Read Online The Son by Philipp Meyer - Free Book Online Page B

want her working among the men and her grandmother found it embarrassing. The Colonel, had he been alive, would have supported her; he had always seen in her what no one else did, her unshakable sense of her own perfectibility, her certainty that if she set her mind to something, she would master it. When the Colonel told her, as he often did, that one day she would do something important, she barely took any notice. It was as if he’d pointed out the grass was green, or her eyes large as a deer’s, or that she was a pretty girl, if a bit small, that men and women alike enjoyed her presence.
    So while the cattle drives struck her as boredom incarnate, a slow trudge behind an endless dusty line of steers, her rope flicking at their feet, walking at the slowest of walks toward the holding pens at the rail station—despite all that—she went on every drive she could. Despite the heat and thirst of the branding fire—best done in August, when it was too hot even for blowflies—she went out anyway, throwing calves when her father wasn’t paying attention, her hands covered in their slobber, running the iron if the marcador let her, light pressure if the metal was hot, heavy pressure as the iron cooled; she did not allow herself to make mistakes. The vaqueros found her amusing. They knew what she was doing and while they would never have let their own daughters come to a branding fire, they were happy to let her take their place so they could rest in the shade and escape the heat. As long as she didn’t make mistakes. And so she didn’t.
     
    T HERE HAD BEEN a time when this was not unusual. A time when the wealthy were exemplars. When you held yourself to a higher standard, when you lived as an example to others. When you did not parade your inheritance in front of a camera; when you did not accept the spotlight unless you’d done something. But that obligation had been lost. The rich were as anxious for attention as any scullery maid.
    Perhaps she was no different. She’d hired a historian to compile a history of the ranch, a history of the family, but in ten years he’d done nothing but notate every letter, receipt, and slip of paper the Colonel had ever touched, scanning them into his little computer, going to Austin to look at microfiche. He was, she saw, incapable of writing the book he’d promised. You can make any story of this you want, he told her. Well, pick the best one, she said. That would be lying, he replied.
    He was a pudgy, infuriating little man and she could not remember why she’d ever thought the process should be so mysterious. She’d opened her checkbook and the fund-raisers had picked up the scent, a check here, a mention there, another check, another mention; the Colonel’s name had spread like roots from a mesquite. The next year he’d be appearing in the new state history books, the ones all the liberals had fought against.
     
    I F YOU DID not work, you did not eat. If you did not wake up in the dark, be it ten degrees or a hundred, if you did not spend all day in the dust and thorns, you would not survive, the family would not survive, you had received God’s blessings and been profligate.
    Later, when she was old enough to look at the books, she realized the family had been safe all along. But it was too late. She could not sit still without thinking of the coyotes watching her calves, windmills that needed their gearboxes greased or sucker rods checked, fences flattened by weather or animals or careless humans. Later, when she stopped worrying about cattle, it was oil. Which wells were producing more or less than she’d hoped (less, she thought, it was always less), what new fields might be in play and what old plays the majors were giving up on. Which drillers might be hired, who was out of credit, what could be bought on the cheap. All wells went dry—the moment you stopped looking for new ones was the moment your fortunes began to decline.
    Why am I on this floor, she thought.