.
She is enjoying this,
Jeannie thought, and then the girl kissed her, openmouthed, hard and fake, all for show. Jeannie turned her head. She wondered how much the girl made in a year. What she would do if she knew how much Jeannie made. Then the song ended and the girl climbed off. Jeannie winked at her in solidarity, but the girl ignored her; she was already looking around the room.
I was prettier than you even ten years ago,
she thought, but she knocked that from her mind, the girl was not the problem, it was Marvin Sanders, red-faced and fat; his comb-over flopped to the wrong side, his pants covered in cherry soda, a ridiculous figure, though it did not matter, he was rich and could buy whatever he wanted.

Not much later she got up and yawned and said it was getting late for an old lady. Everyone stopped what they were doing and shouted good night, raised their drinks. It was very early but no one protested. As for the girls, they ignored her.

She walked in the dark toward her cabin, the pines enormous above her, everything closed in. She wondered if Hank had done things like this; of course he must have, it was likely he had touched plenty of strippers, he’d spent weeks with other operators at their hunting camps and private islands, for all she knew he became an entirely different person. He certainly would not have gone to bed early—it would have been a mark against him—and she was suddenly sure that he had slept with another woman, absolutely sure, he could have done so, at no risk and no consequence, hundreds or perhaps thousands of times, the code of silence would never be broken. She wondered why she had never realized this. A loneliness came over her.

Why it might disturb her so much, he had been dead twenty years, it made no sense, she listened to the cicadas whirring, laughter and music from the main house, who was she to say who her husband had been? She sat in her underwear on the strange, hard cot. She wondered if she ought to get dressed and drive home, home to Ted, who had asked her to marry him twice now, she would see if he was still up for it. She was tired of being alone.

She lay back down. Too drunk, too far to drive. She fell asleep and the next morning washed her face in the stream, put on makeup in the dull cracked mirror, dismissed the thought of marrying Ted, and spent the morning shooting grouse with Chuck McCabe. After which she got in her Cadillac and headed back to Houston. No one asked why. They pretended they were happy she had come.

She was driving. It was hot and she had a sudden memory of the branding fire, defying her father and all the rest, and now here she was, forty years later, desperate to belong. They had broken her. She had given up. She should have given Ted a child, she had been selfish, her entire life for her father and for Hank, but you could not measure yourself against the dead, they retained their perfection while your flesh got weaker and weaker.

And her father had been weak himself, and even Hank, she could see that now. He had been an idea longer than a real person, but he was only an idea, he was no longer real, she had not done badly, there was no one like her. That ought to count for something. She was not like other women. A dozen lifetimes of tennis or polo could not have made her happy, and, as for a child, if Ted had asked she would have given him one. But he had wanted children like he wanted everything else, it was an old song somewhere in his mind, dim and faint. Though he had been right about this. She should not have come. It was a mistake, an enormous mistake, she would learn from it.

Chapter Fifty-four

Diaries of Peter McCullough

A
UGUST 8, 1917

Hot. Blew two tires driving fast on the rocks. Half a day lost; believe we will reach Torreón tomorrow. Sullivan and Jorge Ramirez are with me. Jorge knows the area somewhat. He is very nervous—if we get stopped by the Carrancistas it will be a dice roll on whether we live or die.

I do not particularly care. It feels as if someone might push a finger through me. There is nothing inside.

A
UGUST 9, 1917

From some workers along the road Jorge acquired sombreros and proper clothing, which we change into, giving the men our own. Anger at Americans high here especially given Pershing’s recent expedition (
la invasión,
they call it). We pass donkeys dragging lumber and mules laden with pottery and thick-footed men padding slowly in the heat, all in white except for the blankets across their shoulders. There are children wearing nothing but hats and ragged blankets that barely reach their waists and we stop often for herds of sheep and goats and bare-ribbed cattle that see no reason to move out of our way.

I asked Sullivan and Jorge if they thought it possible that Phineas had María hurt or worse. Sullivan vigorously denied. Jorge silent. I pressed him and he said no, he did not think so.

Sullivan pointed out that Phineas is preparing to run for governor, and Sally’s father is an important judge. Suggested it was probably because of those reasons they wanted María gone. I pointed out there were other reasons as well.

In Torreón, which is bigger than I thought, we drove until we found a cantina Jorge judged to be safe (what logic he used is beyond me) and spent a few hours sitting in the back corner (after $150 bribe to owner) while Jorge went out to scout. We were both wearing the soiled white shirts and pants of workers, reeking of the sweat of other men. Sullivan kept his .45 on one empty chair and the carbine on the other. I had my pistol under my shirt but doubted I would have the energy to use it. Sullivan sensed this and it angered him.

When Jorge had not come back for several hours, Sullivan pointed out, though he said he had promised himself he would keep quiet, that ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. Enough to start an entirely new life.
I am nervous here, boss, to tell you the truth. The longer we stay here, the lower our odds of staying above the snakes.

Am not sure what I am supposed to feel. Jorge finally returned and we ordered food. He had found us a good hotel.

Did María know this would happen? Was she waiting for it? I find it unlikely—she just as well expected to be led into the
brasada
and shot.

But it is the unstated question for the rest of the day. There are no signs of her that Jorge was able to detect—she might have come through last night, or might not.

I watched as Sullivan and Jorge silently pondered what they might do with ten thousand dollars. Five years’ wages. They would leave me, certainly. I see it on their faces about María. I cannot explain the situation. No longer certain I know it myself.

That she was desperate remains unsaid; that she had everything to gain and nothing to lose also remains unsaid. That she is ten years my junior and beautiful; no one mentions that, either.

A
UGUST 10, 1917

Car stolen. Barricaded in hotel room. Waiting for Phineas to wire money for a new vehicle. They now know Jorge’s face and it is dangerous even for him to go outside. Strangely we see a European photographer walking around in the streets; no one seems to harass him in the slightest.

A
UGUST 11, 1917

Phineas and my father apparently making calls: chief of police this morning brought a suitcase full of pesos and a 1911 Ford he is willing to sell. I point out that his price is the same as for a new Ford on a dealer lot. Sullivan and Jorge give me a look to shut the hell up.

Jorge’s arm nearly torn off by the starter handle, but we get police escort out of town. They encourage us to make the most of our journey today, it being Sunday, as the people will be taking their leisure. No one seems to know anything about María.

A
UGUST 13, 1917

Drove to San Antonio to talk to Pinkertons.

“You want us looking in every city in Mexico.”

“Yes,” I told him.

“That is impossible. It is financially impossible and it is logistically impossible. There is a war going on there.”

“Give me a figure.”

He put up his hands. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I am taking you at your word when you say you want us looking everywhere. There are ways to do it for a tenth as much.”

“Will that get me the same result?”

“Either way, the result will likely be the same.”

“Let’s do it,” I told him.

He looked at the desk. “Everyone knows your family, but . . .”

“My family is not to know a word about this.”

“What I was getting at is that we will need the money up front, Mr. McCullough.”

I took out the checkbook, the money I have been socking away for myself, all I have ever put aside. I thought: I will never be free if I write this
.

“I can give you eighty thousand today. The rest I can bring you next week.”

“Just so you know, you are wasting your money. Villa is still running around in the north, Carranza and Óbregon have the middle, and Zapata has the south. Even if she is still . . . in good health, finding her will be extremely difficult.”

“I am well aware of that.”

I wrote the check. A drop of sweat smeared the numbers.

“Are you sure you want me to take this?” he said.

A
UGUST 18, 1917

Sally asked when I was going to accept the reality of our situation. I told her I said prayers every day that she would roll her Packard into a ditch. She laughed and I pointed out I was not joking.

After she collected herself she said she was willing to spend only half the time here, and half in San Antonio, just for appearance’s sake. I didn’t answer.

This afternoon she returned to my office with a bottle of cold wine and two glasses. Admitted she had not been perfect, though I had not been either. She wants to start over. A second marriage, of sorts.