man with the knife said, “I could tell, lookin’ at you, you never did a lick of work in all your days.”
“Some looker, though,” said the grunter.
Flynn said to the counterman, “I’m sorry about the dollar. May I say thank you to you instead?”
“That would be right nice of you.”
Flynn said, “Thank you.”
“You all come back real soon, now.”
“Thank you,” Flynn said. “That would be nice.”
In the parking lot of Bob’s Diner the young men were starting their motorcycles as Flynn and Ducey were getting into their cars.
The motorcyclist who had put away his knife said, “You all need anything?”
“Like what?” asked Flynn.
“Directions? A place to stay?”
“I think we’re all right,” said Flynn. “But thank you anyway.”
“Don’t you need anything around here without hollerin’ for it.”
“I won’t,” said Flynn.
Two of the motorcyclists roared out of the parking lot of Bob’s Diner.
The third—the blusher, straddling his motorcycle—came over to Flynn’s car.
“Have you ever seen a production at the Abbey Theatre?” he asked through the car window.
“I have,” said Flynn, over the noise of the motorcycle.
“What have you seen?”
“Well, I’ve seen a production of Shaw’s
Saint Joan
, as a matter of fact. With Siobhan McKenna.”
“Ooo, boy,” the young man said. “That would be great.”
“It was great, in fact.”
The young motorcyclist said, “I sure would like to see a production at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, Ireland, someday.”
“Tell me,” said Flynn. “Do you write poetry yourself?”
The young man’s face again turned red.
“No,” he said. “I work in an auto-body shop. In Bixby.”
Leaving the parking lot, the motorcycle raised a trail of dust.
9
“WE’RE here, Mister Flynn.”
Flynn had let himself into the Fraimans’ bungalow, out of the wind, yelling, “Hello? Hello?”
“Come on in.”
Marge Fraiman’s drawl was even slower than usual.
He found the minister and his wife in their bedroom, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, holding hands.
They looked like two small children at the side of the playground, left out of all activities.
Except the reverend’s eyes were glazed, unfocused, wandering in his head.
The Reverend Sandy Fraiman was very drunk.
“There you are,” said Flynn.
Marge Fraiman said, “The devil’s in him, Mister Flynn.”
“I’d say he has about a liter of the devil in him,” said Flynn.
“I’m all right.” The minister brushed a fly that wasn’t there away from his nose.
“He’s backslided,” Marge said. “Somethin’ terrible.”
“I think you can answer my questions better anyway, Mrs. Fraiman,” Flynn said. “You said you were born and raised here.”
“Yes.”
Flynn was looking for a place to sit down.
“Sit anywhere,” Marge said.
There was nothing on which to sit.
Flynn let himself down cross-legged on the bedroom floor near the window.
“Well, now.” The room was stifling. “Just the few odd questions, Mrs. Fraiman.”
The minister, eyes closed, said “Oh-h” and pressed his hand against his stomach.
Marge squeezed her husband’s other hand.
“Mrs. Fraiman, as far as you know—has anyone ever mentioned to you or to any of your friends that there might be oil under Ada?”
“Oh, no. I mean, sure. People used to talk about it. Years ago. This area’s been surveyed time and again, over the years. Exploratory wells drilled. Well, you can still see them standing. At least one on every ranch. It’s been a dream the people have had.”
“And oil was never found?”
“Oh, sure there’s oil.”
“There is oil, you say?”
“Of course there’s oil. People know right where it is and how much there is of it.”
“No oil,” said the minister.
“There’s precious little of it, Mister Flynn. That’s the point. And what there is of it isn’t worth drillin’ up. Too expensive, even at current prices.”
“I
“Some looker, though,” said the grunter.
Flynn said to the counterman, “I’m sorry about the dollar. May I say thank you to you instead?”
“That would be right nice of you.”
Flynn said, “Thank you.”
“You all come back real soon, now.”
“Thank you,” Flynn said. “That would be nice.”
In the parking lot of Bob’s Diner the young men were starting their motorcycles as Flynn and Ducey were getting into their cars.
The motorcyclist who had put away his knife said, “You all need anything?”
“Like what?” asked Flynn.
“Directions? A place to stay?”
“I think we’re all right,” said Flynn. “But thank you anyway.”
“Don’t you need anything around here without hollerin’ for it.”
“I won’t,” said Flynn.
Two of the motorcyclists roared out of the parking lot of Bob’s Diner.
The third—the blusher, straddling his motorcycle—came over to Flynn’s car.
“Have you ever seen a production at the Abbey Theatre?” he asked through the car window.
“I have,” said Flynn, over the noise of the motorcycle.
“What have you seen?”
“Well, I’ve seen a production of Shaw’s
Saint Joan
, as a matter of fact. With Siobhan McKenna.”
“Ooo, boy,” the young man said. “That would be great.”
“It was great, in fact.”
The young motorcyclist said, “I sure would like to see a production at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, Ireland, someday.”
“Tell me,” said Flynn. “Do you write poetry yourself?”
The young man’s face again turned red.
“No,” he said. “I work in an auto-body shop. In Bixby.”
Leaving the parking lot, the motorcycle raised a trail of dust.
9
“WE’RE here, Mister Flynn.”
Flynn had let himself into the Fraimans’ bungalow, out of the wind, yelling, “Hello? Hello?”
“Come on in.”
Marge Fraiman’s drawl was even slower than usual.
He found the minister and his wife in their bedroom, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, holding hands.
They looked like two small children at the side of the playground, left out of all activities.
Except the reverend’s eyes were glazed, unfocused, wandering in his head.
The Reverend Sandy Fraiman was very drunk.
“There you are,” said Flynn.
Marge Fraiman said, “The devil’s in him, Mister Flynn.”
“I’d say he has about a liter of the devil in him,” said Flynn.
“I’m all right.” The minister brushed a fly that wasn’t there away from his nose.
“He’s backslided,” Marge said. “Somethin’ terrible.”
“I think you can answer my questions better anyway, Mrs. Fraiman,” Flynn said. “You said you were born and raised here.”
“Yes.”
Flynn was looking for a place to sit down.
“Sit anywhere,” Marge said.
There was nothing on which to sit.
Flynn let himself down cross-legged on the bedroom floor near the window.
“Well, now.” The room was stifling. “Just the few odd questions, Mrs. Fraiman.”
The minister, eyes closed, said “Oh-h” and pressed his hand against his stomach.
Marge squeezed her husband’s other hand.
“Mrs. Fraiman, as far as you know—has anyone ever mentioned to you or to any of your friends that there might be oil under Ada?”
“Oh, no. I mean, sure. People used to talk about it. Years ago. This area’s been surveyed time and again, over the years. Exploratory wells drilled. Well, you can still see them standing. At least one on every ranch. It’s been a dream the people have had.”
“And oil was never found?”
“Oh, sure there’s oil.”
“There is oil, you say?”
“Of course there’s oil. People know right where it is and how much there is of it.”
“No oil,” said the minister.
“There’s precious little of it, Mister Flynn. That’s the point. And what there is of it isn’t worth drillin’ up. Too expensive, even at current prices.”
“I
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