Face the Winter Naked (7 page)

LaDaisy
removed her card from behind the bread box and placed it in the kitchen window
so the iceman could see the number. Tomorrow he'd deliver a twenty-five-pound
block of ice.

Chapter 5

Daniel
awoke with a jolt as a loud rumble and shrill whistle signaled the train
slowing to a crawl. The great wheels screeched on the rails as he glanced
toward the open door, thinking the night had passed too quickly. But it was
still dark outside, with a heavy mist hanging in the air.

He searched
the floor of the boxcar for his cap and put it on. Stretched his legs. Scraped
a fingernail across his front teeth. Rolled down the long sleeves of his
threadbare shirt, brushed them off and re-rolled them past his elbows. Standing,
he struggled for balance in the swaying car, then carefully made his way to the
open doorway to relieve his full bladder. Closing his fly, he braced himself
and stared out at the dark countryside, unable to tell if they were in Ohio or
Indiana. Maybe they'd already crossed the state line into Illinois. He
staggered back to his belongings and sat on the floor again.

George
leaned against the wall of the car, head lowered, fingers gently stroking the
long neck of his five-string instrument. He plucked a string or two, then
stopped.

"You
didn't have to stick along with me."

"Who
says? " Daniel massaged his aching legs. It would feel good to stretch
again, to feel the earth beneath them as he walked.

"Where
you been since I saw you last?" George cleared his throat.

Daniel
removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped them with his shirttail, thinking
how useless they were. He'd bought them from a peddler for fifteen cents and
suspected they were plain old glass. Hardly a day passed without eyestrain or
headaches.

"I
already told you."

George
coughed deeply several times, wheezing and gasping for breath.

Daniel
touched his arm. "You okay, buddy?"

"Yeah,
I—I'm all right." He coughed again. "Hell, I don't know—"

"Don't
sound all right. You been breathing too much coal dust."

George
lapsed into silence, occasionally strumming the banjo.

"I
been out to Santa Fe," Daniel said.

"Why?"

"Why
not? I always hankered to see the mountains out by Denver and Montana."

George
snorted. "Santa Fe Trail don't go by Montana."

Daniel
pulled his cap off and polished the top of his head with his shirt sleeve. The
boys from his platoon had nicknamed him "Shine" and cautioned him not
to remove his helmet at night, lest his head give away their position.

Neither
man spoke for several minutes. Then George stated matter-of-factly, "You
got a family somewhere."

"Huh?
What makes you think that?"

"How
long you been gone?"

"Long
enough."

"Chrissakes!"

"TELL
HIM!" somebody yelled. "Tell him, so I can get some more damn
sleep!"

Scraping
sounds came from the other end of the car, but it was too dim yet to see more
than shadows from a few packing crates.

George
cleared his throat with a gargling sound.

"You
mumble in your sleep. Who's LaDaisy, your wife?"

"Maybe,
or I might have me a cow named LaDaisy."

"Naw.
You ain't even got a pot to piss in. If you had a cow you'd be home right now
a-milking her. Of course it ain't none of my business."

"Come
on, George, I feel bad enough without you picking on me."

"You
don't gotta be sore about it."

Daniel
turned away and stared out the open door, watching the scenery roll by as the
mist lifted and the sky lightened. And when he spoke again he was all choked
up.

"I
gotta tell somebody about this before I bust. I'm so ashamed of myself I can't
stand it. I—I left my family when they needed me most."

"I
guessed. Go on, get it out of your system."

"I
didn't know what else to do." Daniel pulled off his cap and squeezed it
between his hands. "I lost my job and couldn't find work."

"Aw,
damn."

"I
love my family more than anything, George, but I couldn't take it
anymore."

He
doesn't have to know about Clay and the rest of that crap.
Clayton Huff—owner of the four-room house on Hereford
Avenue that Daniel rented with his wife and kids. He had no use for that
sucker, but he was family after marrying LaDaisy's sister, Ida.

The
day before he left, Clay had approached him on the sidewalk outside the barbershop
across from the courthouse on the Square.

Daniel
touched the bill of his cap and nodded.

"Afternoon,
Clay."

Clay
squared his shoulders and stuck out his rotund belly, pulled a Corona from his
vest pocket, stripped off the band, sliced off the end of the cigar with his
thumbnail, and stuck the weed between his teeth.

Daniel
stepped backward into the barber pole as Clay lit the cigar with his fancy
Zippo lighter and blew smoke in his face.

"Now,
Daniel, about the rent."

"Save
your breath, I ain't got it."

"You're
four months behind."

"I
know it." Daniel wanted to leave but was pinned to the barber pole by the
man's biscuit and gravy belly. "I'm gonna get it."
I don't know
how, but the fat prick will get his damn rent.

There
wasn't much Clay could do but gripe, because he sure wouldn't evict his wife's
sister and her kids. If he
was
mean enough to kick them out, the house
would likely stand empty for months. Who else could afford to rent the place
with the economy as bad as it was? Everyone was in the same situation, except
for people like Clay Huff and LaDaisy's mama, Vera Baker. His mother-in-law was
married to Clay's uncle, Rufus Baker, who owned the local haberdashery. They
lived in a big, fancy house on North Liberty Street, much nicer than anything
Daniel could afford. Rufus was a decent sort, but his nephew was a smart-assed
troublemaker.

Daniel
closed his eyes.
If only the fool wasn't both his landlord and his
brother-in-law.
It was partly because of him that he'd left LaDaisy and the
kids to shift for themselves. He'd come to the end of his rope looking for work
that didn't exist, and Clay didn't leave a man with any pride when he hounded
him for money at every turn. By the time he got home again, he'd probably owe
the bastard three-hundred dollars in back rent.

George
interrupted his thoughts. "Wonder how your little wife's making out. Maybe
having a hard time."

"She's
got more sense than her no-good husband. She'll make it."

They
lapsed into silence for a few minutes.

"I
been lying to myself, too," George said. "There ain't nobody to go
home to, but I'm going anyhow."

Daylight
was filling the boxcar now. Distractedly, Daniel emptied his gunnysack and checked
his belongings: extra clothes, rain slicker, cooking utensils, small
carbon-encrusted skillet wrapped in a yellowed
Kansas City Times
. Sliver
of soap, shaving cup and brush. Jackknife that doubled as a razor.

Several
weeks had passed since he'd shaved, but he was in no hurry to scrape off the
coarse beard and leave his skin raw. Besides, if he looked better than the
other hobos, they wouldn't let him within a mile of their camps.

George
started rambling again. "They don't need men to work anymore. The only
ones got work are preachers and undertakers."

Daniel
placed the gunnysack next to his tools.

"That's
the truth."

"And
the rich don't care, so long's they have plenty." George plinked a banjo
string for emphasis. "Why does everything have value 'cept humans?"

"Humans
are valuable to God."

"Why?"

"Don't
ask me. I guess He made them for a reason."

"So
we can find out what it's like to starve to death?"

"Politicians
did that."

"Well,
you're right. It's the same old bunkum coming down every depression. They're
gonna help us but they can't."

Every
tramp Daniel had talked to for the past year had said the same thing: Got no money,
no home. I'm down and out, and the only good thing is, there's not much further
down I can go.

"I
been fighting one damn thing after another all my life," George said.
"Worked many days when I couldn't even stand up. Now I'm just too tired to
put up with myself anymore. Know what I mean?"

"Yep,
I sure do."

Suddenly
Daniel's heart chilled.
George is going home to die.

A
deep sadness came over Daniel as he eyed George's banjo.

"Got
me a 'tater-bug' mandolin back home. My gramps gave it to me when I was
fourteen, and my brother a banjo."

"You
shoulda brung it. Me and ol' Betsy here couldn't be split up for love or money.
Right, Bets?" George patted the banjo affectionately. "Better'n a
wife any day."

"Sometimes
a wife comes in handy for things a banjo can't do!"

"You
just gotta be a smart aleck, don'tcha?"

"Don't
I have me enough load without a musical instrument?" Daniel laughed.
"I ain't a dadgum mule."

"I
reckon."

"But
I sure do miss the mandolin. Learned to play both instruments. Used to swipe
the banjo when my brother wasn't around." He paused. "How's about
playing me a little tune before we get to your jumping-off place?"

George
adjusted the head of the banjo in his lap. He plunked and plinked a couple of
strings, twisted their tuning pegs. When he thought he had it just right, he
quickly placed his fingers on the frets. Ol' Betsy came alive and a few twangy
notes reverberated through the boxcar.

A
husky voice yelled encouragement, and Daniel saw one man, then another emerge
from their hiding places to listen and keep time with their feet. As George
played and sang, some of the words got lost in the back of his throat as he kept
clearing the coal smoke out:
Been down so long, not worried no more. / Been
down so long, not worried no more. / Just pack it all in / Cross over the
shore.

The
banjo man came to the end of his song and gazed thoughtfully out the door. His
beard in profile was thick and bushy, a scraggly patch of brush full of briars
and thorns, maybe vermin. The old man obviously hadn't touched soap nor
hairbrush for weeks. Now, he dug in his pocket and came up with a snipe, and
Daniel handed him a matchbook. He coughed deeply once or twice as he got the
cigarette going and blew stale smoke toward the open door.

"You're
killing your lungs," Daniel said. "You better stop smoking."

"Nah,
it's too late, Daniel."

The
cigarette burned down to nothing in his brown-stained fingers. He twisted it
out on the boxcar floor as the train jerked and the whistle blared again.

"Would
you listen to that?" George cocked his head to one side. "Ain't that
the lonesomest whistle you ever heard? Most mournful sound in the world."

"Means
we'll be parting company soon."

"Ain'tcha
coming to town with me?"

"Big
cities make me nervous with all them tramps hanging around," Daniel said.
"Some are so desperate they'll knife you for a nickel."

"If
you got a nickel," George replied. "I gotta get used to the city all
over again. Find my way around all the old streets where I grew up. First thing
is to see if the Dixie Deli's still there. Best beefsteak sandwiches and
pastrami on homemade rye bread I ever ate."

"Could
you pay four bucks for a sandwich, George? That's what it would cost these
days, if not more."

George
coughed hard again. "Maybe they'd let me lick off the plate for free. Sure
wish you was coming with me."

"I
gotta strike out over the hills where the big houses and the money are."

The
whistle blasted again as the freight slowed. When the train was going about
three miles per hour, one of the other "passengers" came over and
looked out the door.

"None
of them rich bastards will give you the time of day!" he said. "You'll
bunk in hobo jungles like the rest of us."

The
man checked to see if the coast was clear, then jumped to the ground and
vanished.

"Barns
are better," Daniel said.

"Better'n
what?"

"Tarpaper
shacks in Hoovervilles. Hell, George, I've been caught riding the rails and
tossed in the clink. I've slept in flop houses. Some people would never think
to eat grass or posies or tree bark to keep alive. Grass makes good
salad."

"Unless
a skunk pissed on it."

Daniel
smiled and nodded. "And dandelions. In season. Posies, too. Grandma used
to scold me for eating her nasturtiums, but I told her they was real tasty
little flowers. There's lots of things people can do to survive when they're
hard up, and barns are good for sleeping—if you don't mind the smell—so I curl
up in barns when I can."