Desmond found first grade quite a bit less interesting than the rigs. He could already read, thanks to Agnes, and his math was far ahead, thanks to the grocery store owner who had prevented him from starving to death.
He also found it impossible to connect with the other kids. To him, they seemed like just that: kids, babies almost. They enjoyed playtime. Talked about childish things. He felt out of place, like he was several grades behind where he should be. The teacher noticed, tried to give him more advanced work, but she had her hands full. So Desmond was largely left alone. He sat in the corner and read while the class rotated stations around him.
The principal agreed to advance him to the second grade, but he felt disengaged there too.
Summer came, and he again joined his uncle on the rigs. The work got harder with every tour.
That became the routine of his life: the rigs each summer, school during the year, his uncle home only half the time.
He didn’t know if it was because of his parents’ death or Agnes’s passing or because of the way his uncle had raised him, but he found it nearly impossible to get close to anyone. There was a wall inside of him. And the few times he brought friends over to his house, his uncle embarrassed him by berating him in front of them, so Desmond quickly learned not to invite anyone over. His uncle never gave him permission to stay over at anyone else’s house, either. Desmond was not stupid enough to disobey him.
When Desmond brought home the sign-up form for Little League, his uncle burned it. It was a waste of time and his money, he said.
Orville also refused to give consent to allow Desmond to join any of the clubs at school, Boy Scouts, or any extracurricular activities of any kind.
Desmond felt completely isolated. He had no connection with anyone or anything. He was happiest when he was reading, but by the time he was eight, he had read about everything that interested him at the local library.
The girl behind the desk noticed him wandering the stacks aimlessly. Her name was Julie, she was in her early twenties, and she seemed to have a new hairstyle each time Desmond saw her. It was in a bun on top of her head that day.
“If we don’t have it, we can get it,” she said.
“From where?”
“Another library.”
She pulled the keyboard away from the computer. “We can request any book in the Pioneer Library System and they’ll transfer it to us. What are you looking for?”
Desmond didn’t know what he was looking for. He had no idea what was out there. “I’m… not sure.”
“Well, what sort of books do you like to read?” Julie asked.
The last book Desmond had really enjoyed was a novel by Carl Sagan titled Contact. At the end, he had read that Sagan had a program on PBS. Desmond had wanted to watch it, but he knew Orville wouldn’t allow it; he was far more interested in John Wayne than alien life and mankind’s place in the universe. Desmond, however, was fascinated by the prospect of life beyond Earth and other worlds. He thought anywhere had to be better than here. At the moment, books were his only escape.
“I can also search by author.”
“Carl Sagan,” he said instantly.
A whole new world opened up to Desmond after that. He read science books, history books, biographies. He was fascinated with how the world got to be how it was—and with the people who made it that way. To some degree, he was trying to learn why the world was so cruel and unfair.
A year later, Julie began bringing him books that weren’t in the library system. She was a student at the University of Oklahoma, and their library was much more extensive. Desmond protected the tomes like treasures.
His life at home continued in the usual way. In the summers, he joined Orville on the rigs. He learned that his uncle had been taking contracts closer to Slaughterville for the past few years—safer jobs at sites close enough that he could get back home quickly if Desmond were hurt or got in any trouble. Before Desmond had come to live with him, Orville had worked on rigs farther away, some offshore. The pay was better there. Conditions were often worse—and more dangerous.
With each passing year, Desmond was given more responsibility, put more in harm’s way. He broke his right arm outside Abilene when he was eleven, his leg near Galveston the following year. In May of ’95, at a rig outside Nacogdoches, a roughneck who was high on cocaine dropped a swivel on Desmond’s foot, crushing it. Orville beat the man to within an inch of his life. They never saw him again, on any job anywhere.
When Desmond got out of the hospital, his uncle welcomed him home with a pint of cheap whiskey. It was the only thing he had for the pain, and Desmond drank it down. It was disgusting at first, but no worse than the throbbing in his foot. It got easier to drink after a while.
To his surprise, his uncle didn’t desert him. He brought food to his room and took him to his follow-up appointments. Their relationship changed even more after that.