"No."
"My husband made the box to keep the baby shoes in."
It was Wayne for whom Daniel had also built the large cradle, and each child right on down the line had used it. It was made of black walnut wood with a small white lamb inlaid in the high-backed headboard. The baby's grave had a small concrete statue of a reposing lamb; but someone had been mean enough to break it year before last. Daniel's father, Saul, had mended it so well you couldn't see the damage.
Elizabeth's voice intruded on LaDaisy's thoughts.
"By the time Mr. Tomelin returns to build Ralphie's cradle, I'm afraid Ralphie's grandson will need it."
Now what brought that on? Where on earth did she get the idea Daniel would make her a cradle?
"He's coming back, isn't he?"
"Well I ... of course, I'm sure Daniel ..."
"I want a cradle like the one he made for Fannie Gudgell—"
LaDaisy interrupted. "I—I don't believe he built a cradle for Mrs. Gudgell, Elizabeth. I remember her asking, but he never mentioned doing it." Could Daniel have done the work without her knowing? It wasn't like him to change his mind once it was made up. Surely he would've told her.
Before she could organize her thoughts, Elizabeth said, "Of course he did. Fannie showed it to me. It's a beautiful piece of work." Then she smiled. "But instead of the lamb, I want a big letter 'R' for Ralph. I'll use it for my other babies when we decide to have them."
LaDaisy glanced at Elizabeth's chest. You might have them, girl, but I ain't nursing them.
"I never understood how other women actually plan their families," she said, "as if they were planning to get their hair permanent-waved. Do they tell their misters 'no,' and risk an angry husband for weeks at a time?"
Elizabeth looked stricken. "Oh, my, you do know there's protection?"
"That's true. But a woman in her right mind won't say 'no' to her husband. The Bible says a wife has to submit."
"Well, I—"
"Only a few times did I have courage to reject Daniel," LaDaisy admitted. "He understood I was out of sorts, or having my monthlies. But there were times even the monthlies couldn't stop him."
"Oh, a wife never refuses if she can help it, and—and a real gentleman would never ask at the wrong time. But there are ways."
"I don't know what he did to relieve himself when I refused," LaDaisy said, enjoying Elizabeth's discomfort. "Spilled the seed on the ground, I suppose. I imagined a crop of babies sprouting up behind the outhouse."
She smiled at Elizabeth, whose embarrassment bordered on apoplexy. The woman had no choice but to listen.
Suddenly, Ralph clamped his gums on LaDaisy's nipple hard enough to bring tears. For an instant, she wanted to slap him. But she caught herself in time and slipped a finger in a corner of his mouth to break the suction, then pushed him away from her breast.
"What is it?" Elizabeth asked.
"The little shit bit me!"
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry."
"Must be getting a tooth."
"So soon? Oh, it must hurt. The biting, I mean."
Elizabeth came over and gently scolded her baby.
"Bad Ralphie. You can't bite the nice lady who feeds you."
LaDaisy grimaced. Biting your nice old cow, Ralph. But it's all right. They won't be fit for anything when you get done with them.
Some days Ralph's nursing made her so nervous she could scream. With her own babies, she'd sometimes felt a pleasant little jolt in her privates—she'd never tell anyone, but it was much better than the biting.
Now she changed the subject. "About the cradle—"
"Oh, look who's here," Elizabeth cried.
The silver-haired toddler stood in the other bedroom doorway, holding onto the jamb. He stared at Elizabeth and rubbed sleep from his eyes with a fist.
"Baby Ralph's here, Bobby." LaDaisy poked her nipple back in the baby's mouth. "See?"
Dressed only in a diaper, the little boy appeared too thin. LaDaisy could never get the right food down him, and his appetite was poor. When she could afford it, she gave all the children cod liver oil, a thankless chore just getting them to lick the fishy oil from a teaspoon without gagging. She didn't know if cod liver oil would help this boy or not. How could anything put meat on a child's bones if he refused to eat?
Bobby came over and touched Ralph's head.
Elizabeth spoke softly to him and patted the davenport.
"Climb up here with me, sweetheart."
Bobby stayed by his mother, watching Ralph Channing nurse.
LaDaisy had been about to say that Daniel would never build a cradle for any other baby. But perhaps he might, when she told him how kind Elizabeth was to their children. Besides, who was she to know what Daniel would or wouldn't do when he made up his mind?
When Ralph had nursed his fill and fallen asleep, LaDaisy closed her brassiere and rose to pass him back to his mother.
Elizabeth placed her son against her shoulder, patted and crooned. She smiled as LaDaisy snapped her smock.
"Oh," she said, "we mustn't forget to bring in the milk and eggs. They should go right in the icebox."
LaDaisy took Bobby's hand and led him outdoors, his small bare feet running to keep up. They returned with a gallon lard can of fresh milk and a sack of large brown eggs. She'd fix jamboree for tomorrow's supper. Too bad Daniel wouldn't be here to eat one of his favorite dishes, the scrambled mixture of eggs, onions, peppers, and tomatoes. But LaDaisy knew she could always eat her husband's share. With two nursing babies, her appetite was enormous.
Was Daniel getting jamboree and pap, the simple chocolate pudding his grandmother had often served the kids for breakfast? Did anyone else know how to cook things the way he liked them? Or care?
She watched from the front door as Elizabeth laid her son beside her on the passenger seat, started the auto and drove up the road in a cloud of dust.
In the kitchen, she pried up the tight lid of the milk can with a table knife, then poured off the thick yellow cream to save for making butter.
She poured herself a jelly glass of milk and offered Bobby some, which he declined with a frown and a shake of his head. She opened the icebox; the ice was almost gone. She sighed, knowing she'd have to dig into her precious store of pennies to buy another block. Bobby reached in the ice pan below and found a sliver of ice to suck on.
"You eat ice, but won't drink milk. What'll I do with you?"
In winter the Tomelin family saved the price of ice by storing perishables in a special window icebox Daniel had built. But summer was expensive. Ice didn't last long in the Missouri heat and humidity. Food spoiled quickly. Of course, now there wasn't much food left to spoil. They were scraping the bottom of the bowl.
Daniel had delivered ice to the community when he and LaDaisy first met, carrying burlap-wrapped blocks over his shoulder all day. Some blocks had weighed a hundred pounds, and by the end of the day, he could barely straighten up. But he'd enjoyed the work during hot weather, when the ice melted and soaked his shirt.
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 i
nto 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."
Face the Winter Naked Page 5