Face the Winter Naked (30 page)

Gudgell
cocked an eyebrow. "Is that right? Didn't you try to stop him?"

"Of
course I did! What do you take me for? But he always cornered me when I was
alone. I never thought about the gun. If I had, I might've scared him
away."

"But
you did get the gun."

"Yes,
but only just today. I thought if he saw it, he'd go away and leave me
alone."

Sheriff
Gudgell indicated the corpse with a glance. "Well, he's gone away
now."

Tears
spilled out of LaDaisy's eyes onto Mary's hair. She leaned down and kissed them
away.

"So
he came by the house yesterday—or this morning?" she said. "I've lost
track because of Ida. Yes, this morning. He came by and kept banging on the
door to come in, but I wouldn't let him. My children were here. I was afraid.
He acted insane, he'd been drinking."

The
sheriff made a note, then looked up. "Why was Mr. Huff mad?"

"Because
Ida Mae found out what he did to me. At first she didn't believe it. They
argued and she threw him out of the house." She stopped to take a deep
breath. "That's why he was mad. When I didn't let him in, he left. That
should've been the end of it, but something told me he'd be back. I told Saul—that's
my father-in-law—to take the kids to their aunt's house. I was afraid of
Clay." She glanced toward the bedroom door. Ida Mae was quiet now.

"After
Saul and the kids left, I loaded the shotgun and put it out where Clay could
see it if he came in. Over there, against the wall." She pointed.

Lou
came back and took Mary.

"She's
wet," LaDaisy said.

"I'll
change her." Lou hurried to the bedroom again, but turned at the doorway.
"Poor darling won't get much sleep with all the commotion in there."

"Put
her down in the other bedroom," LaDaisy said, motioning across the room to
the other door.

Lou
walked a wide path around Clay's body without looking at it directly and
disappeared into the children's room.

"I
only meant to threaten him with the gun," LaDaisy said. "But he came
after me when he saw me going for it. He kicked it away. I—I was afraid. He
ripped my dress half off—as you can see. I grabbed the mandolin, my husband's
mandolin, from the shelf and—and bashed it over Clay's damn hateful head."

The
room grew quiet when she stopped talking. She closed her eyes and waited. When
she opened them again, she looked first at Rufus, then at the sheriff.

"He
fell when I hit him and tried to get up. There was a shot. I must've done it, I
don't remember. Ida Mae had come in without me knowing. She was hysterical. She
needed help. That's what I was thinking about, not that I killed someone."

She
rose, her legs about to buckle. "I'll get the gun now."

She
went in the bedroom, glanced at her sister on her back at the edge of the bed,
her legs spread and her whole bottom exposed. Dr. Wilson peered over his
glasses at the swollen vulva as Ida Mae moaned softly. LaDaisy found the
skeleton key and went quickly to the closet, removed the gun and took it to the
sheriff.

"It'll
have my fingerprints."

Sheriff
Gudgell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to hold the gun.

"I'll
take it with me. We'll run some tests. You can come peaceably now—" He
glanced toward the bedroom. "—or wait till your sister has her baby. I
don't think you'll run off with your own baby here." He glanced at Clay.
"We'll need more information. It doesn't sound like you shot him in cold
blood." He smiled slightly. "But I'm not the one to decide
that."

"When
will they take ... when will the undertaker come to get him?" She observed
Clay's cold body in spite of herself, and bile rose in her throat. "Take
him away."

She
turned at a noise from the kitchen.

"Oh
my God. I hope the kids didn't come home yet."

She
ran to the kitchen to find Saul sitting quietly at the table. For a moment she
thought her husband had just come home from work. But no, her imagination was
getting the best of her. It was only Saul. She hadn't heard him come in, and
she guessed he'd heard her confession. She  lay a hand on his bony shoulder; he
clamped arthritic fingers over it.

"What
are you doing here?" she asked. "You didn't bring the kids back—?"

"Nope.
They're still at Bernie's. But don't worry, they'll be all right." He
pointed to the stove, where her canning kettle sat steaming.

"I'm
boiling water," he said, standing. "Making myself useful. It's what
they made me do when Martha birthed her babies."

LaDaisy
threw her arms around the old man and rested her head against his chest. She
could not contain the tears that now spurted from her eyes and wet the front of
his overalls.

"I
thought for a minute you were Daniel," she sobbed. "Oh, Saul, I need
my husband."

He
patted her on the back and let her cry.

"I
know, girl. I know."

Sheriff
Gudgell appeared in the doorway with the shotgun. He nodded at Saul.

"We'll
need a statement from you too, Mr. Tomelin."

"No!"
cried LaDaisy. "He doesn't know anything. He wasn't here when Clay
came."

"Maybe
he can back up your story." He moved out of the doorway. "I'll be in
touch. Don't go anywhere. When your sister's done having her baby, we'll get
her story. Oh, and you really should get a lawyer."

"So
you keep telling me," said LaDaisy. "I'll get one when I'm damn good
and ready."

"Suit
yourself."

 A
short time later, two men from Carson's Funeral Home arrived and transported Clay's
corpse to the police morgue. Rufus accompanied his nephew's body to the
ambulance, then got in his auto and followed it.

Ida
labored through that day and into the next, gouging her mother's arms with her
fingernails as contractions grew stronger. She was worn out, and the baby
refused to let go.

When
Vera finally went home to comfort Rufus, LaDaisy took over and assisted Dr.
Wilson. She prepared a bed for Ida's baby—not her own child's cradle, but a
makeshift bassinet from an emptied dresser drawer. From the layettes of her own
babies, she collected soft old diapers, flannel bellybands, long-sleeved gowns,
and outing flannel receiving blankets. Cotton swabs, mineral oil, and talcum
powder.

After
the police had finished photographing the death scene, Saul and Lou opened all
the windows in the house and cleaned up the blood with Lysol.

Finally,
LaDaisy was alone with her baby, her sister, and the doctor.

And
tortured thoughts: People would think she was a murderer. What would become of
her?

Toward
evening of the second day, the delivery began in earnest, and Ida Mae found
strength to push the baby out.

"I
see its head!" LaDaisy exclaimed. "It's got dark hair."

Dr.
Wilson patted Ida's hand. "Relax, young lady, you're shaking like a leaf."

"Do
you know what the hell you're doing?" Ida Mae yelled as another
contraction hit. "Oh my God, I have to go to the bathroom!"

"No
you don't," LaDaisy laughed. "It's pressure from the baby. And Dr.
Wilson does this for a living, so of course he knows what he's doing."

Ida's
face turned red as she involuntarily bore down. The doctor delivered the
infant's head, then a shoulder, and a few minutes later, its body.

"It's
a boy," LaDaisy said.

Under
normal circumstances, this day would be a joy, assisting the birth of her
sister's first child. But LaDaisy was drained of emotion as she observed the infant's
dark hair and purplish-red skin. He was a miniature of his father, and she
thought he looked like a drowned rat.

Ida
laughed and cried.

"A
boy, LaDaisy. I did it!"

Dr.
Wilson held the infant upside down by his ankles and smacked his bottom
smartly, and Clay's son let out a lusty cry. Placing him face down across his
mother's abdomen, the doctor methodically tied and cut the cord and painted the
stub with Merthiolate. He patted Ida's hand again as it relaxed its bloodless
grip on the sheet that covered her upper body.

"It's
all over, young lady. A healthy boy; he has all his fingers and toes."

Producing
a spring scale, he placed the squalling infant on a square of outing flannel.
He knotted the four corners in the center, hooked the scale to the knot and
raised the bundle.

"Almost
nine pounds."

As
he recorded the figures, LaDaisy wondered if the baby's weight was the same as
the gun that killed the father he would never know.

While
the doctor delivered the placenta and disinfected the birth area with a strong
Lysol solution, LaDaisy tended her sister's baby. She wiped his face, eyes, and
mouth mechanically. She pinned a three-cornered diaper on him. He waved his
arms, opened one eye and peeked at her. He sucked his fist. She watched his
chest rise and fall, his skin change from purple to pink. Tears bubbled in her
eyes as she swaddled him in a receiving blanket and picked him up.

Suddenly,
this child was no more Clay Huff's than any of her own had been. She cradled
him gently, weeping with sadness and joy, then placed him in his mother's arms.
She leaned over and kissed her sister's sweaty forehead, glad the ordeal was
over.

Chapter 25

October
first dawned bright and sunny. Just before game number three of the World
Series started that Saturday afternoon, Daniel handed Chris a handful of change
and asked him to buy a newspaper.

"If
you hurry, you won't miss the game. It'll be a while before it comes on."

Chris
gave him a "gee whiz" look and left the hotel room, returning a few
minutes later with a rolled-up
Times
. "Who was your slave last
year, Mister Royal Highness?"

"Watch
it, Chris."

Chris
grumbled and turned on the radio, and got nothing but static.

"For
crying out loud. This darn thing better work when it's game time."

"It
will." Daniel scanned the front page. "Hey! September 4th? This
here's a Sunday paper, Chris. It's almost a month old."

"So?"

"So
I want the latest news, you little twerp. Did you pocket my money and steal
this from a garbage can?" He sniffed the paper. "Smells like coffee
grounds and oranges."

"It
was in the hall, I just—"

"You
mean you just saved yourself a trip downstairs and made two-bits profit."
Daniel adjusted his glasses and peered intently at the boy. "Didn't I
teach you anything, you gotta keep stealing?" He opened the paper and
pulled out the comics as Chris dug the coins out of his pocket and dumped them
on the nightstand. "Thank you," Daniel said without looking up.
"Don't try that again. Well, I guess old news is better than none."
He handed Chris the comics. "Here, find out what 'Joe Palooka's' up to—you
can read, can't you?"

Chris
rolled his eyes. "Yes, I can
read
."

"Just
teasing." Daniel grinned and mussed up his hair. "You're a good kid.
Otherwise I wouldn't put up with you."

Chris
spread the paper on the floor and lay on his belly to read.

"'Mutt
And Jeff's' good, but I already read it."

"Do
tell."

Daniel
nodded absent mindedly, his eyes focused on a small article in the Jackson
County news. His heart almost stopped as he read the headline again.
What th—?
A month ago? How come I didn't see this before?

INDEPENDENCE
WOMAN HELD IN SHOOTING OF LANDLORD

He
read silently, his eyes clouding over and head spinning as Chris laughed aloud
at the comics.

LaDaisy
Tomelin, of Independence, was booked yesterday afternoon for suspected
manslaughter in the shooting death of her landlord, Clayton Huff. The deceased
was the nephew of Rufus Baker, owner of Baker's Haberdashery. The shooting
occurred in the living room of the house the Tomelins rented from Mr. Huff.

Daniel's
mouth went dry. He stared at the paper without moving. He shook himself and
read the article again, and the paper fell from his hands to his lap.

"Daniel?"

He
became aware of Chris standing before him, comic page in hand.

"Daniel—what's
the matter?"

He
tried to focus on the boy, but all he could see were the words in the article.
His wife arrested? Clay dead?

"Hey,
it's time for the game." Chris threw the paper on the bed and turned the
radio back on just as Tom Manning spoke through the static.

Welcome
to the twenty-ninth World Series of Major League Baseball. It's a beautiful day
for game number three here at Chicago's Wrigley Field, starring the New York
Yankees and Chicago Cubs
...
the
bleachers are packed
...
I'd estimate about fifty-thousand noisy fans
here. Just listen to that crowd!

Daniel
ripped the item out of the paper and laid it on the night table, then gave
Chris some more money as the announcer's voice came through loud and clear.

 ...
Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig are putting on an impressive display at batting
practice.
The Babe launches one two three four
...
nine balls to
the outfield stands
...
and there goes Gehrig's seventh.

"I
need
today's
paper, darn it."

"Can't
you get it yourself? The game just came on."

"Now
that's plain rude, Chris. I asked you because you run faster and I'm tired from
working to put food in your mouth. The game ain't going anywhere."

"I've
been waiting all year for this, Daniel!"

"Sorry."
Daniel read the article again after Chris almost flew from the room, banging
the door behind him and clattering down the wooden stairs to the lobby.

"Goddammit,
LaDaisy, what's going on out there? I would've shot the bastard myself and
saved you the trouble."

But
he knew he could never have done it. As with Shine at the war front, he'd be
petrified at the thought of killing a human being.

Chris
came back a few minutes later and threw the paper at him before going back to
the radio.

"Thanks,"
Daniel said. "You weren't gone long enough to miss anything."

"What's
going on?" Chris leaned down to the radio without waiting for an answer.

It's
the top of the first inning and here comes the first batter.... Now the pitch,
he winds up
...
he lets it go
...
it flies over the plate.
Manning's voice grew louder.
And it's a
strike.
The crowd roared.

"Something
bad happened to my wife and the landlord."

Strike
two
.

"What
happened? Shhh, wait a minute." Chris rammed his fist into the catcher's
mitt.

...
he
winds up, he pitches, he
... a crackle of static ...
and it's a foul
.

Daniel
pulled the paper apart. He searched every article on every page, but there was
nothing about his wife or a shooting. The news was no longer news.

A
few minutes passed as Manning continued calling the plays, but Daniel didn't
hear them.

Ruth
comes to bat
...
he lines a Root
pitch into the right-center bleachers, he's running, he's running, he's
rounding the bases and the Cub fans are jeering. He put the Yanks up three to
nothing
.

"Well,
that's that," Daniel said.

He
jumped up and began a frenzied search of the room, found all his belongings and
dumped them in the old gunnysack: Homer's boots, a new bar of Lava soap, his
can of Cloverine, his shaving mug and brush, Chris's Pepsodent. His purse had
become too small for his hoard of coins. He'd begun storing them in a cigar box
tied shut with a piece of elastic from an old pair of underwear. Into the sack
went the box of money.

"What
are you doing?" Chris watched with wide-eyed innocence. Daniel turned to
him. "Get all your stuff together, get my banjo. I can't explain now, we
have to leave. I have to go home."

"But—"

"Hurry
up. You going with me or not?" His voice was sharper than it needed to be.

"No!"
Chris cried. "The World Series is on, Daniel!"

"I'm
sorry. Something's happened. I—I can't talk about it now."

"Is
it the nightmares?"

"No."

"Just
let me finish the Series, then I'll come. Please, Daniel, please. I'll never
ask for anything else in my whole life." Tears spurted from the boys eyes
as he leaned his head down to the radio.

Strike
three, he's out!

"What
about your new job, Daniel? You can't just walk out."

Daniel
swallowed a lump in his throat. Of course he didn't want to leave the job, and
the last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt Chris.

"It
can't be helped. Maybe they'll give me some time off for an emergency. I'll see
the boss before we leave." He shrugged and softened his voice. "If
you're coming with me, you'd better get a move on, cause I ain't hanging around
to explain something I don't understand."

He
read the disappointment on Chris's face and immediately thought of Frank. What
was he doing to the boy? He took a deep breath to compose himself.

"Okay,
you can finish the games. A couple more days won't make any difference, we'll
go Monday. Guess I put the cart before the horse. I forgot how it is to be a
boy and want something real bad. But when the World Series is over, we're
leaving." He picked up the paper again and scanned the pages. Nothing.
"I'll go see the foreman tomorrow while you're listening."

Chris
nodded and wiped his eyes. "I'll do something for you someday." He
held up his gloved hand as Manning called,
Strike three, he's out!

Whack.
"Got it."

"So
you did." Daniel forced a smile, which made his face hurt.

He
couldn't sit, so he rose and paced the floor as the game continued from one
inning to the next. The excitement increased as the announcer called the plays
over the roar of the crowd.

It's
the fourth inning
...
the Cubs'
batter Joe Judge at the plate
...
here's the pitch
...
he swings
...
he strikes and runs
...
he's going
...
he scores a run and
ties the game four to four
.

With
each strike, Chris yelled and caught the imaginary ball in Frank's mitt. And
the radio held its own through most of the game, with just a few bursts of
static.

It's
the top of the fifth with two balls, two strikes
...
Ruth steps up to the plate
...
the
crowd's screaming and Babe Ruth is shouting something at Root
...
he
raises two fingers
...
he's pointing out toward center field
...
Root
winds up and pitches
...
Ruth swings and connects
... Tom Manning
shouts,
The ball is going, going, going, high into the center field stands
...
and it's a home run!

"They're
gonna win the Series!" Chris screamed. "The Yanks are gonna win,
Daniel."

Daniel
caught the boy's excitement as Chris tossed the catcher's mitt into the air and
caught it coming down, laughing, jumping, and yelling hysterically.

"A
fine game, Chris, a very fine game. But it ain't over just yet."

Early Sunday morning, Daniel went to his foreman's house and explained
he needed a few days off. Would he still have a job when he came back?

The foreman hesitated. "I don't have any complaints about your
work," he said, pulling up one of his suspenders as he finished dressing
for church. "You understand we can't leave the job vacant. Others will
apply for it."

Daniel nodded. "Yes sir. I'm aware of that. But it can't be
helped."

"I wish I could say the job will still be here when you come back,
but I don't know."

Daniel's hazel eyes drilled straight into the foreman's through his owl
glasses.

"I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask." He shook the man's hand
and went back to the hotel.

He sat with Chris as the Yankees finished off the demoralized Cubs.

That
was for Frankie. Now I can go home to my loved ones. I'm as jobless now as I
was when I left
.

They
got a good night's sleep and left the hotel early next morning. Lugging the
sack and the banjo, the two began walking east along 23rd. Street. They were
not used to walking anymore. The gunnysack felt heavier than usual and the sun
was in their eyes. After an hour at what seemed a snail's pace, they flagged
down a car and hitched a ride.

"Where
to, mister?"

"As
close to Independence as you can get," Daniel said, as he and Chris
climbed in the back seat.