Face the Winter Naked (9 page)

Dozing
off and on, he woke at times to swat mosquitoes. Finally, having enough of the
pests, he put his clothes back on and lay with his head on Frank's catcher's
mitt and the banjo in his arms, the way he'd hold LaDaisy if she were there.

A
cool breeze blew up around midnight. Small clouds appeared in the star-studded
sky. Daniel lay quietly, listening for sounds of life. But the night was
tomb-silent now. He recalled the barn he'd seen before coming upon the pond. A
barn would probably have cows, and there might be a henhouse nearby.

He
raised himself on an elbow and looked around, then put his shoes on and stood.
It wouldn't be far to the barn, and the farm family would be asleep. There were
a few hours left before the sun would pop over the hills. Time to find a
midnight snack.

He
took his tin cup from the gunnysack and started up the hill. Yes, there was the
barn, and beyond it a two-story farmhouse. He looked back toward the pond, then
sneaked through the weeds and dirt and climbed over a barbed-wire fence.

A
horse whinnied. He glanced toward the house, saw it was still dark, then slipped
over to the barn and unlatched the door. His heart pounded as he cracked the
door open and slipped inside, getting a good whiff of alfalfa, manure, and
animal sweat. Nearby, a cow shifted position in a stall and lowed softly.

His
eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could see the dark outlines of a few
cattle. He knew they watched him with soulful brown eyes as he lay a hand on
one of the rumps and felt his way down the flank.
Just my luck she's a darn
bull.
But there it was, an udder almost to burst. As he reached for a teat,
she switched her tail at his face and stepped away.

"Steady,"
he whispered. "You'll spare me a cup of milk, won't you?"

He
tried again and she slipped out of his grasp. She switched her tail again, this
time almost knocking his glasses off. Finally, she stood still while he
squeezed the teat to get the milk flowing. He worked with one hand, holding his
cup with the other to catch the stream.

"Ah."
He tasted the warm liquid, then drank it straight down. Holding the empty cup
beneath the udder, he pulled the teat again till the milk squirted and
re-filled the cup.

Three
cups later, Daniel slapped the cow's hind end.

"Thank
ya, ma'am. Much obliged."

He
let himself out the barn door, careful not to let it creak behind him, and
lowered the bar into place. Nobody would ever know, and someday he'd pay it
back one way or another.

He
started back the way he'd come, then remembered there might be a chicken coop
nearby. He saw the outline of the shack, but it was too close to the main house
and he couldn't risk stirring up the hens and rousing the residents.

All
at once, his skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck stuck straight
out. Instinct told him to leave, but it was too late. A big skinny dog came
tearing around the corner of the house, barking its fool head off.

He
took off at a run, the dog in pursuit. Down the hill to the pond, dropping the
cup on the way. He stopped to get his breath and listen. A door slammed. A man
shouted.

"Who's
out there? What's eating you, Buddy? Fox after the hens?"

Daniel
stayed very still, listening. When all was quiet again, he dared look toward
the house just as a light flicked off in a downstairs room.

The
moon was higher now, but the air was muggy. His heart raced and his chest
heaved as he went back to the pond.
Close call.
He removed his shoes
again and stretched out on the ground, arms around the banjo, head on his pack,
and thinking of the banjo man, LaDaisy, the cow, the dumb hound that probably
couldn't sniff its way out of a gunnysack. He was lucky the farmer hadn't
chased him and filled his ass with buckshot.

He woke
before dawn, his body chilled but refreshed. Sooner or later the farmer or his
wife or kids—or God forbid, the hound—would pop their heads over yonder
hilltop. His trespassing must come to an end before the sky got much lighter. He
rose and walked around the pond to relieve himself in the weeds, then gathered
his belongings.

He
needed fresh drinking water. Then he should search for George. What in the
world had he been thinking to let the old man wander off alone? Where was he
now? With friends? Doubtful. Daniel figured he could do both things at once,
get the water on his way back to town to find George.

By
the time the sun was up, he'd retrieved the cup, rinsed it in the pond, and was
headed back the way he'd come the day before.

Four
hours later, he found himself on a fairly deserted street on the outskirts of
the city. A hot wind from the west swirled scraps of paper in the road and
stirred up sewer smells. He felt lost, and a bit sick, too, the heat and
walking taking their toll on him. He dropped his sack and banjo to the curb and
sat beside them, his mind and body both numb.

"Paper,
mister?"

Daniel
startled and looked up into the face of a boy not much older than Earl, his eldest
after the one that died. There wasn't an ounce of flesh to spare on this
child's cheeks, nor the skinny hand that shoved a newspaper under his nose.
Smokey eyes beneath sweeping lashes lay deep in their sockets, full of pain and
hunger. Eyes too old for their age. What had they seen already in their young
life? Did the youngster have a home? It was hard to tell by the sober
expression on the dirty face peering at Daniel from beneath a floppy newsboy
cap of faded gray linen much like his own.

Daniel
shook his head "no."

"Five
cents." Pushing the paper at him.

"If
I had an extra nickel, I'd buy me a hunk of bread or cheese, not more bad news
of a country going to hell. Thanks anyway."

Daniel's
heart ached as he watched the boy return to his shelter in a nearby doorway.
The kid's shoes were in worse shape than his own, the whole front ends scuffed
out and bare toes sticking through.
If I had me a lot of nickels, I'd give
you some for gravy and biscuits and a pair of shoes.

Rested
now, he rose and wandered the brick streets, picking his way over streetcar
tracks and between a few parked cars. There was no banjo man when he found the
Dixie Deli at 6th and Pine, just some younger men and a few more ragged street
urchins like the paperboy. He thought of going inside for a sandwich, but
decided to save his pennies. A customer stepped around him as if he were a pile
of steaming dog shit.

At
7th and Market stood the American Hotel, where he and LaDaisy had spent their
first night of married life. His heart ached as he gazed up at the sturdy
building and tried to recall the name of the fancy restaurant inside. His
carpenter's sharp eye remembered the rare, quiet beauty of the wood on the
paneled walls, polished till it shone.
The Rat Cellar?
His new wife had
giggled. "It's Ratheskeller, silly."

Two
blocks north of the American, at 9th and St. Charles Streets, the eighteen
stories of the Mayfair Hotel stood proudly anchored to the earth, as he
remembered.

Rounding
a corner at Washington Avenue, he saw a line of people snaking along the
sidewalk across the street for more than a block, and crossing over and making
another line on the other side. A bread- or soup-line. Daniel thought about
joining them, but the line moved slowly and his feet hurt too much to stand for
long.

People
left the building with loaves of bread under their arms. A man and a small boy
crossed the street and approached him.

"Better
get yours before it runs out." The man indicated the loaf. "This is
all there is between my family and starvation. Seven children."

Daniel
started to speak, but glanced at the child and thought better of it.
Guess
it never occurred to him to keep his trousers buttoned.

"Someone
else can have my share," he said, touching the bill of his cap. "Good
day, sir."

Continuing
on, Daniel peered through shop windows littered with signs: Beefsteak Sandwich.
$4.00. Another advertised links of baloney. But the original price of $0.25 a
pound had been crossed out. The owner would be desperate to sell the lunch meat
before it spoiled, but the price would go up anyway. Other signs said "Out
of Business," or "Closed."

He
had no idea where to search for George. Maybe he'd expected the old man to be
sitting on a curb somewhere with his head in his hands. He finally realized he
might never see his friend again.
Should've ask him for an address.

At
one corner, he rummaged through an overflowing trash can, looking for nothing
in particular. He twisted the cap off a can of Cloverine salve and saw it
hadn't been used. When he raised it to his nose and sniffed, the mild menthol
scent spoke to him of home. He dropped it in his pack.

After
roaming the streets a while longer, he headed back the way he'd come.

He
stopped to rest by a group of tar-paper shacks, but kept his distance from the
sordid variety of vagrants. He was not one of them.

One man
caught a sheet of an old yellowed newspaper the wind blew past his hideout. He
reminded Daniel of Clay, and he hated the man on sight, without reason.

The
reason came a moment later when the man got up and read from an article.

"Hey,
listen to this crap! '
These unhappy times call for the building of plans.
That build from the bottom up and not from the top down. That put their faith
once more in the forgotten man at the bottom of the economic pyramid.'"
He waved the paper in the air. "What does the rich bastard know about
living on the bottom of the heap?"

"Shut
your trap!" someone yelled. "That's Mr. Roosevelt's speech."

"Yeah?"

"Look
at the date. It's from back in April."

The
reader glanced at the masthead and shrugged. "So?"

"So
I wiped my ass with it after taking a big crap last night."

Daniel
chuckled. "Is that right?"

"Yeah,
and that petrified asshole's rubbing his nose in it."

The
scoffer dropped the paper; the wind sailed it down the street.

"Why
didn't you tell me?"

"Why
should I? You saying stuff about Mr. Roosevelt don't set well with some folks.
Go on, beat it!"

This
was no place to be caught on a dark night. The squabble increased in volume as
one man yelled at another, and still another chimed in with his two cents. If
they didn't come to blows, it would be a miracle.

After
he left the bums, Daniel traveled west to 18th and Market and stood outside
Union Station, watching people enter and emerge from the building with heavy
luggage. It was here he and LaDaisy had boarded a passenger train for home.

Knowing
he could not return to those blissful days, he left the shacks, the grit and
grime of the city, sucking in fresh air the farther away he got from the
smokestacks. He moved southwest toward farms, cows, chickens, and plowed fields
with new potatoes already in white blossom.

Toward
noon, Daniel stopped to rest his hot feet and smear a dab of Cloverine on his
calluses. He stopped often to adjust his pack, his tools, and the banjo, their
weight about to crush the life out of him.

A
mile or so farther, he came smack-dab upon a cornfield, whereupon he climbed
the fence and strolled with head high between the rows of rustling green stalks
as though he owned them. The plants were chin high, with small, immature ears
already spinning silk. He found a few ears of soft baby kernels, glanced over
his shoulder, then twisted off half a dozen tender ears and quickly shucked
them. Shaking off any hidden bugs, he devoured the corn, cobs and all.

An
old truck rumbled by as he started walking again, throwing dust in his eyes. He
removed his cap, wiped his face with the back of his hand, put the cap back on.
The air was hot. Sweat rolled down his sides. The sun kept disappearing behind
the clouds. His forecast of rain appeared to be in the offing.

Gnats
swarmed before his face. Perhaps they devoured the thoughts from his restless
mind. Thoughts turning dark like the sky. Not exactly thoughts, but great
drag-you-down feelings. Premonitions. Storm feelings. Full moon feelings, too,
though there hadn't been a full moon last night. He felt a splatter of rain on
his face. Just a drop or two, not even enough to settle the dust. But the
clouds remained, promising more, teasing him with thoughts of blessed relief.

He
saw his grandfather Timothy walking behind a span of mules in a ragged,
suffering condition, wearing patched bib overalls, but proud doing honest work.
Daniel himself had been just a wee lad at the time. But the fact of the simple
life had impressed him deeply. Now he wondered: if Grandpa Tomelin's way of
living had made such an impression on young Daniel, then why was the older
Daniel wearing out his poor feet going nowhere along a country road, leaving
his family farther and farther behind with each step? It was no way to live. A
man needed soil to plant his feet in.