Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/79

 "He won't … remember me. I'm his Dad and no girl ever broke my heart."

The gray-haired woman laughed loud. "Listen who's talking."

"It's not too late," grinned Carol, and she gave the brown cheek a soft but firm pat.

After a few more sentences of conversation the two women left the kitchen. Le Claire followed them to the front door. He said, "You gals have fun. Tell Monita I'm sorry I couldn't make it tonight."

"Bend down and I'll give you something," Carol said.

"Right here in public? Right here in front of this old maid? Carol Le Claire, you're a cute but wicked woman."

"And you love it," growled Jane. "Lucky dog. And where do you get that ‘old' stuff. That ‘old maid' stuff.

"Okay, flapper. You asked for it." He kissed her forehead.

She let out a deep sigh and whispered comically, "Thank you, kind sire … thank you very much."

No one could understand Clayton Le Claire's implacable determination to own more oil wells, get control of more land, buy one more lease, when he cared nothing for power and already had more income from producing wells than he could spend, or even comfortably manage without continuously driving himself. But if his associates could have seen the bare Louisiana house in which he was born and in which, at an early age, he had seen his mother die because there was no end to her slaving, and no money when she needed a doctor, the matter of Clayton Le Claire's desire for security would have been an enigma no longer. The fear and horror of poverty that had tortured him after his mother's death had sunk deep in his conscience and continued to run on and on like a current of exhaustless power. It was this that drove him out, increasing his leases and land holdings, each one paying in a flood of black gold into his already weighted hands.

After the two women had departed, he picked up the evening paper and sank into the chair Carol had occupied. On the end table were the unfinished socks. The bright wool held him.

The phone rang and Le Claire's vision was gone. If he had suddenly been hit on the head by a drill bit, the jar would hardly have been greater. 69