Face the Winter Naked (20 page)

"I'll
ask Saul and see what he says." LaDaisy didn't like the idea of being
completely alone. But what right did she have to keep her husband's father from
the rest of his family? She couldn't think of a good reason he shouldn't live
at Bernie's.

"Thank
you."

"Don't
thank me yet." LaDaisy took Mary from Bernie's arms. "He might say
no."

"He
wouldn't dare." Said with a smile.

Bernie
gave LaDaisy a peck on the cheek and put her hat back on. They bid each other
good-bye and LaDaisy caught up with Saul and the children.

"I
wanted to stop at the cemetery before going home," she said, settling the
little ones in the wagon again. "Do you all want to come? We'll pick some
flowers for Grandma Martha's and Great-grandma Susannah's graves, and little Wayne's."

"And
the twins," cried Earl.

Saul
cleared his throat. "Yes, we'll put flowers on my little twin babies'
graves, too, God love 'em."

Catherine
grabbed Saul's arm. "Tell me about the babies, Grandpa."

Saul
removed his straw hat and unbuttoned his shirt at the neck. "Reckon there
ain't much to tell, little gal. They didn't even live long enough to get
named."

"When
Bobby and Mary was borned they got names."

LaDaisy
took her daughter's hand. "Come on, then. Let's find some posies to put on
the graves."

A
few minutes later, she knelt beside Wayne's grave and pulled weeds away from
the small, flat headstone, trying not to imagine her infant in the dark box. To
her surviving children, the site was simply a lump of dirt with grass and weeds
on top; but inside was a part of herself and Daniel.

Someone
had destroyed the lamb again.

"Oh,
Saul!" She pointed to the broken concrete.

"I
hope whoever did this is happy," he said, shaking his head. "I don't
think I can fix it."

She
rose and let Bobby lay a handful of dandelions on the grave, leaned over and
kissed the top of his head, then took his hand.

"Come
on, we'd better go home now." She turned to Saul. "Bernie wanted me
to ask you something. I don't know how you'll feel about it, though."

"Whatzat?"

LaDaisy
leaned close to his ear and shouted. "We'll talk when we get home."

On
the way, a red car kicked dust in their eyes. LaDaisy swore under her breath as
she recognized Clay at the wheel.

July
ended and August arrived, scorching everything in sight. The grass turned
brown. The only moisture was perspiration rolling off the bodies of rich and
poor alike.

Though
Saul was reluctant to leave LaDaisy alone, he accepted his daughter's offer to
move into her home. Bernadine's two-story house was shady and cool. He spent
the hot afternoons on the screened-in front porch—in his own rocking chair—away
from the insects and the sun's burning rays. The arrangement worked well. He
had a room to himself, and he didn't have to clean it if he didn't want to.

LaDaisy
was happy for him. But she and the kids missed seeing him around the property
at all hours. Rocking on the porch. Hanging his hand-washed underwear on the
clothesline. Making frequent trips—or carrying his overnight bucket—to the
outhouse.

But
when late afternoon came, they could always find him working in his garden.

LaDaisy
was out there talking to him one evening when he suddenly dropped his hoe and
stood very still.

"What
is it?" she asked. "Saul? Are you ok?"

He
turned, nodding. "I'm fine." He was looking queerly at her.
"Just thinking." He pulled off his cap and wiped his head, face, and
neck with a red-checkered handkerchief, then stuck the cloth back in his overalls'
pocket.

Feeling
uncomfortable, she turned away from his penetrating gaze and started for the
house. On second thought, she changed her mind and went directly to Saul's old
place.

He
came up next to her and set the hoe down against the step, and together they
surveyed the remains of a house that looked like a bulldozer had come through.
The porch was still attached to the foundation. But the roof and walls were
gone. Splintered pieces of Saul's bureau were scattered in the area where his
bedroom had been. The icebox had blown into the yard and lay on its side with
the door open, revealing rotting food in open cans and dishes—they'd already
salvaged whatever foodstuff they'd found still edible. Some cans looked about
to burst. The small cast-iron heating stove stood in the same spot as before.
But the metal flue pipe stuck up in the air, leaning crookedly, and broke off
where the ceiling had been. The bedstead, kitchen table, and one old wooden
chair lay broken in the yard. All around were window sashes and splintered
boards, broken glass, and metal fragments. The cyclone had made toothpicks out
of everything.

Saul
sat on the top step, face in his hands. LaDaisy touched his shoulder briefly.

"I
have to get onto Clay," she said. "He needs to come over and clean
this up before one of the kids get hurt. All we need is lockjaw from a rusty
nail. He should've done it right away."

Mary's
cry caused her to turn back to the house, and a short time later, Saul walked
up the road to Bernie's.

That
night, after scrubbing the kids in cool water and putting them to bed, LaDaisy
sat at the kitchen table wondering if she should send Earl to school in the
fall. There was no money for new clothes, shoes, tablets, pencils, or crayons,
but she could get help with those if she had to. She could sew him new shirts
from Daniel's old ones. Winter would be worse, with the necessity of a warm
coat and boots. It was a lot to consider.

The
thought of school excited the boy. He talked all the time about going with the
"big boys" to the schoolhouse a few blocks north. But he was still
young. She could probably get by with holding him back from kindergarten and
starting him in first grade next year. He was bright; he'd catch up.

She
couldn't concentrate on school, and had a vague feeling she was forgetting
something. She rose and went to the front room, saw the ice card in the window
where she'd put it, then returned to the kitchen. The house was too still.
Creepy.

Feeling
restless, she rose again and checked the front and back screen doors to be sure
they were locked. In hot weather, she left them open to catch the breezes.
Since Clay had taken to entering any time he pleased, she'd been careful about
locking them at night. But she couldn't lock them during the day, for then the
kids couldn't go in and out.

If only
she could believe Daniel was coming home. What on earth had he done to them?
Too much time had passed; too many hurt feelings denied to save her sanity. She
was well beyond forgiveness. If he had the gall to show his face again, what
would she say to him—welcome back or go to hell?

She rested
her head on her arms on the table and closed her eyes. Suddenly, her head
popped up and she stared at the small calendar on the wall by the kitchen
window.

"Oh,
my God."

She
jumped up and went over to the calendar, saw the penciled mark she'd placed
there the month before. Her heart pounded as she counted the days.

Her
twenty-eight-day cycle had passed two weeks ago. Without a stain. For the first
time since she was eleven years old, she'd forgotten to count her periods.

Chapter
15

Daniel
stood outside the produce market, his eyes smarting as Homer's truck rumbled
down the dirt road. The man stopped to pump gas at the Flying A, then lost no
time kicking up the dust. Only then did Daniel open his fist again and stare at
the coins in his palm. Unbelievably, Homer had paid him fewer wages for the
entire month of August than he'd earned for three weeks in July.

"Some
of it's for transportation," he'd said, "for me driving you all the
way up here."

Daniel
started to protest, realizing he was getting gypped. He was tired and out of
sorts. He'd helped unload the heavy bags of potatoes and assorted other
vegetables Homer had brought to sell. He'd ridden in the back of the truck with
the lot, including a smelly hog in a pen, which they unloaded at the
stockyards. The hog would be auctioned off the next day. Homer couldn't stay,
but planned to come back before the auction started. By then, if he was lucky,
Daniel would be on his way north.

Maybe
luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe he was just cut out to bum around the
country the rest of his life, while Homer and Elta Petrie went back to their
comfortable farmhouse to figure out new ways to cheat the hired help.

How
could someone who calls himself a man of God cheat another human being? Someone
who'd slaved alongside him in the hot sun. There'd been no contract, to be
sure. But Daniel had expected fair wages, nonetheless.

Yes,
sir, a fine Christian man, Mr. Homer Petrie is, the goddamn hypocrite.

Not
even the secondhand boots made up for the lost money.

"I
expected a fair wage, Homer, not slave wages. This here's only half what you
gave me for three weeks in July."

"You'd
have to pay a fare if you'd come on the train, Daniel. Unless you hopped one,
and that'd be cheating the railroad, wouldn't it?"

Daniel's
eyes burned as he stared after Homer. He'd counted on this money to take home
to LaDaisy.
My rambling has come to an end, wife, and my heart longs for
home.

He
didn't dare let the tears fall. It was all he could do to choke down the
bitterness rising inside of him. Such would do him no good, nor teach Homer a
lesson about fairness.

He
closed his hand around the money, brought his fist up to his mouth and kissed
it. With nobody around to see, he removed the pouch from his bib pocket and
placed the coins inside. The purse had grown fatter from the odd jobs over
spring and summer. But he'd hoped for more, and thought the potato job would be
the last.

He
put the purse away, intending to count the money when he found a secluded spot.
There was probably about twenty-five bucks stashed in there. Certainly not
enough to pay off his back rent. But the first thing he'd planned to do when he
got home was get that sucker Clay Huff off his back once and for all.

Homer's
truck vanished in a dusty fog around a bend in the road.
Good riddance.
Daniel turned and walked into town. It was late afternoon and the streets held
little activity. Some stores were boarded up. A few people went in and out of
shops still open in the public square. Most hurried by without nodding or
speaking, though Daniel tipped his cap.

People
didn't trust beggars, and it's exactly what he resembled with the pack, the
banjo, his ragged clothes, and several days' growth of beard. He'd gained about
ten pounds at the Petries'. But his eyes were bloodshot and cheeks sunken. Few
people had work. Those who did were probably embarrassed in the company of a
common tramp.

I'm
not a tramp, I'm a laborer, same as anybody else.

Still,
they passed him by without so much as a "howdy."

He
thought there might be an early fall from the way his right shoulder ached, the
imbedded shrapnel acting like a barometer. He found it almost impossible to
stand upright. His back was out of line and weak from carrying the tools and
burlap bag.

Oddly,
the more he used from his supplies, the heavier the bag seemed to grow. Even
George's banjo added to his misery and caused him to shift it from one shoulder
to the other as he walked. He couldn't bring himself to leave it by the wayside.
The strings could break, as some already had. Yet he wouldn't take a million
bucks for the instrument; as George had predicted, the battered keepsake was
welcome company on the road. What had become of the banjo man? Dead? Someone
coughing his lungs out, starving, and bitter at the government didn't last
long.

Another
winter like last year was out of the question. Daniel had survived it by wit,
but not much wisdom. Almost freezing to death takes a lot out of a man, and
he'd lost more than he realized. Not just physically; something deep inside had
changed.

He'd
walked with his grandmother and his ancient relative. He'd traveled with the
ghosts of Army comrades and the living ghosts of his wife and children. He'd
walked with himself and he'd walked with God from dawn to dusk.

He
had no desire to hang around until Homer returned. By the time the auctioneer
started pitching hogs, baby chicks, ducks, crocheted doilies, hand-painted
pictures, and assorted other items, he'd be long gone.

By
late afternoon his stomach was gnawing on his spine. He hesitated about robbing
his precious cache of coins, but gave in and found a small diner on St. Louis
Street—a street paved with wooden blocks instead of the usual bricks—went
inside and ordered a ham sandwich.

My
last meal for a couple days.

The
waitress watched him eat as she carefully wiped the countertop with a wet
towel. When he'd finished, she took the few cents he offered, opened her mouth
to speak, but he cut her off.

"Much
obliged, ma'am." He shined his glasses on his sleeve, put his cap back on,
and wiped his hand across his mouth. "It's all I can afford."

"But—"

"The
Lord will bless you," Daniel said. "It was a mighty fine sandwich."
He turned to leave.

"Wait!"

He
turned. "Yes?"

"Here."
She hesitated a moment, then dropped some coins in his hand. "It was only
worth half as much."

"Well,
now, I—"

"That
sandwich," she drawled, "it was made from, uh ...
yesterday's
ham, and ... it weren't fresh." She wiped her hands on her apron and
crossed her arms over a flat chest. "I'd be cheating you if'n I said it
was."

He
understood what she was doing.

"I've
ate worse."

She
smiled. "Yep. Bet you have."

"God
bless ya, ma'am."

"Where
you going now? There ain't no work around here. You prob'ly guessed."

"I'm
heading up to Kan' City," Daniel said. "I hear Mr. Pendergast he's
putting men to work."

"Nah.
That crooked old bastard? I doubt it."

 "I
might've heard wrong. But it's worth a try." He turned to go. "I'll
mosey along now, if you don't mind."

"Maybe
you'll get there in time to listen to the World Series."

"I
ain't no baseball fan."

Her
eyes popped open wide. "No baseball fan? C'mon, folks 'round here live for
baseball. Yankees and Cubs. Don't you even like the
Bambino
?"

"Bambino?
Can't say as I know him, ma'am."

She
shook her head and peered at him over her glasses. "Why, he's Mr. Babe
Ruth, of the New York Yankees. The greatest hitter of all time. They call him
the
Sultan of Swat
. Sure you ain't never heard of him?" She
chuckled, still shaking her head. "Can you beat that."

Daniel
smiled. "Come to think of it, maybe I have. I don't pay much
attention."

"Maybe
you should," she said. "When you get where you're going, you oughtta
sit down and listen to the games. You might surprise yourself and get
interested. Gives people something to talk about when they run out of politics
and crooked politicians."

"Yes,
ma'am." Daniel dusted off his cap and put it on. "Well, I'm off to
see the world now. Thanks for your hospitality."

"Y'all
take care now, you hear?"

A
young man in a cook's apron stuck his head out the kitchen door behind her—a
man with pale skin and snow white hair. Daniel had never seen a human albino.
This fellow could walk through a dark alley without a flashlight.

The
man glanced at him momentarily, then spoke to the waitress. "I'm going to
the outhouse for a smoke, Millie. There's no customers—except for this ol'
gent." He nodded toward Daniel.

"This
is my stepson, Glenn," Millie said, turning to Daniel. She gave the
counter another swipe with the rag.

"Pleased
to meet you," Daniel said. "And this here ol' gent's on his way out
the door."

After
leaving the diner, he wandered aimlessly through the public square, near the
city hall and the courthouse. Wherever he went, he heard talk of the World
Series; he was just not interested.

A
pair of railroad tracks divided the city, and streetcar tracks ran through the
major arteries. For a small town, Springfield was well developed with lots of
concrete, brick, and native-stone buildings lining both sides of the streets.
Here and there, a belching smokestack towered over factories and church spires.
Utility poles supported row after row of electrical and telephone wires that
resembled railroad tracks in the sky, tying the streets and blocks together.

Wandering
back toward the stockyards, Daniel ended up at a hobo camp on Commercial
Street. The ragged, unshaven men eyed him furtively as he found a spot away
from the others and lay on the ground with his head on his sack, cradling
George's banjo in his arms.

He
didn't like the idea of carousing with tramps. They unnerved him. He could
always tell who was looking for work and who'd given up long ago. Some were
troublemakers, a dangerous lot. But there was safety in numbers.

Men
in hobo camps often stuck up for one of their own, never mind they might also
rob him first. They had their own codes and symbols, which they sketched on
signs, fences, and buildings. If you understood them you'd get along fine.

HOOO:
Keep going. Police are tough here.

Dot
in circle:
Stay clear. Long jail term if caught.

Cross
in circle:
Religious people, considerate on the whole.

Triangle
with arrows through it:
You'll be shot here.

Large
X:
Not a good place to stop. People are poor.

Upside
down triangle:
Too many hoboes stopping here. The place is ruined.

There
were symbols for unfriendly people and for houses with vicious dogs. Another
for a good place to stop where kind people gave food or money. Daniel had
already met some of those people, and the word around hobo jungles was the
homeless were better fed than some of the other citizens. That may have been
true, but he'd seen an awfully lot of poverty and sickness in the shanty towns.

Drifters
gave each other news they'd heard while traveling and on the radio, when they
were lucky enough to encounter one.

It's
how Daniel had learned of the Pendergast deal, had even gotten the address
where he could apply for work. For the most part, vagrants were concerned about
their own survival. In truth, though some were hoodlums, others were decent
people who'd run out of luck.

Someone
coughed and spat as Daniel closed his eyes and listened to a discussion about
the Cubs and the Yankees.

"Babe
ripped the Chicago Cubs in the press when he stuck up for the shortstop Mark
Koenig." The drifter chuckled. "The Bambino's got a reputation for
saying what he means, and he don't care who knows it."

"Yup,
heard about that deal. Koenig used to be a Yankee before going to the Cubs.
Babe thought the Cubs did the player dirty when they offered him only half a
share of the World Series payoff."

"So'd
everybody else. He was cheated after batting three-fifty-three in thirty-three
games. I don't blame people for getting pissed off."

"Nope,
me neither," said the other man. "That's gratitude, ain't it?"

"Sure
the hell is. He deserved to be rewarded and he got screwed, and Ruth won't let
'em forget it."

"So,
who's gonna win the Series?"

"Who
do you think?"

"Me?
Yankees, of course."

"Nah,
personally, I don't give a damn who wins, just so they play square." After
a minute, the man said, "But the Cubs are going to win, just watch."

"Nope.
Got a feeling in my gut."

"Guts
lie sometimes."

The
men's voices receded to the back of his mind as Daniel fought sleep.
Give
'em one for Frank Kimball. Shine will even root for your team. You be watching
the game, buddy.
He couldn't afford to sleep, but sleep he did.