Fervent Charity (20 page)

The first night that Gleevie worked for Oscar Kaiser, he did what he was told without understanding what he was doing or why. Laying lengths of pipe here, moving the derrick, adjusting the ropes, putting a huge tub in place that Oscar said was for the mud. What mud? Gleevie would find out. He nearly got his hand smashed under a heavy plank. Oscar slid it off the back of the rig. He’d tossed it really, and Gleevie moved his hand just in time so only the tip of his middle finger got caught. Tears stung his eyes, it hurt so bad. Oscar said, “Pay attention. You’ll get hurt.” When Gleevie, wincing against the pain of his finger, picked up the plank to move it into position, he was amazed that Oscar had lifted and threw it with one hand. Gleevie could hardly lift it with two.

They broke no ground that night but, as it was after dark, Mrs. Hanson invited them in for supper. They washed up at the old well, which provided only a mean trickle, and went into the house for the best meal Gleevie had eaten since he was kicked off the threshing crew. Mrs. Hanson apologized for serving them left-overs from dinner, but as Gleevie looked at the table laid with sliced ham, cold chicken, pickled herring, potatoes fried brown and crisp with plenty of onions, fresh-baked bread and butter, and yellow cake for dessert, he still thought this wasn’t going to be a bad job.

An extra man came with Oscar that first night. A man who resembled him, but even with his white hair, Gleevie could tell the man was younger than Oscar by a couple of years, maybe. He had a wet stogie rammed into the corner of his mouth, and where Oscar’s voice was a deep growl, the new man’s voice was like sand being swirled in a tin cup. He was not surprised to learn they were brothers.

Walter, for that was the brother’s name, stayed for supper, even though once he had handed the reins of the team over to Mr. Hanson’s older sons, except to add sugar to his coffee, he didn’t lift a finger. He must have figured that, brother or not, driving the team was work enough for one who wasn’t on the payroll.

Gleevie noticed that Mrs. Hanson had seemed pretty concerned with Oscar’s brother. “How are you doin’ now, Walter? How’s it going?”

Oh, doin’ pretty good
, was all he’d say. He ate enough of her cooking for two men who’d worked all day. Gleevie just watched, ate his own good share, and kept quiet unless spoken to, which he wasn’t.

After supper, Walter rode back with them on a horse borrowed from Mr. Hanson. He left the horse at the livery stable and went to the depot to wait for the midnight train to take him back to Charity. Oscar didn’t wait with him. The brothers didn’t seem to have much to say to each other.

That first night was also the last night Gleevie shared a bottle and a game with Jack Frye. Thereafter, Gleevie got to the bunkhouse, shed his clothes down to his underwear and fell on his bed like a puppet with its strings cut. No bottle. No game. It was just as well because his whiskey money now went to Mattie Olson for regular washing since he came home filthy every night.

The work was harder than anything he had ever done. His muscles ached from pulling pipe wrenches all day, from hanging on to the handles that with each rise and fall of the derrick rammed the drill bit deeper into the earth. He felt every jolt, every jar. He didn’t know if he was pushing it or riding it. Either way, the blisters rose on his hands and broke and burned. His middle finger, where it was smashed by the plank, was black and it looked like he’d lose the nail. Oscar never asked him how it was. Guess he could see how it was.

The well was lubricated with mud and by early afternoon he was usually covered with mud and grease, and then he began to freeze in the chilly May winds. Once, when he was especially soaked through and the wind was especially sharp, Mr. Hanson gave him a dry shirt to go home in. It added to his washing bill with Mattie, but it was worth it.

He got no breakfast because Oscar insisted they be always up and on the road before daybreak in order to be at the farm by dawn. Oscar saved food from his supper the night before to eat in the morning. But Gleevie didn’t have money for supper, because Oscar would only pay him by the week. So the only meal Gleevie got was dinner. He was grateful it was a good one. Mrs. Hanson must have noticed, because one afternoon, she came out with something wrapped in a piece of newspaper and handed it to him behind Oscar’s back. Gleevie nodded gratefully, slipped the parcel into his pocket and had thick slices of bread and butter that night for his supper. After that, Mrs. Hanson managed to slip him something—whether bread or a couple boiled eggs—every day.

Oscar and Gleeve didn’t talk much. Oscar had no gift of gab and Gleeve was just too tired. It wasn’t like farm work, where you could always sneak off and grab a nap in the corner of the hayloft or behind a windbreak. Here he was at the well machine, under Oscar’s eye from daybreak to dusk. He ate with the man, slept with the man, and did everything but take his shits with him. Gleevie worked because he was afraid not to. The truth was, something about Oscar Kaiser, one arm or no, scared the bejeezus out of Gleevie. And he couldn’t leave because he couldn’t collect his pay till the end of the week. There was no other work to be had. Eddie Hansmeier was back with Snuce, and he knew better than to ask Jack for a loan unless he wanted his jaw broken.

They worked on Saturday, and Oscar would have worked through Sunday, if Mr. Hanson had not asked them not to, it being the Sabbath.

Oscar paid him Saturday night. Gleevie had supper at the Blue Bird with Jack, and then he slept most of Sunday. He thought he could get through another week.

Gleevie worked doggedly for four more days and sighed in relief when they struck water. Then they had to move the rig to the Zimmerman place a few miles west of Wheat Lake and begin again. It didn’t matter that they had finished a job and were starting a new one, Gleevie still had to wait till Saturday for his wages. So he stayed on.

The day they moved the rig, they returned to the bunkhouse early. No supper had been offered them at the Zimmerman’s. Jack, as usual, was lying on his back, smoking his cigarette. “Hi ya,” he said.

Gleevie looked at him with envy. Jack had saved money from his time at the Indian agency. Jack Frye was smart all right.

Oscar changed his shirt. He was likely going to the Blue Bird for supper. He didn’t invite company, and Gleevie had no desire to go with him. He sat down on the edge of his bunk. He’d wait till Oscar went out before he suggested to Jack a walk to Mattie’s, pick up his washing, and then maybe some supper. Gleevie had the money now for a cheap bite at Snuce’s if he didn’t have more than one glass of beer to wash it down.

“Saw that squaw some weeks ago,” Jack drawled.

Gleevie knew who he meant by
that squaw
. “Oh, yeah? You just remembrin it now?”

“No, but when I remembered before, you was sleepin’.” Jack took a deep drag of his cigarette and watched the smoke plume from his mouth. “Right after the thaw. Saw her over there at the agency with them other Indians gettin’ their annuities, then sashayin’ over to the store, big as you please. I followed her over there. She didn’t see me, but I kept my eye on her all right. Buying some of that flowery cloth that the ladies make their dresses out of. What’s she doing with that stuff? I says to myself. Never seen her wear anything like that. So I just watch her. Puttin’ on airs. Now I suppose she’s going to dress like a white woman. Maybe she was buyin’ for that old maid school teacher. That skinny bitch—I’d like to give her what for.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait to give her anything,” Oscar rumbled from the corner, making Gleevie jump. He’d forgotten for a minute that Oscar was there.

Jack propped himself up on his elbow and took another puff, then delicately tapped the ash of his cigarette into his dirt can. “Why’s that then?”

“She’s gone.” Oscar tucked in his clean shirt.

“The hell you say.” Jack was interested.

“Uh huh.” Oscar put on his jacket. Gleeve noticed how Oscar performed his tasks, with more method than a two-handed person; nothing was fumbled. Nothing was missed.

“Gone where?” Jack narrowed his eyes against the stream of smoke rising from his cigarette.

“Back east. Visiting her people in Philadelphia. Took my sister-in-law with her and one of the Torgerson kids.” Oscar put his hat on and went out.

That Saturday, when Oscar paid Gleevie for the week, Gleevie thought seriously about taking the money and running. He could go to the next county where nobody knew him and get some farm work, working his way west to the gold mine. But Oscar said he would add an extra dollar to Gleevie’s wages if, after the Zimmerman well was sunk, he would help him drive the rig back to Charity. Gleevie, with some foot-shuffling, told Oscar that he wouldn’t mind at all, but he had orders from Sheriff Sully not to show up in Charity, ever again. He explained how he had just been talking to that squaw and the Sheriff had misunderstood and warned him off. He didn’t mention that the Sheriff had shot him. Oscar laughed. It was the first time Gleeve had seen Oscar even crack a smile.

“I can handle Dennis Sully if it comes to that. Just drive the rig till we meet up with my regular man and you can go your own way.”

Gleevie agreed. But before they could do that, they had to find water on the Zimmerman place. After hitting rock and having to start a new hole, he was in despair it would happen.

Ed and Martha Zimmerman weren’t like the Hansons. The food was not as plentiful or as good. They weren’t pleasant family people. They had kids all right, a bunch of them, but they were sort of a rag-tag outfit with bad teeth and sour looks. And unlike the Hansons, they did not make Oscar’s hard nature easier to chew.

When he didn’t do something the right way or fast enough, Oscar didn’t get mad. It was worse. He got a look—like he really didn’t expect Gleeve to do any better.
Hire a fool. Get a fool.
That was Oscar’s motto. Even in silence, he made it clear that he only bore with the situation because he knew it was temporary and because he enjoyed watching Gleevie wilt, little by little, more and more, each passing day. Every night, Gleevie dreamed the same dream with minor variations: he was a fly in a web; the spider fed off him and when he opened his eyes and peered through the filmy stuff that bound him he saw the hungry face of Oscar Kaiser.

There was one particularly bad day. Oscar had a pipe in the vise and was tightening a fitting, coupling it to another pipe, and he demanded a certain type of wrench to finish the job. Gleevie still had trouble distinguishing one wrench from another; but for size, they all looked pretty much the same to him. He looked at the pipes Oscar was working on and bent over the tool tray to try to find the wrench he thought would best fit. But he was taking too long and he knew it. He began to sweat and then he felt a boot in his backside and heard a familiar grumble, “I can’t wait all day.” Oscar had kicked him, not hard enough to push him over, just enough to make him lurch forward and stumble to keep his footing. Oscar grabbed the right wrench and laughed. Ed Zimmerman laughed, too. Gleevie burned. It gave a man a bad feeling to be treated the way you’d treat a colored man, or an Indian, or a dog. It wasn’t right.

The next day, his hands wet and freezing, he fumbled his grip on a screwdriver and dropped it right down the drill shaft. Oscar just grunted, took another screwdriver from the tool tray, said, “Wipe your hands,” and handed it to him.

Lena found Jordis in the barn. The barn had already been cleaned. Jordis was sitting on a hay bale oiling the leather horse tack. No stiff piece of hide ever touched a horse in Jordis’s care. Lena smiled approvingly. While Jordis stayed with them, she had oiled Old Tom’s bridles and halters till they were soft as velvet.

Lena had walked all the way out to Gustie’s place with a pillowcase slung over her shoulder and carrying her daughter most of the way. She’d done this walk before. She liked it in good weather. She could sort of let her mind wander away from her own troubles. Today the air was crisp and dry. Good day for planting, she mused. Everyone hoped for good weather. If the farmers failed, everybody failed. Even though she lived in town now, she had been a poor farmer’s daughter. She never got over her feeling of being directly connected to the seasons, to the weather. Out here, that connection meant life or death.

Jordis got up when she saw Lena in the open barn door. She put down the halter she was working on and held her arms out for Gracia. “Whooo, little one,” she said softly. Gracia toddled forward and allowed herself to be held up in the air and kissed. Jordis put her down gently again. Gracia was not a smiling child, not like Deborah, Winnie’s girl, but she did seem to like Jordis.

Lena sat herself down on an empty cream can and let Gracia toddle around the barn. “I think Skydog still knows me. He came up to the fence and nodded his head. Do you think he remembers me?”

“He does. And if he hadn’t, he’d have let me know there was a stranger around. He does that.”

“That’s a good thing. So he’s doing all right, then. And you look fine, too. I wasn’t sure you’d still be out here. But I thought, if you were gone, I could just stay here awhile. Gustie always said I could. I don’t mean to barge in on you.”