Face the Winter Naked (19 page)

Remembering
the laundry basket, she went back outside and found it upside down next to the
cistern, which had gone unused until she could no longer afford city water.
Clothes were strewn all over the yard. Catherine's bloomers hung from the lilac
bush by the front porch. Earl's overalls, socks, and underwear were likewise
draped over bushes and other places no clothes should be.

She
stooped over and picked up her brassiere and slip. Looking around, she found a
few of Mary's diapers. Gathering what she could, she glanced once more at Saul
before going back inside. The sight of him rocking on a porch without a house
was too much to bear.

Chapter 13

Daniel
worked in the fields with Homer through the rest of July and halfway through
August. He loved the smell of dirt, freshly dug potatoes, even the barnyard
manure Homer spread on the fields. Something about country living made him realize
he was only a mortal after all. The Lord had breathed dust in his nostrils,
fashioned him of clay, and trapped his soul in a boney, skin-covered cage.
Apparently, he was required to remain in this state and work with his hands,
rearranging the elements until his time expired.

Sometimes
while walking, before arriving at Homer's, his mind had fogged over. His body
had seemed to shed layer after layer of flesh, like peeling away the papery
skins of an onion until nothing was left. At such times, he was no longer
conscious of physical sensations. This invisible body had a dreamlike quality
as he floated mindlessly over the countryside. When consciousness returned, he
found he'd covered many miles. What caused him to sleepwalk so far without
bumping into something?

He
harvested new potatoes before the vines died. Serviced the machinery. Assured
all chains, conveyor links, deflectors, and sharp edges were padded enough to
protect the tubers. He adjusted the digger-blade height so the potatoes
wouldn't hit the front of the primary chain.

Wearing
one of Homer's old straw hats, he operated the potato harvester as he had one
summer visiting his Uncle Tim's farm. Thirteen at the time, he'd felt high and
mighty riding through the dusty fields as though he owned them. Familiar with
how the machine worked, he now maintained a proper forward speed to ensure good
soil separation and keep the conveyors full of potatoes. He checked frequently
to be sure the tubers dropped no more than six inches to prevent bruising and black
spots in storage.

The
men worked through the hottest days and sometimes didn't quit until twilight.
Time passed slowly under the burning solar rays. The sun bronzed Daniel's skin
and toughened it like buffalo hide. Though his cheeks were still hollow, good
country cooking had added extra pounds to his lean frame. The calluses and
blisters healed inside the Army boots Homer provided. Despite the heat and long
workdays, life was easier than it had been for months.

Not
a drop of rain fell until after the potatoes were dug, bagged, and ready for
market. Then the clouds burst and drenched the fields with pure, cool water for
three hours straight.

After
a supper of creamed peas, new potatoes, and Elta's Dutch apple pie, Daniel sat
on the front porch with a tall glass of iced tea, letting the falling rain
clear his mind as evening came.

Elta
had seen the rain coming and moved her potted begonias and geraniums from the
porch railing to the ground. This woman had a love for flowers, and he was
especially drawn to the peony bushes beside the driveway.

As
raindrops splashed the foliage, he thought of LaDaisy. At one time his wife's
garden had also been a showplace with a variety of flowering shrubs and other
plants: Rose of Sharon, bridal wreath, lilac, columbines, and great bushes of
crimson peonies, their satiny petals shining in the sunlight. Autumn mums
bloomed in the fall after other blossoms faded. There had always been color of
some kind through the entire year. Even gray and brown limbs and red berries
for birds and rabbits looked beautiful against wintry skies and a backdrop of
snow. As with life itself, the winter season was not a simple black and white
picture.

Daniel's
senses heightened as the familiar fragrances came back to him, as though he
were standing in the middle of his own yard.

The
large oval dirt patch underneath the tire swing was the only spot in town where
nothing grew except his children. With God's good earth smeared on their hands
and faces, they thrived without a care in the world. The Lord knew what he was
doing when he created children and mud.

But LaDaisy
had lost interest in her plants when unemployment hit and they couldn't afford
the twelve-dollars and fifty cents monthly rent on their home.

Still,
the red peonies thrived. Each spring, big black ants crawled on the buds,
sucking out the juice and helping the blossoms unfold.

On
his last Memorial Day at home, he'd cut a bouquet of peonies covered with beads
of morning dew and walked to the cemetery before sunrise, while LaDaisy was
still asleep. He'd arranged the flowers in a fruit jar full of water and placed
them on Wayne's grave, then bowed his head.

Little
did his wife know when he sometimes left the house at dawn to watch the
sunrise, he often visited their firstborn. This time, he'd leaned down with
teary eyes and sniffed the delicate peony scent one last time.

His
mind had already been made up to leave. In the process, he'd become a man
worthy of a son by his own name. If not, he'd know the reason why.

Elta's
peonies had lost their blooms months ago, as she lost her own day by day.

Sometimes,
sitting there on Homer's porch, Daniel took out his whittling tools—the
sharpened crochet hook and penknife—and carved delicate figurines of Moses or
curly lambs for Elta's buffet.

He'd
taken to strumming the banjo while the couple were inside huddled next to the
radio. This time of year, they discussed the World Series. He never intruded on
their private lives, but sometimes he heard what the announcers were saying.
Then he'd stop fiddling with the banjo and listen. Though he hadn't much
interest in sports, he learned a lot about baseball this way. When there wasn't
a game, they turned to politics.

Daniel
listened to Mr. Roosevelt's promises to the people. The citizens of America
were full of fear and doubt. But many considered Franklin and Eleanor saviors
who would end their struggles after November's election. He thought he might
vote for Mr. Roosevelt. When the time came, he'd make it a point to be near a
polling place in his county seat.

"He's
a good man," Homer said one evening.

"That's
the talk I heard up by St. Louis," Daniel replied. "Some folks act
like Mr. Roosevelt's God and the answer to their prayers." He paused.
"Some don't, of course."

Homer
sat on the porch steps and listened to Daniel's strumming. "Nobody has any
use for Hoover, it's for sure."

"A
chicken in our pots every Sunday," Daniel said. "But some of us don't
have a pot."

"I've
got a pot, but it's always empty."

Daniel
chuckled. "You need a rainbow with two pots of gold coins, one at each
end."

Homer
rose to go back inside. "You'd beat me to it."

"I
ain't found one so far," Daniel said.

Daniel's
wanderlust over the past year had taken him all over the country and brought
him back to his home state. Sooner or later, he'd have to pack up and head back
north.

He
heard the lonesome train whistle now and got up to stretch. Picking up the
banjo, he let himself in the house and went quietly up the narrow stairs to his
room. He turned on the overhead light, removed his purse from the top dresser
drawer and poured the coins out on the bed.
A small fortune? Well, maybe
not.

He
sat on the bed and separated nickels, dimes, and quarters, stacking them one on
top of the other. There were actually more than he'd thought there would be.
But it wasn't enough.

Homer
had already paid him for July's harvest. He'd handed Daniel one dollar and
eighty cents for almost a month of hard work in the sun. Daniel had expected
more. How much more, he didn't know. But this small amount wouldn't go far.
Still, how could he complain? He'd been fed and given a roof over his head. A
soft, clean bed for his weary bones. Privacy for praying on his knees beside
the bed. A pair of boots, though a little too big. He didn't know how they'd be
for walking—even with two pairs of socks, he might still get blisters.

Over
the ocean he came. Despite the dangers, he traveled to a new country without
fear in his breast.

Susannah's
voice. A strong woman teaching from her grave.

When
Homer had handed him the money, he'd said, "I held out the Lord's tithe,
as I always do with hired help. One-tenth of what you earned."

"But—"
Daniel stared at the coins in his open palm. "Well, I—"

"Elta
and I taught our sons to give back to the Lord from the money they earn."

Daniel
felt hot tears starting behind his eyes.
I ain't your son, dammit.

"I
didn't earn much over the past year," he said. "So I reckon one-tenth
of nothing comes out to nothing." There wasn't a damn thing he could do
but accept the meager wages for his back-breaking labor.
These are good
people. But even good folks can rob you blind.

Homer
promised that after the trip to town tomorrow, he'd pay him the rest of his
earnings.

And
then?

The
dog days of August were behind them. Labor Day arrived with a parade through
the public square. Summer vacation was over. Children traded bare feet for
stiff new shoes and—if their parents or guardians could afford them—Big Chief
tablets, yellow pencils, Crayolas, and paint boxes.

Nights
were becoming cooler. Daniel had no desire to spend another winter sleeping in
haylofts or hunched down around a hobo's campfire trying to keep warm in
clothes growing more ragged by the day. He itched to move on, pulled by an
unknown force to hit the trail again and go home. This was a good time to
travel; gone was the misery of summer heat, not yet too cold at night to sleep
outdoors.

Before
turning in for the night, he stashed his tools and personal items in the
gunnysack. His old shoes with new cardboard insoles. Frankie's catchers' mitt.

He
dusted off his battered flat cap, slapping it sharply on his thigh, then laid
it at the foot of the bed by his overalls. The boots he lined up side by side
on the floor by the bed.

From
the picture over the dresser, Jesus winked. Or so it appeared through the mist
in Daniel's eyes.

In
the morning, he'd hitch a ride to Springfield in the back of Homer's truck—Elta
would want to go along to shop or gawk at the other ladies. But after Homer
paid him the rest of his wages—minus the tithe—Daniel Tomelin would find a
train going north.

Chapter
14

Clay
wasn't happy with the tornado damage to Saul's place, but if he could've, he
would probably have blamed the disaster on his tenant. While it was true he
hadn't charged the old man rent after buying the property—the little house had
better care when someone lived in it—he was at least responsible for cleaning
up the mess. Days passed, and he ignored the situation after his first
inspection.

LaDaisy
and the kids helped Saul collect whatever personal items they found scattered
through the yard: bedding, clothes, dishes, pictures, and other keepsakes.
Daytime found him rocking on a porch with no house attached. It was a pathetic
sight. Try as she would, she couldn't get him to come inside until nightfall.

The
Sunday following the storm, LaDaisy dabbed rouge on her cheeks and applied red
lipstick. She finger-waved her hair and put on a clingy summer dress with a
flounce that fell below her knees, then a wide-brimmed hat and sensible shoes.
She walked her family to the church six blocks away, pulling Earl's beat-up
wagon with Bobby and Mary tucked safely inside. Saul kept pace with her,
looking spruced up in a clean shirt with his overalls starched and ironed.

The
squeak-squeak of the rusty axles drew curious glances. Worshipers nodded as they
neared the building. She hoped nobody noticed the runs in her stockings, but
she couldn't bring herself to step inside the church bare-legged. It was bad
enough to be poor without also insulting the Lord.

She
parked the wagon by the church steps and dropped Mary off at the nursery. Her
small group sat in the second row of pews from the front, with Saul at one end
and herself at the other, bookends for the three children wedged between them.

Piano
music played softly as the Reverend Pitney crossed the dais and took a chair
next to Deacon Hartwick and Elder Snow. He sat with his hands folded in his
lap, a dreamy expression on his face as a few stragglers came in and sat down.
Then the soloist rose and sang in a voice Daniel had called
opera screech
.

"Amazing
grace, how sweeeet the sound

That
saved a witch like meeee."

The
congregation shifted restlessly in their seats, the heat and humidity already
causing discomfort as they flipped pages in their hymnals or fanned their faces
with cardboard fans attached to sticks, and which were imprinted on one side
with a picture of the Good Shepherd and the other an ad for Carson's Funeral
Home.

LaDaisy
spied a familiar face across the room—Daniel's sister Bernadine. They made eye
contact. Bernie smiled, and LaDaisy made a mental note to say hello when the
service was over.

Catherine
squirmed and whined. "Mama, I'm too hot, can we go home now?"

LaDaisy
silenced her daughter with a look and pointed to the altar as the singing
stopped and the minister rose.

"Let
us pray," came Brother Pitney's nasal southern drawl, and the congregation
bowed its collective head.

"O
sweet JESUS. We thank you for this beautiful MORNING. For the OPPORTUNITY to
come TOGETHER in your HOUSE of worship. To sing the PRAISES of the Lord. PRAISE
GOD."

When
the prayer ended, murmurs of "Amen," "Sweet Jesus,"
"Save this sinner, Lord," and one loud "Earl kicked me!"
filled the church.

LaDaisy
ignored the child and raised her head as offertory music floated into the heads
of the worshipers. She opened her purse and counted pennies for her children's
offering. Into Earl's palm she dropped three cents. She gave two cents to
Catherine and one penny to Bobby.

"Hold
it tight," she whispered. "When the plate comes by just drop it
in." She gave Earl a warning glance. "Don't take any out this time,
okay?" The boy rolled his eyes.

Bobby
tugged on her arm. "More pennies, Mama!"

"Shhh."

"Praise
the Lord," said Brother Pitney with a toothy smile. "More pennies,
Mama!"

She
wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

"Earl
gots more!"

Bobby's
loud voice caused heads to turn. People stared and fanned their smirking faces.
It was always this way when she brought her noisy children to church. Just once
she'd like to sit peacefully and enjoy a sermon without becoming the laughingstock
of Independence. She leaned over and whispered in Bobby's ear.

"Earl's
older
than you are. Now hush up." Heat crept into her cheeks as she
looked apologetically at the people around her. She reached past the children
and handed Saul a nickel.

When
the offering plate came to their row, Deacon Hartwick held it down for each
child. LaDaisy added her own five cents.

The
congregation was now a sea of waving fans, rustling hymnals and programs in
stifling air reeking of sweat and lavender toilet water. Across the aisle sat Vera
and Rufus—Vera probably gritting her teeth at her grandchildren's antics.
Beside them in the pew, were Ida Mae and Clay Huff.

Clay's
presence was disconcerting. LaDaisy resented his intrusion in her place of
worship. He didn't belong there, even if he was the vilest of sinners. If the
church members knew he'd raped his sister-in-law, they might've ended his
hypocritical appearances once and for all. Clay was the perfect candidate for
fire and brimstone.

She
appraised her sister as the congregation rose for the final hymn.

"Abide
with me; fast falls the eventide.

The
darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide."

Bloated
and swollen, the thought of giving birth for the first time must've been
agonizing for Ida. But LaDaisy knew from experience the pain her sister
suffered in labor would be forgotten the moment her newborn was placed in her
arms. Like tooth extractions, memories of a painful childbirth faded with time.
Otherwise, no woman would have a second child.

"When
other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help
of the helpless, oh, abide with meeeee."

Fans
and hymnals were quickly stashed in the racks behind the pews. The music
followed them from the church as people rushed outdoors, where a stiff breeze
cooled their bodies. Men loosened their ties and children lost their Sunday
school papers, dropping them on the ground for the wind to carry away. Saul
went outdoors while LaDaisy collected Mary from the nursery.

"Through
cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with me."

LaDaisy
waved at her mother and sister, then hoisted Mary to her shoulder and grabbed
Bobby's hand. She handed her purse to Cath. "You can carry my pocketbook,
little miss, my hands are full." With barely a nod at Brother Pitney
shaking hands in the vestibule, she led the kids down the church steps to where
Saul waited on the front walk with the wagon. She'd talk to her family when
Clay wasn't around. They didn't seem to notice her subtle snub as they climbed
in their autos and drove off.

The
air refreshed her face and the wind fluttered the hem of her dress. Her dark,
sweaty stockings clung to her legs. The first thing she'd do when she got home
would be to roll down the tight garters and take the damn things off.

"LaDaisy,
wait."

She
turned to see Bernie waving and waited for her to catch up.

Bernie
caught her breath. "Do you have a minute?"

"I
was going to say hello, but you seemed busy."

"Yes,
someone cornered me." Bernie lay a hand on her sister-in-law's arm.
"I wanted to ask about Dad. What a terrible thing to happen to you, LaDaisy.
The storm, Dad losing his little house." She glanced up the path where
Saul and the children waited. "You were lucky the funnel missed
yours."

LaDaisy
nodded. "I thank God every day for the storm cellar, Bernie. If not for
the moldy old crypt, maybe none of us would be alive."

"Have
you heard from Daniel?"

"Not
a word."

Bernie
pulled a hatpin from her summer straw hat and took it off, shaking her thick
wavy hair loose. "I don't know what to make of it," she said.
"My brother's a strange bird—I'm the first to admit. But even birds fly
back to their nests at some point."

"I
haven't given up on him yet, Bernie. I don't know what happened, but I have a
feeling he'll be back in his own good time." She paused. "We miss
him."

Bernie
stroked Mary's cheek with a finger. "She's so precious. May I hold
her?"

She
took the drowsy baby and kissed the top of her head. "Such a sweetheart. I
saw the cutest baby dress at Knoepker's the other day. Just perfect for
Mary." She turned to LaDaisy again. "If there's anything I can do
till my wayfaring brother returns, just let me know—oh, I don't know why I used
that word. Wayfaring? But I have a strange feeling that wherever he is, he's
traveling by foot. How odd." Bernie rocked Mary in her arms. "I'd be
happy to watch this one if you need a break, so don't hesitate to ask."

LaDaisy
debated whether to tell Bernie about the letter and war mementos she'd found
among Daniel's belongings. The two women walked slowly up the walk toward Saul
and the children.

"I
found some papers and things Daniel hadn't told me about, Bernie."

"Oh?"

"War
papers and medals—did you know he was wounded in the war?"

Bernie
shook her head. "Well, I did know. But he wanted to forget, so I never
pressed. Some things need to stay private, know what I mean?"

"I
do, yes."

"Then
you understand why he didn't tell you."

"I'm
his wife. Surely—"

"Of
course you are, dear. But did it occur to you my brother's war experience may
have been too painful to talk about, even to you?"

"I
keep thinking it might have something to do with him leaving—or his nightmares.
Did you know Daniel had terrible nightmares?"

"Why,
no, I didn't."

"They
got really bad before he left. Used to wake him, and he couldn't get back to
sleep. But he wouldn't talk about them. And they made him crabby and
short-tempered with me and the kids." She sighed. "Maybe they got to
be too much and he just took off."

"It's
certainly possible," Bernie replied. "Trying to outrun his
nightmares?" She paused. "He ran away once before, when he was
fourteen."

LaDaisy
came to attention. "Oh? He never mentioned it, Bernie. How long was he
gone, where did he go?"

"He
was gone for three days, but he never told us where he went."

"Strange.
Did he say why?"

Bernie
nodded. "It was because of Mother. Maybe you know she was very sick for a
long time before she died. That year was worse than most."

"A
shame." LaDaisy recalled Martha's last letter to her son.

"Yes,
and I think Daniel couldn't handle it anymore. He needed to be alone."

"He's
too sensitive for his own good. He gets emotional about the least thing."

"He's
always been tenderhearted, LaDaisy. But we'll just have to wait till he comes
home and tells us himself. I wish he was here now. He'd be such a comfort to
you after what you just went through."

You
don't know the half of it, Bernie.

"Which
brings me to what I was going to ask you." Bernie looked past LaDaisy to
her father. "I know your house must be crowded with yourself and the
children, and—"

"We
manage."

"Of
course you do." Bernie patted her sister-in-law's arm. "But I thought
I'd ask to borrow my dad for a while. I mean, can he come live with me?"

"Well,
I—"

"Oh,
please say yes."

"Well."

"Think
about it, dear. I ramble around that big house since Albert ... since the
foundry accident took his life. We never had a chance to have children. I'm
alone more than you know."

"I
understand."

"Then
will you let him? Dad must get in your way at times."

LaDaisy
smiled. "When I can't stand him anymore, I shoo him out the door with the
kids. I don't mind Saul, Bernie. He's good company."
His presence keeps
my sister's husband from forcing himself on me.

"Please?"
Bernie wiped her perspiring cheeks and neck with a lace handkerchief. "I'd
like to see more of him in his old age. Do say yes."

"I
wouldn't want him to think I'm kicking him out."

"He
wouldn't think that," Bernie said. "Dad loves you like a daughter. He
can still come to visit and tend the garden. I'm not so far away—just straight
up Pearl Street. He's walked it many other times, and the fresh air will do him
good. When he doesn't feel like walking, I'll bring him by auto. Besides, you
need help cleaning up after the storm."

"It's
the landlord's job."

Bernie
raised her brows. "True. But when I drove by there the other day, I saw he
hadn't done a thing. Sometimes we have to take matters in our own hands. Think
of the kids barefoot with all the splintered boards and nails and glass."