Tin Foil GratitudeSeptember 05, 2024

Short story by C. R. Camarillo, Midland College alum

Travis Coombs woke up angry. No other way to put that. He had asked the rig foreman for the day off weeks ago, and he’d gotten it. But that was before the baby took sick and needed antibiotics and medication and no one could’ve seen that coming. Still, he thought, with the way his luck was running, he should’ve known better. There was no taking a day off now. They just couldn’t afford it.

He sat up on the edge of the bed and shivered as the cold settled on his lean shoulders. His wife Maggie was already in the kitchen; he heard her rustling quietly. It was dark in there because she’d always let him sleep as long as he could before heading off to the rig.

His back winced and muscles shook as he stood and went to the window. He laid the back of his hand on the glass and felt it cold. Maybe in the ‘twenties out there, he thought, but no ice. There wasn’t enough moisture in the air to do that, so it was just freezing cold.

He could do freezing cold. Truth was, he had no choice, not if he wanted to pay doctor bills that might keep coming if the baby didn’t get any better.

He dressed quietly with layers of clothing, two pairs of socks and then he put on his new boots but immediately felt a pang of guilt.

Shouldn’t have bought the more expensive pair, he thought. They could’ve saved twenty-seven dollars and gone with that cheaper pair, but he knew they had already paid for themselves. A pipe had fallen on his foot last week and would’ve crushed his toes but for the steel-toed protection the new boots gave him.

Still. The money.

Looking up, he saw Maggie’s silhouette with the kitchen window behind her. She was already showing. Their family was small but growing. Ellen was nine years old, Katy was four and Billy one and a half. And now they had another coming.

I should’ve kept it in my pants or worn a rubber, he thought. We needed to wait.

Too late now. All he could do now was go to work with the feeling that he had let his family down, because what kind of man doesn’t spend time with his own on Thanksgiving. Then again, what kind of Thanksgiving would it have been with no turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and a sweet pie. Maybe a strong, sweet tea to wash it all down.

He had wished for that, for all the good it did him. Instead, the most they could afford this week was some potatoes and a few eggs to scramble in them. He remembered growing up on a small ranch not far, just north of Dalhart, and could still hear his own father saying, “Not a hell of a whole lot to be thankful for.” It shamed him to not be able to rise above all that.

In the kitchen, Maggie dropped a pan a little too hard on the stove burner. In seconds, the baby stirred and cried out from the crib in the corner of their small bedroom. Even before he could move to pick the baby up, Maggie was there, shushing and rocking the child in her arms.

“I’m sorry, Travis, that was me. I dropped the darn skillet.”

She didn’t want to mention that sharp pain she’d felt in her belly that caused her to drop the pan.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said pulling her close to him and kissing her, then kissing the baby’s head. “I was already up.”

“I’ve got the coffee on, hon. Can I make you an egg?”

His mind quickly flashed on the contents of the icebox as he did the math. They’d have enough for the next two days if he went without this morning. Pregnant women need more nutrition, he’d read at the doctor’s office. They’re eating for two.

“No, baby, I need to get going. We got a new man working the cables, and I’m not sure he even knows what the hell he’s doing.”

She shushed him, making a face. “You’ll be teaching the baby bad words, Travis. What happened to Fred Jenkins? I thought he did the cables.”

What was he supposed to tell her? That Fred got his hand caught between two rolling pipes and crushed three of his fingers? And that he might lose one of them? Yeah, because it was a small town and she was going to hear it anyway.

“Fred got hurt. He messed his hand up.”

Her mouth fell open and her eyes got wide.

“Janelle,” she whispered, thinking of Fred’s wife and family. “They’ve got a baby due around Christmas.”

“I heard they was moving back to Oklahoma to stay with her sister for a while.”

He could see it in her eyes. Fear and sorrow.

“Quit thinking like that, Maggie. It’s a good paying job and we need the money. ‘Sides, I’m real careful. That’s why they always ask for me when there’s work. I’m real good at what I do.”

She laid her head on his chest while the baby grabbed at his hair. He was hungry. His mind did the inventory and he remembered they had half a bag of flour in the cabinet.

“That coffee smells awful good. Maybe I’ll have a piece of toast. Do we still have some of that crackling bread you made?”

Her eyes lit up again.

“I’ll heat you a piece with some butter. Wait, I think we have butter. Maybe.”

“You know what I’d like instead?” he said. “Smear a little lard on the bread and sprinkle in some salt. I’d really like that.”

He lied.

Unwrapping the butcher paper package in the icebox, she quickly heated a piece of the crackling bread. She did this by laying it directly onto the stove’s burner grate, then flipping it quickly to avoid burning it. The layer of lard she skimmed on it melted quickly, softening the toasted bread. Then she sprinkled salt on it.

 Glancing at the ticking clock on the wall, Travis ate quickly, blowing on the cup of coffee to cool it, then sipping off the top.

Maggie worried about him because she knew the risks he faced out there on the rig. The one he worked on was about two miles south of Kermit, their home for the last two years. Theirs was an oil town that had seen both boom and bust. Now in 1955, folks were hanging on.

Like my husband’s going to be hanging on to that darn rig today, she thought grimly, looking out the window at the tall brown grasses jerking to and fro in the stiff, cold breeze.

That was just one more thing for her to worry about. The rig. It was old, made mostly of wood, so it creaked and swayed in a stiff wind. She’d seen it do that. And today wasn’t going to be any picnic out there, she thought, as miserably cold as it is. The only windbreak they’d have was in the dog house, a galvanized steel shed that housed the operator, an assortment of tools and gear, with everything looking as if it had been dipped in oil.  

As she washed a plate in the sink she said, “I got a letter from Mama yesterday, Travis. Them and e’rybody else are doing just fine. She and Daddy are hoping we might get out to see them this summer. I’ll write her back and tell her the car needs fixing, so we won’t be talking about taking any trips until that’s done. And guess what? She said Billy’s getting out of the service in six months, ain’t that something? I swear, seems like just yesterday he was signing up, doesn’t it?”

She looked at him and knew it wasn’t a trick of the light that made his eyes glisten like that. He sat at the table holding the baby as she went to him. He looked up at her with tears standing tall in both eyes.

“Travis. Darling, what’s wrong?”

She pulled his face to her bosom as he lowered his head. He exhaled a jagged breath, then slowly stood. The baby used this opportunity to crawl into her arms.

“I’m so sorry, Maggie.”

“Baby, for what?” She reached up and swept a lock of unkempt hair off his wrinkled forehead. He was tall and gaunt, with a simple but handsome face chiseled from stone it seemed. Normally his brown eyes danced with delight as he played with the kids, or grew soft as he lay in her arms. But now they were red with tears and her heart was breaking to see it, because she knew what was wrong.

And there was little she could do about it.

“It’s just that, that...” he struggled to find words. “This ain’t no kind of Thanksgiving I ever wanted for you and the kids. I seen the little paper turkeys Ellen’s been coloring and bringing home from school. She knows what’s supposed to happen today, and it’s just...it’s hard knowing that I can’t give that to her.”

The words were catching in his throat.

“I feel like I’m letting y’all down. Especially today.”

She looked up at him, then held him close.

“Y’all deserve a damn sight better. Better than me, for sure.”

“Now you listen to me,” she said sternly, “We both know the baby got sick, and there weren’t nothing we could do but pay the bills and hang on. Because that’s what we do, and we do it together. And look, the baby’s getting better already. Honey, we don’t need no turkey; maybe we’ll have one for Christmas. Or maybe not. And I don’t need fancy, Travis, I never have. Me and the kids have got everything we need to be thankful for right here...”

Outside and just down the street there came a quick honk as a familiar red truck headed their direction on the dirt road out front. Rattling with loose components, the brakes squealed as it pulled up to their picket fence. Three men sat in the truck cab, two others on the flatbed in back, bundled low and trying to keep warm.

“I’d better go.”

Taking his thick work jacket that hung from a nail by the door, he shuffled into it, then donned his oil-stained stocking cap and work gloves. Juggling the baby in one arm, she threw the other around him and pulled him close.

“Don’t you go starting this day with nothing but a strong heart, Travis Bekins Coombs. We love you and we need you keeping yourself safe...”

“Mama?”

They looked up and saw Ellen standing in the doorway. Her pajamas hung on her thin frame.

“It’s Thanksgiving, Daddy. Why you going to work?” she asked. “President Eisenhower says it’s a holiday.”

Maggie quickly went to her and said, “Ellie, somebody has to keep the country moving, and that’s what your daddy’s doing today...”

She heard the door close behind her. Running to the door she snatched it open and called out, “You hurry home, honey. We’ll be here!”

A gust of cold wind nearly snatched the door from her grasp. Ellen came up beside her and snuggled close.

“Was Daddy crying?”

Maggie watched the truck kick dust down that road and waited until it disappeared around the corner before she closed the door.

That day went as Travis thought it might because, well, rig work was hard enough but holidays just seemed to make it worse. The men’s opinions varied about every damn subject but most would’ve agreed that there were expectations about Thanksgiving, even if they didn’t have words to admit to it. The day was supposed to be special, one that brought joy and family together to share a bountiful harvest. Folks were raised up with stories and pictures of pilgrims and Indians gathered at a table overflowing with savory meats and vegetables, flowers and good will towards men.

That kind of dream image was hard to pull off when families struggled from one paycheck to the next. Out there on that rig, men toiled under harsh conditions and looked for relief, especially at the end of the week. A good many of them sought some comfort in neon-lit juke joints and bars, or hoped in desperation to increase their winnings with cards and dice. Many paychecks never made it home, not whole anyways. Those unfortunate men had no choice but to return with emptied pockets to their families who waited for them standing in the doorway, gaunt, dressed in thin and patched clothes, waiting at the door with hungry eyes. And having failed at providing for their wife and kids, men fell into pits of depression that were hard to crawl out of.

Holidays just didn’t help much.

Sure enough, two men were no-shows on that day, so Travis found himself doubling up on his work. The freezing wind howled throughout the day, and several times he’d had to grab hold of the cross rigging to avoid getting blown off the platform. You’d have thought all that wind would’ve blown the acrid smells of fuel, gas and oil out there into the miles of rock and mesquite, but you’d be wrong. All the day, men kept their heads tucked low in their collars as gray skies and icy gusts threatened a storm that sat black out there on the north horizon.

Now late in the day, Travis was working a pry rod trying to loosen and align the steel cable that had kinked on its spool. Not an easy job, considering everything was coated in a sheen of oil that the wind would spray into his eyes.

The rig driller, Bob Aldridge, looked at the sky and checked his watch. The sun never showed itself all that day, and now it was sinking into a black western sky. Aldridge was an old hand at all of this. With sparse gray hair on a near bald head, and sky-blue eyes set in a deeply lined and grimaced face, he was a mirthless grump, skinny as barbed wire and walked with a limp from an accident years before. He had an unlit cigar stub permanently affixed to the corner of his mouth. No one ever saw him light it, and most believed it was the same cigar stub that he chewed day after day, week after week, year after year.

Aldridge liked Travis who he considered to be humorously cynical and pragmatic, but with a work ethic that was undeniably rock solid. He told the bosses that Travis Coombs was “dependable.” There just weren’t no bigger compliment he could give.

In the near dark, Travis looked up to see Aldridge gesturing with a gloved hand, calling him over. He had a rare smile on his face.

The two men hunkered down by eighty-pound bags of salt water gel that drillers would toss into the hole to maintain viscosity as they drilled into the earth. The stacked bags were a familiar fixture to be found on every rig. On warm days they’d sit atop the pile and feel the sun. On days like today, they’d shelter behind those same bags. Nearby, the wind howled through stacked pipes with a low moan, and they had to shout to be heard.

“What’s up, boss?” Travis asked.

“I got two things for you, son. You seen that truck that was just here a few minutes ago?”

“I did.”

Aldridge pointed to dots of light on a dark horizon and said, “That old boy came from Freeman’s crew over on the 316, north of here a few miles. They’ve hit a pocket of gas and they need all the bags of barite we can spare. That old boy said all the men there have got jackrabbit in them right now, ready to run ‘cause that rig might possibly blow.”

A blowout of uncontrolled gas was always a possibility, and certain to cause injury and fatalities. On most rigs, natural gas hung in the air for miles around. It was gut-wrench sickening when you could smell it and dangerous when you couldn't. A recent gas explosion on a rig over in the next county had been devastating and killed several souls.

And now another was threatening to blow.

Travis nodded. “You need me to run them bags over there?”

“I need you here, Travis. I’m sending Harris. We’re gonna have to start pulling that string here in just a while and he’s just not a good hand at that. He’s down there loading the truck right now, so you plan to do without him till he gets back. Can you do that?”

“Yeah?” Travis grinned. “Well, I usually plan to do without him even when he’s here.”

Aldridge chuckled. “Yah, I know you do.”

They looked out into the desert. There was no sunset to speak of, and it was dark. The rig lights were lit throwing shadows in all directions.

“You said you got two things,” Travis said.

“Yah, I did. I got good news and bad. Which one you want first?”

That’s three things, Travis thought, but said, “Gimme the bad.”

“We’re caught short here, Trav. I know it’s kinda a special day but I need you to do another shift. I got word from the boss man in Midland, and he knew some of the guys just weren’t gonna show up. He’s ‘auterized me to pay you time and a half. So, you work two shifts and I’ll pay you for three, how’s that sound?”

Travis nodded. As much as he wanted to go home and rest, he couldn’t say no to that kind of money.

“Yeah, I’ll do it.”

Aldridge made a fist and hit Travis softly on the shoulder.

“You a good man. Now, follow me over to the dog house a minute.”

They made their way over to a large, ramshackle shed with a corrugated roof over it. It was cold in there but they were out of the wind. Inside, a single yellowed light bulb dangled from an overhead two by four. It stank heavily of petroleum, gas and chemicals. Greased tools of the trade were either hanging from the walls or piled to one side. There was a stack of salt water mud-gel bags against one wall that the men took breaks on. Cigarette butts were crushed into the dirt at the base of the pile.

Aldridge took a paper grocery bag from on top of the stack and handed it to Travis. The bag was warm, almost hot to the touch at the bottom.

“What’s this, boss?” Travis asked.

“Well, uh, it’s Thanksgiving, ain’t it?”

“Yessir. Last I heard.”

Aldridge grinned. “Yah, well, this here’s your dinner, and I’m gonna step outside while you enjoy it.”

“My dinner?”

“You skipped lunch today, I seen it. And by now most everyone else has had their baloney samich dinners ‘cept you, so you just set here awhile and enjoy this. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Travis held the bag and asked, “What the hell is this?”

“That’s for you. Quit asking questions, it’s getting cold.”

And with that said, Aldridge grinned and walked out the door, banging it shut against the wind. Travis sat back on the stack of bags and used his teeth to help pull off his work gloves. Then he opened the paper bag. Inside, there was something flat wrapped in several layers of aluminum foil to keep it warm. He peeled back one layer after the next until it sat there on his lap, still steaming.

It was a TV dinner, a pre-cooked, pre-portioned meal with a faded color picture on the cover showing what was inside. He pulled off the cardboard cover which had grown soft in the heat of the meal. There sat a steaming, crinkly aluminum tray formed into neat pockets. Nestled in the pockets were small slices of turkey and mashed potatoes, sitting in a brown gravy. Green peas sat to one side, invitingly.

“God almighty,” he whispered.

The rich smell was intoxicating and his head swooned. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

He had no spoon or fork and didn’t need one. He dug in with his fingers, tearing the turkey into bits and then dipped them into the hot mashed potatoes.

With a strange look on his face, he stopped suddenly. He lowered his head, licked his fingers and made the sign of the cross on himself.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Very much.” That would have to do.

Dipping into the peas, he saw that several had made their escape and rolled onto the floor. He carefully set the tray aside, retrieved the peas, blew the dirt off them and ate them quickly, feeling the crunch of dirt between his teeth. He was careful then, mixing the peas with mashed potatoes to keep them from rolling off his fingers.

His hunger sharpened his senses and he closed his eyes as the flavors warmed him to the core. And when it was all gone, he used his fingers to sop up the last of the gravy, savoring every bit of the meal.

He gathered all the foil and put it carefully back into the bag, then set it aside. Standing, he opened the door to the toolshed and found Aldridge standing out there in the cold wind.

“Boss? You been standing here all this time?”

“Yah. I honestly didn’t think it would take you this long to finish it.”

“The company do this? Did everybody get one of these?”

“This company ain’t made of money. Hell, no. But I made a promise not to tell you till you was done with that meal.”

“Tell me what?” Travis asked.

“C’mere, follow me.”

Aldridge led him around the stacked drilling pipes and pointed to one side. What with the constant grinding of the machines and drill rig, it was damn loud out there and he had to shout above the noise.

“She parked way back there because she didn’t want you to see her.”

Travis peered into the darkness. An old truck that he did not recognize sat at the periphery of the drilling rig’s light. On seeing him, the truck’s door opened and out stepped his family. They gathered and stood huddling, almost at attention in front of the truck.

Maggie was in her dark blue dress, the good one that she put on only for special occasions, funerals and church; the one she wore when he married her. He saw she was wearing her scuffed high heels, the ones she would take a black pen to, coloring in all the deep scratches in the leather to keep them looking nice. Ellen stood beside her, taller than he remembered, wearing a dress and her winter coat. Katy stood nestled inside Ellen’s coat. Maggie held Billy who was wrapped in a blanket with a sliver of his tiny face showing.

Travis hurried through the sand and rocks. When he reached them, they all wrapped their arms around him.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Daddy!”

“Happy Thanksgiving!”

He looked at Maggie who stood tall and silent. She wore makeup and the wind was making a mess of her hair.

“Maggie?”

“Before you say anything, just let me get this out, Travis.”

“Did you do this? How?”

“Well, you’re gonna be mad because I sold Alice Benning two jars of my apple jelly for twenty cents, and I know you wanted me to keep them for a rainy day. And Fiona still owed us money from when we loaned her and Gary that dollar two weeks ago? And we had forty-two cents in the sugar bowl. I borrowed Betty’s truck, too. So that TV dinner only set us back ninety-eight cents, and I know, I know you wouldn’t have ever let me buy it if I had asked you...”

“Why didn’t you tell you was here? I could’ve sat with y’all.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it. You would’ve made us all eat some of it till it was all gone and that’s not what we wanted, did we girls?”

With beautiful smiles Ellen and Katy shook their heads.

She started to say something else but he rushed forward and took her in his arms. He kissed her like he had kissed that girl on the altar so many years ago. He kissed her like it could be their last.

Maggie looked up at him with tears that glistened in the rig’s light.

“...because me and the kids wanted you know that we see how hard you work for us, Travis. And you do it every day.”

“Even on holidays,” Ellen piped up.

Up on the rig platform, Aldridge stood with two men looking down at the scene.

“And she brought him dinner?” one asked.

“She did. Travis had Thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings,” Aldridge said with certain pride in his voice.

All the men shook their heads, murmured their jealous approval with sincere admiration at that.

“Damn,” one man said, “I gotta get me one of them.”

“One what?”

“A wife like that.”

“Sometimes I think they quit making ‘em like that,” Aldridge said. “That woman there’s a real diamond in the rough, you know it? Yah. I know mine was, rest her soul.”

“Boss, can I take me a break real quick?”

“Break, my ass. I gave you a break when I hired you. Ask me again in thirty minutes. Ok, you sonsabitches, go on back to work. Go on.”

As they grumbled off, Aldridge grabbed a stout pillar, leaned into the dark and yelled, “Travis! We gotta pull this string up here. Hurry up and kiss those babies, let’s go.”

Travis and Maggie held each.

“Was it good, Daddy?” Katy asked.

Travis scooped her up and kissed her on the forehead.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had better. Baby, I would’ve given you some...”

“You didn’t have to. Mama made us pancakes with butter and real syrup! They were terrific!”

He looked quizzically at Maggie. “Syrup?”

“Alice gave me some,” she whispered. “I promised to mend some clothes for her.”

“Aw, Maggie. Like you don’t have enough to do already?”

He reached down and softly laid a hand on her belly.

“How’s junior? Behaving himself, I hope. You feelin’ ok today?”

With a smirk, she reached up and stroked his face.

“Tolerable. Travis, you better go on back, honey. I’m thinking they’re waiting on you.”

Nodding, he hugged and quickly kissed them all, then walked towards the rig. He stopped and turned back as they were scrambling into the truck out of the cold.

“Thank you,” he shouted to them.

They turned, smiled and waved. The wind whipped his jacket as he climbed up the ladder to the rig platform, and by the time he reached the top they were gone. In all that blackness all he could see were two small red lights angling one way and then another as they made their way down that rutted dirt road back towards the highway.

            And although his memory of that night seemed as if it happened just last week, it had now been forty two years. Travis’ kids were all grown, married now with babies of their own. Time had blown each of them far from home with winds of opportunity. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Ellen was the chief nurse at Lubbock Memorial while Katy had gone into the oil business and worked in marketing over in Dallas. Billy had made a career of the service and was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Army and Elizabeth was a news anchor at an Abilene television station. So far, there were eight grandchildren, but Elizabeth was hiding the news of yet another to come.

            It was Thanksgiving, and they had all set aside work schedules and made time to gather back home in Kermit because Elizabeth had dangled the bait that she had something she wanted to share. They all figured she was either pregnant or moving up in the TV business, one or the other.

Travis sat at the Thanksgiving table, the adult one, piled high and overflowing with savory meats and vegetables, with candles and fresh flowers.

“And good will towards men,” he whispered, looking over at the kids table. They were a raucous lot, laughing and pinching each other, well deserving of the occasional scolding they’d predictably get from one parent or the other.

Travis looked up to see a green scallion fly gracefully through the air and hit one of the babies in the middle of his forehead. The baby looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Grace had been said and more food was flowing out of the kitchen now. Plates were being loaded with sliced turkey and giblet gravy, whipped golden potatoes, grilled asparagus and steaming broccoli.

Families have their traditions that grow unexpectedly over time. And over the years, everyone came to know that Grandpa Travis would always have an empty seat next to him, on his right side. His plate was never filled. And while everyone else was passing around the bountiful foods, Ellen brought out a steaming hot tray and set it before him. Then she leaned over and kissed his balding head.

“You sure Daddy?” she asked, like she did every year.

“Oh, I don’t need fancy,” he replied, “This will do me just fine. Just fine.”

He peeled back the cover on the TV turkey dinner and would dig in with everyone else. Every now and then, he’d reach over and pat the empty seat beside him. Since Maggie had passed, he never ate anything else on Thanksgiving.

The kids would glance over at him but kept quiet. They didn’t fully understand when their parents tried to explain Grandpa Travis’ ways, but that didn’t diminish their love for the old man.

With a small grin on his face, Travis would go off into his world of memories. With a bowed head, he’d quietly remember Maggie and the kids in front of that old pickup truck, out there in the West Texas field being whipped by the cold wind. In the dim light of that drilling rig, they had stood tall in their Sunday best, all smiles. And he remembered his Maggie in that blue dress of hers, holding their children close to her, standing there with the sincere promise of life and love in those soft brown eyes of hers.

He reached over and laid his hand on that empty seat next to him and he was thankful, because there was lots to be grateful for.

The End

Published with permission by C.R. Camarillo, (707) 858-4997, Gotocamarillo1@gmail.com

Photo:  Roy Camarillo, Midland College alum