CHAPTER XII
“Hello, everybody!” called a familiar voice. “Has Grandpa moved back into the house and decided to be civilized?”
Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart stepped in, prepared to spend Sunday as usual. “Now that he’s the richest man in the county …” Aunt Lottie stopped and looked around her. “Land sakes! What’s all this? You folks startin’ a furniture store?”
“No, Lottie,” said Mama. “Grandpa gave us some money to spend. We’ve just been getting us a few little things we’ve been wanting.”
The deliveries had rolled in all through the week. Hardly a day passed without the arrival of a purchase made by some member of the family. By Sunday, the Robinson house had a changed appearance.
For Della, fur coat, player-piano, fancy clothes and hats had arrived. For Mama, electric icebox, a new wash-machine, toaster, vacuum cleaner, dishes, silver, curtains and carpets. For Bert, an Edison phonograph, a radio and a drum. For Papa, two overstuffed chairs and a sofa, twelve pairs of suspenders, and four new suits. For Addie, twelve dolls and all kinds of doll furnishings.
“It is a little crowded,” said Mama, as she began to step over things to return to the kitchen. “I declare, the house just isn’t big enough.”
“Why don’t you buy a new one?” asked Aunt Lottie. “Why don’t you buy a house in town?”
“Oh Lottie, do you suppose we could?” asked Mama.
“Why not?” laughed Lottie. “The way you folks are throwin’ money around …”
“It sure is nice to have millionaire relations!” laughed Uncle Mart.
“I just can’t get used to spending,” said Mama.
“You will in time,” said Lottie. “Any time you have too much money, you know what you can do with it.”
Mama took her pocket-book from behind the clock on the shelf. She brought out a handful of bills and gave them to her sister. “Here, I want you to get some nice things too.”
Lottie stared at the money, astonished. “These are one hundred dollar bills, did you know that?”
“That’s all right,” said Mama. “I got plenty more.”
“Well, I like the casual way you do it,” laughed Lottie. “Remember the good old days when we had to save up for weeks to get things we really needed?”
“We had so little then,” said Mama, “I couldn’t even buy a handkerchief without feeling I ought to do without it.”
“I bet you wouldn’t like to go back to that again,” said Lottie.
“I wonder … how it would feel …” said Mama.
Sunday dinner was very quiet because there was only the family besides Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart.
“What! No greasy dirty oil men?” exclaimed Aunt Lottie.
“Where’s your boarders?” asked Uncle Mart.
“I had to tell ’em to go,” said Mama sadly. “The house was so crowded with all the furniture and things we bought, I didn’t have room for them.”
“Why should you go on cooking for boarders?” demanded Lottie.
“I hated to see them go,” said Mama. “They liked my cooking, and they didn’t make a bit of trouble.”
“Why should you cook for boarders,” asked Aunt Lottie again, “now that you’ve come into all that money?”
“What money?” asked Grandpa, leaning back in his chair.
“Your money!” retorted Lottie. “Everybody says you’re the richest man in the county.”
Grandpa stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, leaned back and beamed with pride. “They do, do they? Well, we got an idea we wanted to spend some of it …” He waved his hand. “Did you look things over, Lottie?”
They got up from the table and went into the front room.
“Della, I see you’ve got your piano,” said Uncle Mart. “When will you start taking music lessons?”
“I’ll play it for you,” said Della. “It’s a self-player. You pedal with your feet and the keys go up and down by themselves. I’ll play The Blue Danube.” She inserted a roll.
“Uncle Mart, I got me an Edison,” said Bert. “I’ll play it for you. I got an Atwater Kent radio too, but can’t work it without electricity—forgot to get batteries.” He put on a record.
The player-piano and the Edison began to make a lively clatter, playing different tunes. Orvie sat down beside Grandpa on the new overstuffed sofa that Papa had bought. Soon the music stopped. Bert put on another record and Della started the player-piano again.
“All you do is pedal!” she cried suddenly. “Canned music—that’s no fun. I still want to take piano lessons and play it myself.”
Bert threw the Edison record on the floor. “Sounds terrible. I don’t like that one.” He put on another, then began to beat his drum.
Addie came running into the room, crying. “Mama, I had six of my new dolls in one doll carriage,” she wailed. “Shep got in the way and I bumped him and they all rolled down the back steps and every one broke.”
“What do you care?” said Mama. “Oh Bert, do stop that noise.”
“Never mind, Addie,” said Della. “Grandpa will buy you a hundred more dolls tomorrow.”
“Sure, Addie,” said Grandpa. “As many as you want.”
“Don’t want any more dolls,” screamed Addie. “I’m sick and tired of dolls.”
“All right, Addie.” Grandpa smiled. “Don’t surprise me none.”
Mama began to show Aunt Lottie her new purchases.
“Is this a whole new set of China?” gasped Aunt Lottie.
“Yes—one hundred pieces—Bird of Paradise pattern,” said Mama. “Now I wish I’d taken Garden Bouquet instead.”
“Remember that first set of dishes you got at Peg-Leg’s store, long ago when you were first married?” asked Lottie. “The set with the gold band around?”
“I’m still using them,” said Mama. “I fed the boarders on them. They’re so thick, they don’t break easy. This new set is so thin you can see through it. Somebody’d be sure to break a piece. I’ll keep it locked up in this new china closet.”
“And a new set of table silver!” exclaimed Lottie. “Solid or plated?”
“Solid,” said Mama. “Remember that cheap set I got with coffee coupons? These are too good, and I won’t have time to polish knives and forks every day.”
“You’re not going to use them?” asked Lottie.
“I should say not,” said Mama. “And all these electric things—I can’t use them either. We don’t have electricity, so they’re just clutterin’ up the place. I don’t know what I bought ’em for.”
“You’ll have to do what I told you,” said Lottie. “Buy a house in town and move there.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Della. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful?”
“They’re staking off new locations all over our quarter-section,” said Papa. “There’s to be one well on every ten-acre tract.”
“Whew! Sixteen wells!” whistled Uncle Mart. “My! Ain’t it nice to have rich relations!”
“They’re goin’ to use a new kind of rotary drill so they can go deeper,” said Papa. “The new rigs will be of metal not wood, and they’ll be a lot higher and stronger. Most of the oil is in the deepest sand. The wooden rigs will soon be out of date.”
“Sixteen wells, all on your farm! Ain’t you glad?” cried Lottie.
“The Superintendent told me we will have to give up farming,” Papa went on. “He advised us to move for our own safety. I always did say farming’s a mighty slow way to make any money.”
“You just better not leave this farm!” sputtered Bert.
“Oh, you’ll like it in town,” laughed Aunt Lottie. “You’ll be close to the stores and everything!”
Bert marched angrily out the back door.
Mama shook her head. “That boy’s still peddlin’ milk and eggs to his customers. We don’t need the money, and cows and chickens are a lot of trouble, but I can’t make Bert stop.”
“He’ll stop soon enough,” said Papa. “There’ll soon be no place left for the cows. I’ll have to sell off the stock.”
“Since you’ve got to move,” Grandpa spoke up, “why not try that house I showed you?”
“Who does it belong to?” asked Mama.
“To me!” said Grandpa. “While you was buyin’ all them other things, I just up and bought us a house. It’ll do you good to try it.”
Mama told Aunt Lottie about the velvet carpets and lace curtains, and Della talked about the two bathrooms and hot and cold water. There would be electricity, so all the new appliances could be used. Before Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart went away, the Robinson family had decided to move to town.
Orvie followed Grandpa out to his little house.
“Grandpa, did you buy that town house like you said?” he asked.
“Yes, Orvie,” said Grandpa.
“Why do we have to go live there?”
“To learn a few things,” said Grandpa, smiling.
“Are you coming with us?”
“No, Orvie, I’m comfortable here.”
“I’ll stay with you, Grandpa,” said Orvie.
“Your Mama won’t allow that,” said Grandpa. “You’ll have to go with the family.”
“I don’t know how I can leave Star and Shep …” said Orvie.
“I’ll take good care of them for you,” said Grandpa.
That evening a man came to the door and brought news for Papa and Grandpa. “The Tumbleweed Oil Company has staked a well and dug a cellar in the Prairie View cemetery,” he said. “We’ve got to go over tonight.”
Mama thought of her baby and of Mrs. Soaper’s little girl. She thought of all the old families who had members buried there. “You won’t let them drill, will you?”
“No,” promised Papa and Grandpa. “We’ll keep them out.”
Mama saw the men put their six-shooters in their pockets. “You’ll do it without fightin’ and shootin’, won’t you?” she begged.
“Yes, if we can.”
The men got in the car and rode away. Orvie had no desire to go with them, but he was ready to hear all about it when they came back next morning.
“What happened?” asked Mama.
“A picnic!” laughed Grandpa. “Half of our men stood guard, while the rest of us filled up the cellar hole. That’s all we did—just shoveled the dirt back in.”
“Was there any shootin’?” asked Orvie.
“Not a shot,” said Grandpa. “We managed everything peaceable. The superintendent of the oil company got there at daylight. He was awful nice, admitted he was beat, and said he wouldn’t bother the church people any more. Said he had not realized how strong the local people felt about it. He wasn’t here thirty years ago, when we started that church for anybody who wanted to come, right after the Cherokee Run. We wanted a church to go to, and we couldn’t see the harm of all going to the same one. We’re still standin’ together, the way we did then.”
Later in the morning, the women and children from the boxcar houses came to the Robinson well for water. They talked about the filling up of the cellar hole and the end of the church dispute. Orvie pumped up his bicycle tire and listened idly.
“I hear No. 5 Murray is soon comin’ in,” said Mrs. Decker.
“They got the torpedo hung in the well so late last night,” said Mrs. Armstrong, “they decided to leave it there till this morning.”
“What are you talking about—dynamite?” asked Mrs. Decker. “Wouldn’t it be dangerous to leave it?”
“Why dangerous? Nothing can happen,” Mrs. Armstrong went on. “Bill Barnes has been a shooter for twenty-two years, his wife told me.”
“He’ll do it once too often!” laughed Mrs. Decker. “Some day they’ll pick him up in a coffee can.”
Just then a car stopped in front of the house. Slim Rogers came in, and from the look on his face they all knew something terrible had happened. Della came running out, and Orvie hurried up to hear.
“I was there,” said Slim, “over at No. 5 Murray. They sent a fellow to get a flashlight, and while he was gone, the superintendent of another company called to me. I went out to the road to his car, to talk to him. While we were talking, it happened. They brought the flashlight to the well, and they had the crowbar there, and … well … maybe they jolted it too much with the crowbar, nobody knows.”
“Oh Slim!” Della broke into tears. “If you hadn’t gone to talk to that man, it mighta been you too.”
The other women looked stricken and white and said nothing. Orvie’s lips were so dry he could not speak.
“Three men … wiped out in a minute,” Slim managed to say. “Not a scratch or a bruise on ’em. Just snuffed out.”
“Bill Barnes—Bill Barnes—was he hurt?” gasped Orvie.
“He’s dead, Orvie,” said Slim.
Orvie didn’t wait. He ran as fast as he could over the plowed wheat field to Bonnie Jean’s house. When he got there, the Osage Torpedo house was filled with people. There were so many men and women there, he hadn’t the courage to crowd in. What could he say to Bonnie Jean anyway?
He walked slowly back home. He saw the wooden rigs rising up, gaunt frameworks against the sky on all sides of the Robinson farmhouse. Oil covered the slush-ponds and flowed into the wheat-fields, where it was killing all green and growing things. Suddenly the boy hated oil—oil that had gotten into his blood and changed his life. Oil was a cruel monster, devouring people, striking them down. He saw his home and knew that he would soon have to leave it. Oil was taking it too.
Two days later, while making milk deliveries with Bert in the Ford, he rode past the Osage Torpedo house without stopping.
“The house is empty—they’ve moved away,” he said.
Orvie knew he would never see Bonnie Jean again.
