Face the Winter Naked (29 page)

"I'll
be here," he'd replied. "I mean to give this boy a real home."

Later
that afternoon, he bought new strings for George's banjo and gave Chris his
first lesson.

"Just
play it for me," he said, "or yourself. You don't have to stand on a
street corner playing for a handout."
Wonder what became of the banjo
man.

"When
are we going to your house?" Chris asked one day. "You should have
enough money saved now."

"Yep,
the money's piling up. But I ain't going home just yet. It won't be long,
though."

"Don't
you miss your kids?"

Daniel
turned away, his eyes suddenly brimming. "I miss them sorely."

"Then
why—?"

"You
wouldn't understand."

"But—"

"Just
drop it, Chris."

Chris
picked up the banjo and sat on the bed picking out "Happy Days Are Here
Again."

"Oh
nuts," he said, hitting a wrong note. "Some days are happy for some
people and for some they ain't." He laid the banjo aside and turned
face-down on the bed.

"Hey,
what's the matter?" Daniel asked.

"Nothing."

"Something
is. C'mon, Chris, what is it? Are you homesick?"

"No."

"Couldn't
blame you if you were. I can afford a train ticket to send you back to
Springfield if you want to go."

Chris
raised his head. He wasn't crying, but tears were close.

"Don't
say that!"

"Then
what's wrong? Is it something I said?"

"None
of your business." Chris pulled a pillow over his head.

"Mouthy
little brat, ain't ya?"

"Go
away."

"Yes,
sir,
Christopher Davis
."

"Stop
calling me that!"

Daniel
laughed. "What should I call you—Christopher
Tomelin
?" Chris
flopped over again and hid his face.

Daniel
didn't press the issue. But something was hurting his young friend, and he had
a good idea what it was.

After
work the next day, Daniel saw a doll in a pawnshop window that reminded him of
Catherine. What kind of daddy would hock his daughter's toy? Without
hesitation, he went inside and dickered with the clerk over the price. It was
more than he could spare, so he left and returned later that day and showed the
man his outhouse carving.

"Will
you trade me for this hand-carved walnut privy? I sure would like that doll for
my girl, but I don't have much money."

The
man examined the carving. "Interesting." Then he laughed. "You
shoulda whittled a little brown turd in the bottom of the hole."

"Well,
now, I never thought to."

"Some
folks pay good money for hobo carvings," the clerk said. "What else
you got?"

Daniel
threw in his wooden chain with the swivel on the end and pointed to a small
radio on a shelf behind the counter.

"How
much for that there radio?"

The
clerk shrugged. "That old thing? It's got a busted dial and the plug's got
a short in it. Make me an offer."

Daniel
reached in his bag again. "How about this little lamb? It's even got curly
wool, and that took lots of detail work. I hate to part with it, but if you
want it, your missus could use it in her manger scene next Christmas." He
placed it on the counter and brought out a small bust of Abe Lincoln and a
buffalo nickel. He turned the nickel over. "And here's the Indian head on
the other side of this five-cent piece." He grinned. "Now for sure
you can tell folks not to take any wooden nickels." He waited for the man
to examine the carvings.

"Very
fine work, mister. Reckon you can have the radio if you want it bad enough to
give all your good carvings away." He looked expectantly at Daniel,
waiting for a reason.

The
reason wasn't long coming. "I got a boy who wants to hear the World
Series. Kind of hard to do without a radio, so I thought I'd surprise
him."

"Then
you'd better hurry home, the first game's next Wednesday."

Daniel
left the store a few minutes later, with a doll under one arm, the radio under
the other, while also trying to hang onto the gunnysack slung over one
shoulder.

Chris
let out a whoop when he saw the radio. "Hot dog! Does it work? Can we
listen to the World Series? Oh man, I didn't know you were going to do that."

"Neither
did I," Daniel said, "till I spied it in the pawn shop. It's got a
couple things wrong with it, but I think I can fix them. If I can't, I'm a
no-count fixer-upper."

"Hurry
up so we don't miss the games."

The
next day, Daniel repaired the radio, then he and Chris went shopping at the
pawn shop again. This time, they picked out new belts for Earl's and Bobby's
britches, plus a small cameo brooch for LaDaisy's Sunday dress.

"At
least your kids won't have to wear banjo strings," Chris said. "Your
family's gonna think you swiped these things."

Daniel
chuckled. "Maybe so. But I can't go home empty-handed."

"Peace
offerings," Chris said, and they both laughed.

The
days went by fast. Daniel spent as much time with Chris as he could, always
coming back to the hotel so they could listen to "Amos 'n' Andy."
They'd laugh so hard at Kingfish's antics their bellies hurt and tears rolled
down their faces.

"Gonna
brush our teeth with Pepsodent!"
Chris yelled when the program went off the air.

The
following Wednesday and Thursday, they listened to the first two games of the
World Series, between the New York Yankees and the Chicago Cubs. Static burst
from the radio at times and cut off the broadcast. But Chris was in his glory,
for he'd only heard second-hand accounts of previous games.

Daniel
tried to show interest in the games, but he lacked enough sports knowledge to
understand what was happening. Frequent thoughts of Frankie and the catcher's
mitt intruded. At such times, it would be easy to slip back into the war. But
to his surprise, he hadn't had a real screaming fit in the middle of the night
for several weeks. Whether it was from working so hard that his need for rest
overpowered his memories, he didn't know. Whatever the reason, he was glad not
to fall apart in front of Chris, but he thought telling the boy about his
nightmares on the train had helped him deal with them. They still came, but not
as often. Once, he awakened on the edge of a dream to find Chris watching him
from the other side of the bed.

"I
woke up before the nightmare got started good." He reached out and tousled
Chris's hair. "You can go back to sleep now."

Chris
hadn't felt like sleeping anymore, so they spent the rest of the night talking,
and it kept the nightmares at bay for at least another night. Daniel didn't
know if Chris realized how much comfort he was to have around at such times.
And now it looked like they might make their relationship permanent. He
couldn't tell Chris just yet, but he'd received a letter from the lawyer's
office about setting up a custody hearing. Chris's folks had contacted the
office through the Springfield Police Department, indicating they couldn't
afford to feed their other children, let alone take Chris back. They in fact
welcomed someone taking their "problem" son off their hands.

Daniel
knew he had to find the right time and the right way to let Chris know his
family couldn't take care of him anymore. Chris already knew as much, but it
would still hurt to have it out in the open. There were a few weeks to think it
over, and there was the issue of convincing LaDaisy to take him in. But if
Daniel didn't know anything else, he knew what kind of woman his wife was. She
couldn't be unkind to anyone, especially a homeless boy.

After
the first game, he took the mitt from his sack and handed it to Chris, whose
eyes lit up and mouth dropped open.

"Where'd
you get this?" He turned the glove over and over and slid his small hand
inside.

"It
belonged to my Army buddy, Frank," Daniel said. "His daddy gave it to
me a few months ago. His initials are right there—F.K."

"This
is swell. But why did he give it away? Didn't Frank want it anymore?" He
balled his fist and slammed it in the pocket.

"Frank
died in the war, Chris. He won't be using it anymore."

"Oh."

"When's
your birthday? Maybe the glove's a birthday present from my friend."

Chris
shrugged. "Next month, right after Halloween." He slammed his fist in
the glove again. "You sure? Maybe you should give it to your own
kids."

"Yep,
I'm sure. My boys are still kind of small to wear it."

"Oh
boy, I never had a catcher's mitt before. Now I gotta get a baseball."

"And
grow into the glove," Daniel said, laughing. "I'm glad you like it,
and Frank would want you to have it."

Throughout
the second game of the World Series, Chris pounded his fist into the mitt
whenever a strike was called. When a player caught a fly, he stretched his own
arm up to catch it.

"Whack.
I got it!"

The
radio crackled and squealed as the announcer's voice came on.

...
top
of the ninth
...
here comes the pitch.

More
static cut off the end of the broadcast, but the Yanks were already ahead.

"Did
you hear that, Daniel? The Yanks are winning."

"Don't
be too sure," Daniel said. "There's still two games left."

But
Chris was sure of himself. "They won the first two, so they'll probably
win the others. Wait and see."

Chapter 24

LaDaisy
raced down the dark road with Mary in her arms. Houses along Hereford Street
were far apart and only one house near the end of the block showed signs of
life with lights on and front door open. A radio blared from inside the
middle-aged couple's home as she ran up the front steps and banged on the
screen door.

Ozzie
Jensen came to the door and peered through the screen.

"What
is it?"

"I'm
LaDaisy Tomelin, from down the block. Please, help me!"

He
opened the door and stepped back. "Come on in, Miz Tomelin. What's wrong?
Someone sick?"

"I
can't come in, I need help!" She shivered, and suddenly realized how cool
the night air was. She hugged Mary tightly to keep her warm, and to close the
gap in her torn dress.

Mr.
Jensen flicked on the porch light and came outside in his bare feet.

"You're
about to fall down. What do you need?"

"My
sister—she's at my house—please, someone get Dr. Wilson. I don't have a
phone."

"The
doctor? Is she hurt?"

"No,
she's having a baby. Please help." She shifted Mary to the other shoulder.

"Who
is it, Ozzie?" Lou Jensen appeared at the door, untied her apron and
tossed it on the nearest overstuffed chair. "Why, it's LaDaisy. What's
wrong, honey?"

"Lou,
thank God. My sister's about to deliver her baby at my house. At least I think
she is. I don't know for sure, she seems close." She stopped to get her
breath, and Mary reached up and touched her cheek. She grabbed the cold little hand
and kissed it.

"Oh,
my goodness." Lou came outside. "Ozzie, get to town on the double and
find the doctor. I'll go back with this girl and see what's going on. Hurry. Oh
my God, and put on some shoes. You can't drive barefooted."

Ozzie
stared at Lou a minute, then went inside, returning in a pair of house
slippers.

"Don't
stand there all day, Ozzie, this ain't a ice cream social. Now git."

"Bring
the sheriff," LaDaisy said, "and my mother, Vera Baker. She lives—"

"I
know where she lives," Ozzie said in a
lackadaisical
tone
. "What do you want the sheriff for?"

"I
don't have time to explain. Please hurry. I have to get back."

Ozzie
went around the side of the house. In a few minutes his truck roared to life
and rumbled up the road, headlights shining on the pavement and leaving a trail
of gas fumes.

"Land
sakes, honey," Lou said, "you're shivering. You'll be lucky if you
don't catch your death. Wait here." She went inside and returned with a
sweater for LaDaisy and an afghan to wrap around the baby. She took Mary from LaDaisy's
arms. "I'll carry her. Come to Lou, sweetheart. My goodness, she doesn't
weigh a feather." She turned to LaDaisy as they walked quickly down the
road in the growing darkness. "How far along is your—sister you say?"

"Yes,
my sister, Ida. Her doctor said she's ready any day."

"What's
she doing at your house, if you don't mind my asking?" Lou glanced
sideways at LaDaisy. "Shouldn't she be at the hospital? I'll swear, young
girls don't have a lick of sense anymore when it comes to birthing. Why, I
remember my own laying-in. Couldn't lift a finger for weeks lest I bled to
death."

"I
think she's very close," LaDaisy said. "She walked out here from
town."

"Walked?"

They
turned into the Tomelin driveway.

"It
isn't that far." She stopped to get her breath. "But she shouldn't
have walked it in her condition. Now her water's broke and she's having strong
contractions."
Her husband's dead on my front room floor.

"Dear
me. We'd better hurry."

LaDaisy
dreaded walking into the house. "Just follow me to the bedroom, Lou. Don't
stop to look around, or ask questions. There's been an accident ... there's a
dead body."

An
explanation would come soon enough—after the sheriff came and arrested someone.
She wasn't sure who shot Clay—everything was hazy—but her husband's gun would
have her fingerprints.

After
the shock of seeing Clay in a pool of blood, Lou stayed to help with Mary as LaDaisy
answered question after question from Sheriff Gudgell. The heavyset man walked
around the room making notes, while another officer snapped pictures of the
scene.

LaDaisy
paced the floor, watching the man operate his camera. No piece of furniture nor
mark on the floor escaped close scrutiny. Her entire living room, from the
faded davenport and chairs to the shabby end tables, would be on record at the
police department. Perhaps even printed in the
Examiner
and the
Times
.
Even if she became wealthy in the future, evidence of her current poverty would
be available to anyone who asked. Daniel would hate having his life on display,
and his wife a notorious criminal. She sighed. Daniel wasn't here anymore.

The
cameraman took shots of the victim from all angles and got a close-up of the
busted mandolin on the shelf. He took pictures of LaDaisy in her ripped dress.
When he glanced toward the closed bedroom door, where Ida Mae sprawled on the
bed moaning, LaDaisy caught her breath, thinking he might want a picture of her
sister in labor. She was ready to fly at him and break his camera over his head
if he started in there. But he turned away.

There
was no question about Clay's identity; everyone knew Rufus's nephew.

Leaving
the body to the deputy, the sheriff sat in the rocking chair, pen in hand,
occasionally writing on the pad. "Never had much use for the man myself."
He glanced at the davenport, where Rufus sat in shock staring at Clay's body.
"Beg your pardon, Rufus. I wouldn't wish your nephew harm, but Clay had a
way of bringing out the worst in people." He turned to LaDaisy. "Now,
Mrs. Tomelin, tell me again what happened. From the beginning."

He
nodded toward the kitchen as the bedroom door opened and Lou headed for the
back porch. In a moment, she returned, swinging the white porcelain slop jar in
one hand and a five-gallon pail in the other. She barely glanced their way as
she hurried to the bedroom and shut the door behind her. He'd questioned the
frightened woman when he first arrived, and took her statement as a possible
witness.

"You're
absolutely sure the neighbor lady didn't see what happened? She said she
didn't."

"Mrs.
Jensen told you the truth. She wasn't here when it happened." LaDaisy
sighed. "I've told you a hundred times. Why can't you get anything
straight?"

She
was exhausted and tired of repeating herself.

"No
need to get testy," he said. "I'm just doing my job before the
medical examiner and the ambulance come to collect the body." Rufus
stirred uncomfortably on the davenport. "I mean before he takes Mr. Huff
to the police morgue."

LaDaisy
glanced at her stepfather, saw pain and disbelief on Rufus's face. His heavy
jowls were soaked with sweat, as were the underarms of his pinstriped dress
shirt. She had no feeling for Clay, but his uncle had done her no harm.
Besides, anyone who could put up with Vera without pasting a strip of adhesive
tape across her mouth deserved a medal. Clay was Rufus's late sister's only
child, a son he'd always wanted but never had.

Rufus
returned her look, his head sagging lower on his chest. He closed his eyes as LaDaisy
mouthed:
I'm sorry, Rufus, but the son-of-a-bitch deserved what he got.

Sheriff
Gudgell tried again. "I have to make sure your statement's correct, Mrs.
Tomelin. Bear with me. Start from the beginning and tell me everything. Why was
Mr. Huff here?"

"He's
my landlord. He had a right to be here."

"That's
true." He made a note on his pad. "But not every landlord deserves to
be shot." He smiled at her, then glanced at the closed bedroom door when
Ida Mae screamed. "Damn, that's nerve-wracking. What's Mrs. Huff doing
here anyway?"

"What
does it look like she's doing?" LaDaisy snapped.

He
shook his head. "I know you're upset. But I have to find out what
happened. You say you shot him?"

"I
guess so. I must have."

"You
must
have? Don't you know? Why did you shoot him? Where's the gun?"

"It—it's
in my closet, I'll get it."

She
started for the bedroom, but he stopped her.

"In
a minute."

He
tried to see past Vera as she came out of the bedroom and left the door ajar,
her mouth a grim line in her pale face.

"I'll
tell the sheriff what happened."

"You
weren't here," LaDaisy said. "How could you know anything?"

"Be
quiet, LaDaisy. Ida Mae followed Clay here. You know perfectly well. She didn't
believe what you told us that day, that he—" She spoke to Rufus. "I'm
sorry, Rufus. I don't want to say this. I'd give anything not to have to say
this."

Rufus
stood and put his arm around his wife.

"Whatever
it is, say it."

Gudgell
watched the scene with interest, now and then jotting down notes. He looked
from one to the other, from LaDaisy to Rufus to Vera. Once he glanced down at
Clay's stiffening corpse on the floor.

Ida
screamed again and everyone turned to the bedroom.

"She's
okay," Vera said. "Dr. Wilson will give her a whiff of chloroform.
It'll help her relax. The poor dear's worn out, and she's terrified."

"Her
screaming's driving me crazy," LaDaisy said.

"You'd
better sit down," Vera said. "You don't look well. All we need is you
passing out on us."

"Yes."
Rufus turned loose of Vera's arm and guided his stepdaughter to the davenport.

"Oh
dear, this is so horrible!" Vera turned to Sheriff Gudgell. "I can't
bear to look at him. When are you going to—to take Clay out of here? There are
little children who live here. "

"I'm
aware of that," came the reply. "But they aren't here at the moment.
I just need to get a few more details."

"The
kids are at Bernie's," LaDaisy said. "She won't bring them till I say
to." She turned back to the sheriff. "I'll say it again. I shot Mr.
Huff. I shot him with my husband's shotgun. I can get it for you from the
closet."

"You're
mighty calm for someone who claims she just killed a man." He frowned.
"By the way, you might want to get a lawyer before you say too much."

"A
lawyer?" LaDaisy's face turned ashen. "Am—am I going to jail?"

"Depends.
Why did you put the gun in the closet?"

"From
habit. Daniel—my husband—he kept it locked up so the kids couldn't get
it." She glanced around at everyone. "It wasn't murder, it was
self-defense. Does anyone believe me?"

The
sheriff nodded. "He's gone now, I believe."

"Who?"
LaDaisy looked around. The officer with the camera was now collecting
fingerprints.

"I
meant your husband's gone."

"Yes,
yes he is."

"Where
is he?"

"How
should I know? He just disappeared one day."

"If
he kept the gun locked up, why did you have it out?"

"I—I
told you, for protection."

"You
carry a loaded weapon around just in case someone breaks in?"

"Yes,
I mean no, I—"

"What
do you mean? Are you confused and don't know what happened?"

LaDaisy's
head throbbed. "I'm not confused. You're putting words in my mouth. But—"

Lou
appeared in the bedroom doorway with Mary.

"She
wants her mother."

Lou
handed the child to LaDaisy, and the deputy came over and spoke to the sheriff.

"Now
then," Sheriff Gudgell said. "Uh, I hate to say this when you've got
a little one to look after, Mrs. Tomelin. But I'll have to take you to police
headquarters for more questioning. It's standard procedure in homicide cases.
You'll have to unlock the closet so I can examine the weapon."

Vera
went white as a ghost, and when Ida Mae called out, she hurried back to the bedroom.

"Homicide?"
LaDaisy whispered.

"For
now," he said. "We don't know if it's murder."

"Yes,
I shot him. I'm glad he's dead—" She glanced at Rufus. "But it wasn't
murder."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
shot him in self-defense. That's what Mama was going to tell you. He—he
attacked me, tore my dress. I—I hit him with Daniel's mandolin." She
indicated the broken instrument on the shelf.

"Then
what? On second thought, maybe you better wait till you get a lawyer."

"I
don't need any damn lawyer. Clay molested me. He violated my body several times
this summer." Her words flew out, as though by speaking too slowly, she'd
never be able to tell the story. "I knew he'd come again, to collect the
rent." She met the sheriff's eyes, then Rufus's. Such pain on her stepfather's
face. "I'm so sorry, Rufus. Clay said I had to pay the rent with my —my
body, and—" Rufus sat again, leaned back and threw an arm over his face.