Face the Winter Naked (4 page)

"Don't
drink it too fast."

"Ah,
thank you, just what I need."

LaDaisy
thought she heard a car and jerked her head toward the door.

"Something
wrong?" he asked.

"What?
Oh, no. I thought I heard something." She smiled. "So, how are things
at the store?"

"Hectic,
if I must say so. Despite the poor economy, would you believe some people are
still willing to spend a few dollars?"

"Well,
that's good, isn't it? For you and Mama, I mean."
Leave now, Rufus,
please.

He
drained the glass and handed it to her.

"I
must get home now. Much obliged for the drink."

Ten
minutes later, the Channing's Ford V-8 pulled in behind Daniel's 1925 Model T
pickup. The truck was an eyesore, and LaDaisy had considered getting rid of it.
But she couldn't bear to give her husband's truck away. The previous owner had
replaced the truck's back wheels with tractor tires so Daniel could drag a plow
through the fields. He'd never gotten around to changing them, and Elizabeth's
spanking new auto put it to shame.

Chapter 3

The
white dome of the U.S. Capitol rose majestically in the distance when Daniel
climbed off the freight train a few miles from the federal grounds, realizing
the longer he stayed on the train, the tighter the security would be with a
bigger chance of getting arrested for vagrancy. Sweating and disheveled, he
went over to a shady sycamore tree and set down his gunnysack so he could size
up the situation.

This
road he was on ran parallel to a river, laid out in the general direction of
the Capital. Easy enough to find his way. But when he got there, then what?
Most towns had laws forbidding vagrants from assembling, and he definitely
looked the part: grubby, whiskered, reeking of sweat; scuffed, rundown shoes
and baggy bib overalls about six times too big, and his flat cap had seen
better days. After bumming around the country for the past year, he looked older
than his thirty-four years.

Summer's
relentless heat was taking its toll on him, but his lack of food since leaving
the Kimballs' was a bigger worry. The supper Frankie's mother had packed had
consisted of two meatloaf sandwiches on homemade bread, a deviled egg, and
chocolate cake with butter-cream icing. He'd bolted down the meal almost around
the next bend in the road. Now his empty stomach complained.

He
pulled off his cap and exposed his naked head to the air, his thoughts turning
to his family. If he had any sense, he'd go home, beg LaDaisy's forgiveness and
hope she wouldn't kill him for deserting them. How would he explain the
nightmares? He was surprised she hadn't figured it out all by herself after a
few years of marriage. Would she understand those horrible experiences stole a
man's pride and sanity? And how could he admit his shame for being unable to
provide for them? It was a hurtful situation for a proud family man.
I
promised you a vine-covered cottage, girl, not a ramshackle house with a yard
full of weeds. You at least deserve someone who can pay the rent.

He
put his cap back on, picked up his sack and started walking again. He hadn't
gone far when a dusty truck pulled up beside him, and one glance told him he
needn't have worried about his appearance. Men with unshaven, tired faces rode
standing up in the back of the truck. A few sat at the rear with their legs
dangling over the tailgate. A large sign hung from the side of the truck: BONUS
ARMY. He would not have described any of those pathetic men as a bonus to the
Army.

The
driver stuck his head out the window and waved him over.

"I
reckon you're headed our way." He motioned behind him to the truck bed.
"Hop in, if you can find an empty spot."

Daniel
tipped his cap and nodded. "Much obliged, mister."

He
handed his pack up to one of the men, then grabbed an outstretched hand and
clambered aboard. The men wedged him between them as the truck started up and
continued down the road.

He
got his breath and turned to the man beside him.

"My
poor ol' feet are killing me."

"Been
walking long?"

"Nope.
Got off a train a ways back. But the longer I walk, the heavier my pack and
tools get. Miserable weather, ain't it? I feel like a toad that got run over by
a car and been laying out in the sun for a week."

He
closed his aching eyes, thinking how good it would be to collect his bonus and
head for home.

The
truck rolled past the mansions of the rich, and a short time later, Daniel
joined the throngs of veterans of the Bonus Expeditionary Force, which had
descended on Washington, D.C., and demanded immediate payment of their cash
bonuses. Like himself, many were unemployed victims of the Depression—ragged,
sad, hungry, and mighty pissed off at the crooked politicians who'd let the
country sink into such a sorry state.

After
leaving his long-faced companions, he toured the area for a few blocks,
marveling at the stately homes, and grimacing at the hovels springing up within
spitting distance of them. He stopped not far from the Capitol, appraised the
building's handiwork but cursed the men who worked inside.
This is where all
our misery comes from. Damn politicians sitting on their asses. Refusing to
help the poor, starving citizens buy a loaf of bread or a few lumps of coal to
heat their houses.

The
sun was already down by the time he found a secluded spot to park his weary
body. He lay on the hard ground with his head on his pack—for comfort and safe-keeping.
Frankie's catcher's mitt made a decent pillow, cradling his head in the soft
leather.

Early
next morning, Daniel awakened to the smell of coffee and followed his nose to a
shack built from corrugated sheet metal and scraps of old lumber.

"Howdy,"
he said to a squat little man tending a kerosene burner outside his building.
"My name's Daniel. Can you can tell me where I can find a privy? I can't
hold it much longer."

"I'm
Chester." The man glanced up a dirt road with one eye, while the other
looked in a different direction. "You can't miss it, but you might have to
wait in line at this hour."

Daniel
waited for Chester's eye to refocus. He didn't want to stare, but he couldn't
help wishing he could fix the eyeball so it wouldn't roam all over the place. A
moment later, he felt ashamed of himself. This was undoubtedly an old war
injury.

"Maybe
I'll just find me a tree somewhere. Standing in line don't sound like a good
idea." Daniel cracked a grin, but hesitated, tasting the smell of fresh
coffee in his mouth. "Any chance of finding work here?" He looked
around, noting the enormous crowd gathering on this side of the river,
surprised to see women and children in the group. "What are all these poor
folks going to eat?"

"Your
guess is good as mine." Chester paused, his eye turning outward again.
"I think some steal their food."

"Can't
say I'd blame them none, 'specially hard-up folks with youngins to feed."
He nodded at the coffee that smelled so good. "What would you take for a
cup of that coffee?"

"What
have you got?"

Daniel
chuckled, though his stomach rumbled. "Not much."

"Everybody's
in the same boat. When's the last time you ate?"

"Couple
days ago."

"I'll
show you where to find work," Chester said. "What kind of work you
looking for?"

"Most
anything," Daniel replied. "I'm a cabinetmaker by trade, but I can be
a farmhand or a dowser."

"Dowser,
huh? A real specialty. One of a kind."

"Well,
I come by it naturally," Daniel said. "But I can't dig a well by
myself. It's hard work. There's many odd jobs I can do, like sharpen knives and
stuff. Fixing things."

A
few cents earned here and there—it all went into the small leather purse he
carried in his shirt pocket beneath the bib of his carpenter overalls, over his
heart. These pennies he hoarded, guarded with his life if necessary. Someday
he'd hand over the pouch to LaDaisy—if she was still speaking to him.

"You're
welcome to share my shack while you're here," Chester said. "I can
use the company."

Daniel
thanked him and hurried off to find the privy. When he returned, Chester explained
he needed to register and prove he had an honorable discharge.

"Got
your service papers?" He handed Daniel a cup of steaming coffee and a dry
biscuit.

"Yep.
I had sense enough to bring them along."

He
drank the coffee, then found his way to the group leader's tent, spread his
military documents on the table, and waited for Walter Waters, a former Sergeant,
to examine them.

"Honorable
discharge." Waters added Daniel's name to a list. "I see you have
tools. Good. We need shelters and streets built. Latrines dug. We'll hold
formations daily, just like when you were in the Army."

"Yes,
sir."

"One
more thing," Waters said. "We're here for the duration and we're not
going to starve, and we're going to keep ourselves a simon-pure veterans'
organization."

"I
understand, sir."

"Discipline
has been good so far, but some of the residents don't trust us. I intend to see
that nobody does anything to bring us shame." Waters glanced at the men
waiting in line behind Daniel. "If we get our bonuses, our economic conditions
will be relieved. You're in, Tomelin. Move along."

"Thank
you kindly, sir."

Daniel
saluted before realizing the man was no longer an Army officer, causing an
outburst of laughter from the men behind him.

But
Waters returned a full salute with a smile.

"Good
luck, soldier."

As
the population of veterans swelled, Daniel put his tools to work, erecting
shelters from old boards, corrugated boxes, scrap metal, and whatever materials
could be dragged from the junk piles. At Anacostia Flats—a swampy, muddy area
across the Anacostia River from the Capital—the largest camp housed tens of
thousands of veterans and their families.

Daniel
worked in the shantytowns through the end of May and into June. On
Massachusetts Avenue, ragged hikers in scraps of old uniforms mingled with
Washington's elite. A sullen-looking group, they'd swarmed across the continent
from every part of the country, descending on the city like hordes of locusts
and chewing up every available inch of space.

One
morning, the wife of the owner of the
Washington Post
approached him as
he erected a wall for a new shack.

"My
name's Evalyn McLean," she said. "Have you eaten?"

He
laid his hammer down and removed his cap. "I ate some beans and a corn
fritter last night, ma'am, but my poor ol' stomach's never satisfied."

She
nodded. "I thought as much. You must be famished."

"Yes,
I am," Daniel said. "But I survived this long, and I can last a
little longer if I put my mind to it."

"Well,
if that isn't the greatest attitude I ever heard." She gestured to the
crowd. "Last night, I saw plain evidence of hunger on their faces. Such a
pity. I wanted to thank the veterans who participated in wartime parades on
these very grounds. If not for them, the war might still be going on." She
handed him a meat sandwich from a basket. "Take this, please, and God
bless you."

Daniel
accepted the food with gratitude and watched as she worked her way through the
bivouacked men, asking each one, "Have you eaten?"

He
was itching to move again, and wished he could hurry and get his money. The
veterans and their families were, through no fault of their own, getting on his
nerves.

In
memory, he found himself still on the battlefields in France, the horrific
scenes returning full-force whenever he shut his eyes. The war was over. His
common sense knew that. Yet here he was fighting it still. In his mind, shells
blasted, kicking up dirt near the trenches. He woke screaming more than once,
no doubt causing distress for his shantytown neighbors. They could not know how
tortured he was. On the other hand, maybe they had the same nightmares.

A
veteran in uniform approached him before dusk one evening. "Hey mister,
did ya hear the news?"

"What
news?" Daniel yanked a bent nail out of an old board and dropped it in a
can of rusty nails.

The man
pointed toward the crowded Capital grounds, where ten thousand marchers awaited
the outcome of the Senate vote.

"They
say the House already passed a bill to give us our bonuses. We're expecting the
Senate's vote any minute. Pretty soon we'll all have money in our pockets and
we'll go home."

But
when Walter Waters appeared a short time later, Daniel read the story on his
face before he spoke.

"The
Senate defeated the bill by a vote of sixty-two to eighteen."

Stunned
silence spread through the crowd, and Waters commanded them: "Sing America
and go back to your billets."

On that
day, a silent "death march" began in front of the Capitol. But some
folks refused to join the march and returned to their homes empty-handed.

Daniel
wasn't sure what to do, but there was no hurry to leave now.

"I've
come this far with nothing in my pocket," he told Chester. "So I
ain't losing anything."

Yet
he waited. Here were people in the same fix. There was nowhere else to go.
Home? Of course he could always go home. But this late in the game he suspected
his beloved wife probably hated his guts, with good reason. He'd be going home
without a dime. If he walked through the front door right now, he wouldn't be
able to look LaDaisy in the face.

Finally,
he made up his mind and joined the death marchers proudly flying Old Glory. But
as he walked along, his mind tricked him into believing he was back at the
front with his battery position and first artillery experience, ducking shells
and diving headfirst into the ground. War planes flew overhead in the darkness,
but he couldn't see them.

His
mind went blank at times. He couldn't tell one day from the next as he worked
automatically at this or that job, marched with other humans on blistered
soles, and took meals when he could. And when he couldn't, he didn't. The
nightmares continued. In the middle of one, Mrs. McLean appeared as an angel
feeding the veterans ... and when her image dissolved, LaDaisy took her place.
He'd reached out to touch his wife, but his screams woke him before he could
make contact. Gasping for air and drenched with sweat, he pulled Frankie's mitt
from his sack, clutched it to his chest, and wept silently.