In the desert, this is what I learned: the wind never stops, blowing in hot from the north, a fine talc sifting in from Damascus, Baghdad, Kuwait. It stirs the hems of robes, whips the flags ragged. The Bedu line their eyes with kohl, protection against sun and sand, and still their children walk blinking and blinded, their ankles dangled with red garnets, triangular bits of turquoise, lapis lazuli to ward off evil. The boys’ ears studded with stones. The young girls still showing their faces.
As the furnace of late spring forged toward summer, the wind sapped the moisture from my mouth, and the heat that had seemed intolerable became impossible—it staggered you in your tracks, filled you with such dread and discomfort that you doubted your ability to survive. Yash biked in each morning, his crisp shirt clinging to his back. “It’s quite all right,” he said when I worried. “The faster I pedal, the cooler the breeze.” When he told me that the houseboys, bunked four to a room, had no air-conditioning, I bought him an electric fan at the suq, watched him balance it atop his handlebars and weave his way out of the gate, whistling all the while.
Late one night in May, Mason came home wound tight as a top, taking his drink in quick swallows. I sent Yash home and finished cooking our dinner while Mason showered, felt myself caught in the limbo of that transition Ruthie had talked about. He came out rubbing his head with a towel, the dark line of hair down his stomach still damp, and just like that, I was torn between resistance and desire.
I turned to the stove, took the lid off the casserole Yash had made. “Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Will be.” Mason fingered a cigarette from his pocket. “Let’s go out back, why don’t we? There’s got to be some stars.”
I replaced the lid, hearing something different in his tone. I followed him out into the yard, where we stood together in the grass, the air like bathwater, the blue-aster sky hewing to black, pinpricked with light.
Mason lifted his head and pointed. “Tell me the name of that constellation.”
I followed his direction. “Virgo,” I said. “The brightest star is Spica.”
He wrapped one arm around my shoulder, pulled me to him. “How did you get so smart?” He kissed me, kept me close. “You doing okay?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Sure,” I said.
“Garden looks swell,” he said.
“Mostly sand,” I said, “but the spuds love it.” I didn’t tell him that I had given up tending the skeletal plants only to wake one morning to find the plot neatly weeded and trenched, a wheelbarrow load of rich compost mulched in, the vegetables already greening under Faris’s care.
“Think you can stick it out for a while?” he asked.
I looked at him, sensing some undercurrent of meaning. “Why?” I asked.
He took another drink. “Abdullah and I were talking on the way home. He told me that some years back, the Arabs tried to organize, not just the Saudis but the Syrians, Lebanese, the whole lot of them. Fifteen thousand men walked off the job, struck the company to a standstill. Militia shot a few on the spot, arrested the leaders, sent them into exile, and the king outlawed labor unions.” He looked at me. “You know what they were asking for? They wanted to ride to work instead of having to walk, maybe get a cost-of-living raise every now and then. Wanted washing machines and radios and cars.” He grew quiet. “They wanted to be like us, imitation Americans. That’s the guts of it.”
I crossed my arms. “It’s not like Texas,” I said.
“Or it is,” he said. “MLK had it right. Labor-busting is about keeping the working poor in their place.” He tapped out another cigarette. “You remember Tiny Doty, the guy who took over for Swede as drilling superintendent?” He tipped back his head, exhaled. “They’ve made his position permanent, and Ross says he’s considering me to take Doty’s place as assistant.” His voice was clear, lighter than it had been for some time. “What do you think of that?”
“It’s great,” I said, but I had no idea what such a promotion might mean. The amount of Mason’s salary remained a mystery to me, and what expenses we had were billed through the company. What was more of more?
“Wouldn’t have a set schedule like I do now,” he said, “but at least I’d be home more often.”
I raised my eyes, dropped them quickly, confused by what I was feeling. It was the hours he spent away that allowed me to do what I wanted as long as I was waiting when he returned. “How long would we have to stay?” I asked.
Mason let out a slow breath. “If I start working my way up the ladder, we could stay as long as we want to.” He squinted my way. “The thing is,” he said, “I’m beginning to see how things work in this place. I’m never going to make a difference sitting on the sidelines. I’ve got to be in the game.” He rocked me against him. “Listen, I invited the Fullertons over for dinner tomorrow night. Yash can do the work. All you have to do is look pretty.”
“Ruthie and Lucky?” I asked.
Mason sucked through his teeth. “Might as well. One way or the other, Lucky isn’t going to be happy that they’ve moved me to the head of the line.”
It hadn’t dawned on me to think about it that way—the senior foreman getting passed over for an upstart twenty years his junior.
Mason dropped his cigarette, heeled it out. “Think I’m ready to call it a day.”
“I’ll be right in,” I said, and stayed long enough to find the constellation I had named and name it again, orienting myself, before moving toward the glow of the kitchen, where Mason stood at the window, peering out into the night. I raised my hand, but he turned away as though he hadn’t seen me, as though I weren’t there at all. I resisted the urge to wave my arms, call out, “Here I am!” Silly, I thought, and measured my steps to the patio like a lost child, feeling my way through the dark.
The next afternoon, Mason at a meeting, I tried to help Yash prepare the dinner but succeeded only in getting in his way.
“I can’t stand just sitting around and watching someone else work,” I protested.
“You are not required to watch,” he said.
I pulled up a stool. “I’m not sure I like having servants,” I said. “It makes me feel funny.”
He raised his eyes. “Mrs. Gin,” he said, “my family had three servants, and each servant had a servant of his own. In your next life, who knows? You may go to bed a master and wake up a slave.” He cored a mango and cubed it neatly. “I would offer to draw your bath,” he suggested, “but memsahib would probably rather do it herself.”
I gave up and trudged to the shower. I took my time with the razor, running it under each arm and over my legs, a chore I despised, but I wasn’t going to take the chance that Candy Fullerton might be smoother than I was. By the time Mason came home, I had pulled myself together: sleeveless silk dress the color of champagne that Ruthie had picked out for me in al-Khobar, high-heeled pumps, the single pearl at my neck, and new matching earrings from the suq.
Ruthie and Lucky arrived first, and I was bringing them a dish of almonds when I heard the doorbell ring. Ross Fullerton boiled in like his tail was on fire, blew past Yash, and drafted up to me.
“The little lady!” He lifted his cowboy hat, balding pate shiny with sweat, and kissed my hand. I resisted, pulling away from the wet mash of his lips. I looked over his head, but Candy was nowhere in sight. Yash had bottled a third run of liquor—as smooth as we could get it—and Ross watched with avid attention as Mason poured.
“To the denizens of this charming abode!” Ross knocked back the shot and held out his glass for another. Ruthie drifted to the couch and lifted two fingers. “Double for me. Easy on the ice.”
Ross dumped down into the easy chair and fixed his eyes to the tapestry. “Kept Betsy’s needlework, I see.”
Mason took the other chair. “It’s a reproduction, one of seven panels in The Hunt of the Unicorn,” Mason said. “This one is called The Unicorn Is in Captivity and No Longer Dead. They think the unicorn represents Christ.”
I don’t know why I was surprised—Mason had been to college, after all—but I felt the same spark of attraction that I had the first night we talked, as though if I listened long enough, he would fill me up with all that he knew.
Lucky grunted, tucked himself in on the couch beside Ruthie. “How about you, Ross? Seen any unicorns lately?” he asked, easy, familiar, like he was talking to an old chum.
“Hell, I’ve seen about everything.” Ross settled deeper, his neck sinking into his shoulders. “Seen a two-headed calf once, down in Gainesville.”
“Seen a two-headed rattlesnake,” Lucky said, and squinted at Mason. “Wouldn’t you hate to get bit by that sucker?”
Yash bent carefully between us and positioned a tray of salted bread, eggplant raita, and roasted chickpeas. “The Two-headed Boy of Bengal,” he said.
Ross seemed to notice Yash for the first time. “How’s that?”
“Two heads, connected crown to crown.” Yash straightened but kept his eyes down. “One head had its entire body. The other ended at the neck, but it could yawn and suckle,” Yash said. “He was bitten by a cobra and died at age four.”
“Goddamn.” Lucky slapped both knees. “Now that’s a good story.”
Ross settled back into his chair and lifted his glass. “How about some more of that hooch, boy?”
Yash drew himself upright. “Of course, sahib.” I watched him go into the kitchen, then looked at Ross.
“Yash knows a lot of interesting things,” I said.
Ross hitched the crotch of his pants. “Not as much as he thinks he does.”
“So, Ross”—Ruthie cut her eyes at me, then canted his way—“is Candy traveling?”
“She’s got problems with her Pekingese.” He rolled his lips around an almond. “Told her the desert’s no place for a lapdog. Pebbles must have tangled with a wildcat because he came in the house last night, eyeball hung clean out of his head. Slathered it with shortening and popped it back in, but he don’t look so good today. Kept Candy up all night with his squalling.” He cleared his throat. “That damn pirate is coming over tomorrow to take her portrait, and she thinks she needs her beauty sleep.”
Ruthie twitched her eyebrows, and I hid my grin, glad when Yash informed us that dinner was served. We took our places at the table, Ross at the head. It was all I could do to keep my seat and not rise to help with the tureen of curry, the side dishes of yogurt and fruit. Lucky piled his plate with rice and chicken, emptying the small bowls of raisins, sliced bananas, coconut, and chutney, which Yash refilled with growing exasperation. Ross picked over the curry but shoveled in the yams Yash had gleaned from the garden.
“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.