Face the Winter Naked

Daniel
Tomelin, a battle-worn vet haunted by the carnage of World War 1, abandons his
family in the Great Depression and goes on the road in search of relief from his
horrific nightmares, and returns to find his family has become victims of
violence.  A novel set in a tragic era when hope was sometimes all they had.

FACE THE WINTER NAKED

A Novel of the Great Depression

By Bonnie Turner

In loving memory of my dad,

Sharon Earl Thomas

"We in America today are nearer to the final
triumph over poverty than ever

before in the history of any land. The poorhouse is
vanishing from among us."

Herbert Hoover, accepting the Republican presidential
nomination.

Palo Alto, California, August 1928

Chapter 1

May, 1932

The
walk across town in the merciless heat was more than he'd bargained for. He
hoped he didn't stink, but the way his shirt was sticking to his back, he
figured it was already too late. But smelly clothes were the least of his
worries. How would these people feel meeting a man who watched their son die?
He wouldn't blame them for running him off the premises.

He
set his gunnysack on the front porch, adjusted his tools, and straightened his
overalls. Removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his scalp. He hesitated a
moment, then picked up the brass knocker.

An
older gentleman opened the door, and the resemblance was startling. He
recognized every detail of this man's features—how could he forget, when
Frankie's face was permanently burned in his memory?

"Yes?"

"Good
afternoon, sir. My name's Daniel. I'm looking for the family of my Army friend
Frankie Kimball." He fished a scrap of paper from his pocket and checked
the house number again. "It's the address they gave me at the gas
station."

The
man stared at Daniel a moment, then came out on the porch and shook his hand.

"Yes,
I'm Frankie's dad. You took me by surprise—it's been thirteen years. Please
come in, Mr.—?"

"Tomelin.
But you can call me Daniel. I'd be much obliged if you could give this ol' bum
a drink of water." He looked down at his feet. "I must look like
something the cat buried in the petunias. If you want, I'll go 'round back so I
won't track up your floors."

"You're
a welcome guest in this house," Kimball said, "not a servant. My son
wouldn't turn you away and neither will I." He smiled. "Besides,
floors can be cleaned."

"I
wouldn't blame you none for not trusting a stranger," Daniel said.
"But I'll be glad to come in and sit. That walk darn near wore me
out."

He
wiped his shoes on the mat and followed Mr. Kimball into a parlor with
furniture too nice to sit on in sweaty overalls.

"Please
have a seat, Daniel. I'll tell my wife you're here."

Daniel
hesitated, then sat cautiously on the edge of an overstuffed chair near a large
stone fireplace, crushing his cap in his hands.
So this is where Frankie
lived.
He looked around the room at the various artifacts and photos,
feeling embarrassed in surroundings far beyond his means. His glance swept
across the top of the mantel and came to rest on an eight-by-ten-inch
photograph in a gold frame.

It
was Frankie, all decked out in his uniform, his service hat placed squarely
above his brows. When his eyes met those of his friend, Frankie smiled, and the
memories came back.

The
trenches. The mud. Everybody hated the mud. They ate in it, waded in it, slept
in it. The weary horses struggled through mud axle-deep to deliver rations to
the front lines. The noise. Earsplitting blasts echoing in your skull long
after they stopped. Shells bursting overhead, sending his pals and himself
flying for cover. Frank bleeding, crying, begging. Daniel cradling his friend's
head in his arms, weeping onto a face filled with the terror of dying.

"T-tell
my mother I—"

He
thought he knew what Frank's unfinished words were.

The
glass over the print clouded and blurred Frank's don't-give-a-damn expression.

"Mr.
Tomelin?"

A
soft voice and a hand on his shoulder. He blinked back tears and looked up into
a woman's gentle face.

"I—I'm
sorry, ma'am." He removed his glasses and dried his eyes with his cap.
"Something just came over me."

"It's
quite all right." She handed him a glass of water and stepped away from
him. "I'm Frank's mother."

Daniel
nodded and pulled himself together. "Thank you kindly. I mostly travel in
the evening when it ain't so hot. This'll wet my whistle just fine." He drank
the cold water straight down, handed her the empty glass, and wiped his mouth
with his shirtsleeve.

She
gave Mr. Kimball a weary look and took a seat across from Daniel.

"My
husband tells me you fought with our son in the war." She smiled.
"It's all right to talk about now. Enough time has gone by that ..."

"Yes
ma'am, side-by-side. We called him
Frankie the Yankee
." Daniel
sensed Frank's lingering vibrations in his childhood home. Here, in this room.
He felt a chill go through him, along with an urge to blurt out his feelings,
but caught himself in time.

"Frank
mentioned the nickname in one of his letters," Mr. Kimball said. "You
must be
Shine
."

A
sheepish grin crossed Daniel's face as he ran a hand over his slick bald head.
"Yes sir, but only my war buddies called me that."

Mrs.
Kimball rose. "Come out to the kitchen. You've probably come a long way.
The least we can do is offer you some lunch."

"Well,
yes, I've been all over the country. But I didn't come for food, ma'am, just to
meet Frank's folks he talked so much about." He grinned. "It was
either you or baseball. We couldn't get him to shut up. He talked about the
Boston Red Sox and Babe Ruth." He shrugged. "I'm not much for the
game myself."

"Ah
yes," Mr. Kimball said. "The
'Babe,'
a great pitcher and a hard hitter. My son and I saw Ruth's first World Series
game right before Frank joined the Army. It's too bad he didn't live to see his
hero become a legend."

"That
day at the ballpark was special for your son, Mr. Kimball. He never
forgot."

"Did
he tell you he put away six hotdogs? And popcorn, peanuts, and too much to
drink."

"Is
that right? That sounds like Frankie. Of course, he was a only a teenager and
still growing."
He stopped growing on the battlefield.

Mrs.
Kimball seemed more withdrawn and formal than her husband. Daniel thought she
might be uncomfortable with a man in her parlor who looked like a tramp and no
doubt smelled like a goat. It was too late now to do anything about his
appearance.

"It
seems like yesterday our boy went to war." She nodded at her husband.
"We were so proud of him—I framed his medals and hung them over his
bed."

"Yes
ma'am. Frankie would like that." He fiddled with his cap. "But the
reason I came, I told myself I was going to find the families of my buddies who
were lost in the war. I always meant to, but the years flew by and I had other
responsibilities."

"What
a wonderful idea. Did you find them?" She motioned for him to follow.

"Nope.
Just you folks and another family. Two others had moved. Nobody seen hide nor hair
of them."

"So
many are suffering from the Depression," she said. "Families breaking
up, people dying."

Daniel
spoke as he followed the couple through the house, mindful his shoes might be
tracking up the rugs.

"I
found Big Woody's family in Tennessee."

They
passed through the dining room arch into a large sunny kitchen with pots of red
geraniums on the windowsill. She pulled out a chair for him and began preparing
a meal.

"Where
did you say you're from?" Mr. Kimball asked.

"Independence,
Missouri." Daniel hung his cap on the back of the chair and sat down.

"So
that's where your accent comes from. The 'Show Me' state."

"You
been there? Guess my accent's pretty sad, ain't it?"

"Not
at all." Kimball glanced around as his wife came over with plates and
napkins and dishes of food. "Ah, here we go. Now don't be shy, Daniel,
just help yourself," he continued. "I visited Missouri years ago. One
day I got an urge to see where the Santa Fe trail started."

"Is
that right?"

Mrs.
Kimball took a seat and graciously passed him a bowl of chicken salad.

"Tell
us about your family, Mr. Tomelin—Daniel. Don't mind if I pry." She handed
him a basket of hard rolls covered with a white cloth napkin, and uncovered a
crystal butter dish.

"I
have a dear wife and three youngins," he said. "A sweet little girl
and two ornery boys that take after their daddy."

It
was cooler in the house. He wished he could unbutton his shirt and roll his
long sleeves back up, but he dared not. He was the surprise guest of his
friend's parents. He could play the gentleman if he had to, albeit a gentleman
dressed in overalls, dusty worn-out shoes, and sweat running down his sides.
Again, he wondered if he smelled too ripe.
I should've found a place to
clean up before coming here.

He
spread his napkin on his lap and tried to remember his manners, so they
wouldn't suspect he was on the edge of starvation. He helped himself to a slice
of ham and a generous serving of green beans with bacon. The food smelled so
good, he wanted to lay his face in the plate and inhale every morsel. But he
laid his knife and fork down between bites and chewed his food thoroughly
before swallowing. It wouldn't do to eat like a pig and insult these fine
people. But my goodness, his poor stomach was groaning to beat the band.

Mr.
Kimball eyed Daniel's tools.

"I
assume you're away from home on business. Not everyone carries carpenters'
tools when they travel."

Mrs.
Kimball agreed. "Yes, please tell us. You must be lonely away from your
family."

Daniel
compared the Kimballs with Woody's family, who had seemed to resent hearing about
their son. They were in dire straits, but there wasn't anything he could do
about that.

He
became aware of Mrs. Kimball speaking.

"Beg
pardon?"

"You
were far away. I asked about your family. Maybe you'd rather not talk about
them."

He
told them his story, because to not tell them wouldn't be fair. Yes, he'd left
his family to look for carpenter work, traveling by foot, freight, and
mule-drawn cart. At the same time, it had seemed a good plan to look up the families.

But
the nightmares? No, he couldn't talk about those—it was bad enough he'd
deserted his loved ones in time of need. His life had become a jigsaw puzzle he
couldn't fit together. How could he explain it to anyone till he figured it out
himself?

"Where
will you go next?" Mrs. Kimball raised a brow.

How
could he go back and face his wife, his children, or his own father, for that
matter, without a job?

His
hostess waited for an answer, which wasn't long coming.

"I
heard about a cash bonus the government set aside to reward us veterans for our
service," Daniel said. "But we can't collect it until 1945."

"Why
on earth? It seems to me they'd give it to those poor wretches when they need
it most. This makes me furious!" She turned to her husband, who nodded in
agreement. "The veterans earned that money, some with their lives."

Daniel
wiped his mouth and placed the crumpled napkin by his plate.

"That's
what others are thinking, too. Some are going to march to Washington, D.C., and
ask for their money early. Maybe I'll go along. It can't hurt."

"I
should say not," she replied.

Mr.
Kimball rose and motioned for Daniel to follow, and when they got to the
parlor, he stopped before Frankie's photograph. He brought it down, polished
the glass on his shirt, and replaced it exactly as before.

"We
tried talking him out of enlisting, but his friends had gone and he didn't want
to be left behind. I only hope he didn't die without a purpose."

Daniel
bowed his head. "Frankie served his country well, Mr. Kimball. His was a noble
purpose." He glanced up as Mrs. Kimball came in and stood beside him. "What
I came to say, Mr. and Mrs. Kimball, is that your son told me with his last
breath that he loves you."

The
woman's voice caught. "Oh—and was he, I mean, did he suffer? Please,
Daniel, we have to know."

"Frankie
was brave, Mrs. Kimball. He passed on while I held him, and there was peace on
his face."

He
looked at Kimball, who stared at his son's image without speaking. If he'd been
to war himself, he would've known the bravery part was a lie, and just dying in
someone's arms was a luxury few soldiers experienced.

Mrs.
Kimball took both of Daniel's hands in hers, gripping them tightly, weeping.

"God
bless you for coming." She gave his hands a little shake before releasing
them. "Don't leave until I pack some food for your trip to
Washington."

"Aw
shucks, ma'am, the food I just ate was plenty."

She
smiled through her tears. "Oh, I so want to do this, if you'll allow
me."

Mr.
Kimball excused himself and went up a wide flight of stairs off the foyer,
returning shortly with a well-worn catcher's mitt.

"This
belonged to Frank. He burned his initials in the leather, see? F.K." He
handed the mitt to Daniel.