"I'd like to know," I said quickly.
Jack beamed a smile. "Glad to show you," he said. I looked at Daddy, who seemed surprised at my sudden interest. Then he looked at Jack Clovis and smiled. "You can go look at it if you like, honey, while I go to the trailer to call Aunt Jeanne and home."
"I don't want to trouble anyone," I said.
"Oh, heck, it won't be any trouble," Jack said quickly.
Bart laughed. "Jack's been waiting for someone to talk to about his well for months now."
"It's Miss Andreas's well," Jack reminded him.
"Not the way you brag about it," Bart retorted.
Jack's deep brown complexion took on a crimson tint. "I'd love to see it," I said.
Jack straightened his shoulders. "Right this way, ma'am," he declared.
"I'll come and get you," Daddy said. He left the house with Bart, and I walked out with Jack, who pointed toward the rigs.
"Yours is fourth from the left there," he said. "You know anything about oil?"
"Just that it comes in a can," I said, and he laughed so hard I thought he would crack a rib.
"It doesn't come in a can, ma'am."
"Please, call me Ruby."
"Ruby. Oil starts as crude oil deep in the ground. It takes several million years to be formed," he said in a tone of almost religious respect. "You know what it comes from, right?"
I shook my head. It seemed as long as I was willing to listen about oil, Jack Clovis was willing to talk.
"Dead plants and animal material that lie buried in sedimentary rock. So," he said, smiling at me. "You can see why it takes a while to get into that can."
"Do all those rigs have oil?" I asked.
"All the ones you see here are called development wells because this is a known oil field," he continued. "Even so, some of them were dry. We call them dusters. There's one," he said pointing at one that stood still. "Once the oil is pumped up," he continued, "we put it in a metal tank called a separator, to separate the oil from the natural gas and water. Then it's stored in those stock tanks. It gets shipped off to the refinery where it's turned into the product you buy."
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.
"Since I was twelve. You live in New Orleans, right?"
"Yes."
"We heard talk about you and your family, but no one knew anything for sure," he said, shifting his eyes away quickly.
"What sort of talk?" I asked.
"That you once lived here with a woman who wasn't your mother and Mr. Tate, who wasn't your father, and that now you lived in a rich old mansion somewhere and sat back and counted your money," he replied.
"First," I began, "that woman was my mother."
"Oh. Well, everyone gets stuff wrong here."
"And second, we don't just sit around counting money. That's hardly us," I said sharply.
"No offense meant. You asked, so I told you," he said casually.
"My father works hard; my mother is an artist, and I'm about to go to college to become a doctor."
"A doctor? Wow!" He whistled. "Well, there she is. Your well," he said. I just stared. "You really didn't know which one it was?"
"I was very little when I lived in that house," I said, nodding toward the mansion, "and I was afraid of the oil machinery. They looked too much like mechanical monsters. If anyone took me close to them, I would scream."
Jack nodded, his face serious, thoughtful. "I can imagine how a little girl might look out at these babies and think they are some sort of creature. They're alive to me," he said.
"Like bees, sucking up the oil?"
"Not exactly," he said, laughing. "Was that your idea?"
"One of them, in nightmares."
"Oh. I'm sorry. It's really very interesting work, and I'm always fascinated by the idea that we're drilling deep into the earth and bringing up something that was formed so long ago, even before humans existed."
I saw he was sincere about his fascination.
"Of course," he said, lowering his voice, "I don't talk about the work like this with the other guys."
I smiled. "Is it ever dangerous?" I asked him.
"You don't want to be near the rig if there's a blowout."
"Blowout?"
"A pocket of high-pressure gas gets into the well and boom!" he said, throwing up his arms.
"Oh," I said stepping back.
"It's all right. Your well is tried and true and as sweet as . . as you look," he said. Now it was my turn to blush. "So," he said, "why were you looking for your mother in the old house? No one uses it any-more, far as I know."
"We thought she might have come back here," I said. My chin quivered.
"Something's wrong?" he asked. "I don't mean to pry, but if there's anything I can do to help . . . I know it sounds crazy, but after looking after your well all this time, I sorta feel I know you."
I wiped the fugitive tears from my eyes with the back of my hand and sucked in my breath. "One of my twin brothers was bitten by a poisonous snake and died. My mother is still quite upset," I said. "She ran off."
"I'm sorry. That's terrible. But why would she come here?"
"She grew up in the bayou, and as I said, we once lived in the mansion. I don't know what she's looking for or what she hopes to do, but we know she's around here someplace. She's very confused; she could have gone anywhere. We're very worried about her."
"We haven't seen her, but I'll keep a watchful eye."
I opened my purse, took a picture of my mother and me out of my wallet, and handed it to him. "That's her," I said.
"Beautiful woman. You look just like her."
"If you do see her, will you call me?"
"Of course. Give me your number." He took a pencil out of his top pocket and wrote my telephone number on the inside of his hand. "I'll copy it onto a piece of paper later," he said smiling. "Or I might just never wash and leave it there forever." He smiled softly.
"Hey, Jack," one of the workers called out, "what are you doing, conducting private tours now?" He followed his question with a laugh. Jack glared at him furiously.
"I shouldn't be taking you away from your work," I said, backing away and turning toward the house.
"Oh, no. It's all right. I'm on a break. Don't mind him. These guys are great kidders, but there's no better group to be part of. Riggers stand by each other. We're tight."
We started walking back.
"Is your father still working, too?" I asked him.
"No. He retired, but he still lives in the bayou. He spends all his time in his pirogue, fishing. I've only been to New Orleans twice," he said. "Once when I was just twelve and then again on my twenty-first birthday five years ago. My whole family went—me, my parents, and my two sisters. City life is sure different. All that racket and straining your neck to see the sun and stars."
I laughed. "It's not that bad where we live."
"You live in a house as big as that?" he said nodding toward the mansion.
"No, but it's big," I admitted.
"My father says people who live in the city probably want big houses because they want to be inside most of the time rather than in the dirty streets."
I laughed again. "We have beautiful grounds. The area is called the Garden District, and it's not really city life."
"That's good, but I'd still miss the open skies, the animals, and all this nature," he said.
"It is beautiful here," I admitted. "I know my mother missed it."
Jack paused and put his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sunlight. "Looks like your father's waving for you," he said, pointing, and I looked toward the trailer where Daddy was standing. He appeared disturbed. Maybe he learned something about Mommy, I thought and hurried along.
"Jeanne hasn't seen or heard from her," he said. "We can't stay and look any longer. I called the house."
"And . . . ?"
"Pierre's gotten worse. The doctor wants him back in the hospital immediately."
"Oh, Daddy."