Mystery in the Oil Patch

Mel wandered to the slide, climbed to the top, and got another whiff of the bad odor that she had smelled since arriving at the oil company camp. The setting sun left long orange and gold streaks across the horizon. The sky is huge out here, she thought. No wonder the sunset is so spectacular. To the north, in the growing darkness, she saw the tops of the buildings along Landers Street and the Shinoak water tower. Behind them were the oil derricks and tall poles with flames on top she had seen upon her arrival. She turned and looked south toward a wide-open field of scrub brush and a few small shacks. A shabby corrugated metal warehouse stood in the distance in the middle of the field. The flame billowing from the top of a nearby tall pole cast an orange glow around the warehouse. The building was dark and looked abandoned until she saw flickers of light in the big windows. The flashes continued for some time—on and off, on and off. Curious, she watched the mysterious lights until she heard Uncle Ray’s voice. “It’s time we head for home,” he called. “It’s getting late.” Right away, Mel mentioned the flashing lights in the building to her uncle. “You must be mistaken, honey girl. That old warehouse has been closed for years.” “But I saw lights in the windows, flickering on and off, lots of times.” “It’s probably reflections of the gas flare on the glass windowpanes.” Mel was not convinced. She knew what she had seen, and they were not reflections. It seemed more like someone sending coded messages with flashing lights. Despite her strong opinion, she said no more. Aunt Margie was in the living room when they arrived home, and Mel asked her uncle about the torches. “Those tall poles with flames on the top make the night look creepy. What are they?” “They’re gas flares burning off waste natural gas. Pipe lines carry the waste gas away from the oil wellhead to the tall vent pipes. The flame at the top of the vent pipe then safely burns off the gas instead of releasing it into the air.” “Do the flames ever go out? The wind blows all the time.” “Yep, they can go out. And if they do, we relight them.” “Like we do on the gas cooking stove,” Aunt Margie said. “Escaping gas can be deadly—a killer,” Uncle Ray explained. “Since it’s colorless, you don’t know it’s in the air until too late. One little spark can set off an enormous explosion, like what happened at the New London school in East Texas a couple of years ago. Hundreds died that day—children and teachers—because no one knew a pipe was leaking natural gas under the school.” “Ray,” Aunt Margie said, “stop that scare talk about explosions at school.” “I already heard about that,” Mel said. “When it happened, all of us talked about it. For a time, I was scared to go to school.” “Now don’t confuse natural gas with the gas we pump into cars,” Uncle Ray said. “That’s gasoline.” “Oh, I know that, Uncle Ray. Gasoline is liquid, and boy howdy you can smell it. But I don’t think it smells as bad as the foul air out here.” Uncle Ray laughed. “That’s the sulfur in the gas—the natural smell of the West Texas oil patch, honey girl.” Mel smiled knowingly. “Like the smell at the ranch is the smell of the barnyard.” She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired. I guess it’s taps for me.” She yawned again. Later, after brushing her teeth, Mel entered the bedroom and found a lamp on. Snatcher jerked awake and growled. He scratched an ear before digging into his pillow and lying down. As soon as she was in the room, she smelled a sweet, familiar floral scent—the distinct smell of Evening in Paris perfume. It was overwhelming. Mel went to the top drawer of the tall chest, found the dark blue perfume bottle, and shook it. She stared down at Polly, who was sleeping like a top. It was obvious the little snoop had found Mel’s Evening in Paris, saturated herself, and probably Snatcher, with some of the precious perfume left in the bottle. Mel was so angry she yanked off her clothes and left them on the floor. She put on her pajamas, turned off the lamp, and wriggled under the sheet on her bed. The strains of a Gene Autry record drifted from the dining room. Furious at Polly and unable to sleep, Mel tossed from one side to the other. Her legs ached from running in the Labor Day games, and she began to cry. Fearful that her aunt and uncle would hear her crying, she hid her head under the pillow. From under the pillow, she could still hear the grinding of oil field machinery through the open windows. How different it was from the ranch, where singing katydids and the soothing lowing of cattle lulled her to sleep. Every time she thought of what Polly had done, she sniffed again. The perfume was all she had of Mama. Now it was nearly gone. She was homesick for her and for Daddy, Gran, Grandad, Aunt Dulce, Uncle Tino, and Hornet. She had made some new friends, but her heart longed for the ranch and for her own room. And she still missed Tuffy, who had been her best friend and playmate her whole life. Tomorrow, she would start school. Instead of her familiar friends at home, she would join a class where she knew no one. How would she deal with them if they were not as friendly as the kids at church and in the oil company camp? What if they were crude and unruly—oil field trash—or as Gran said, little ruffians without any manners?