Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  Weary of body and with a heavy heart, he put his cap back on and studied each person in turn. Finally, he settled the three-string banjo over his shoulder, picked up the pack, and let himself out the door. He went down the steps—gazed north toward home for a minute—then struck out walking in the opposite direction toward Springfield, miles and miles away over hills and valleys and dry, thirsty pastures.

  Chapter 10

  The rain didn't materialize that late July day, but a different kind of storm smoldered in LaDaisy's heart as Clay dropped by and forced himself on her again.

  "How many more times?" she sobbed, knowing she was about a year behind with the rent.

  "As many times as I need," he said. "Now stop crying before I give you something to cry about." Then he laughed. "A few more times to collect the rent, LaDaisy. I should've thought of this a long time ago. But I didn't have a reason before, with me and Ida Mae just getting hitched. Now she's useless."

  "Oh God."

  "When the rent's paid, maybe I'll keep on doing it till Ida Mae has the kid. How many months more now?"

  LaDaisy rolled her head from side to side, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at him. As Ida's husband, he knew damn well when their baby was due.

  This time Mary slept through her mother's ordeal.

  "No matter," Clay said. "No damn fucking matter. You going to help or do I have to slap the piss out of you?"

  I'll help you over my dead body, Clay Huff.

  He panted hard, his body reeking from sweat and male hormones. Soon she'd find blessed relief from the assault.

  "You know you enjoy this."

  When he rammed her again, she cried out. Clay grunted. His only response was to do it again and again.

  When she was finally alone again, she wasted no time heating water for her bath. This time, Clay's roughness had brought blood, and Susannah's quilt would have to be soaked in cold water to prevent a stain.

  Hurting so badly she could hardly walk, she stripped the quilt off the bed and carried it out to the kitchen. It could soak in her bathwater after she got out.

  She sensed that Saul knew something was going on between Clay and herself. But if so, he never mentioned it. Nor did he interfere—could he believe his son's wife actually welcomed another man's advances? She hoped not, but sometimes it was hard to tell what Saul thought.

  On the other hand, he surely knew some people were driven to desperate and depraved acts to survive the hardships and loss of pride caused from the Depression. Saul, with his Tomelin pride and loyalty, was the sort of man who would keep it to himself if LaDaisy had lowered herself to prostitution to feed her kids.

  She began to wonder if she'd somehow brought this on herself.

  Clay always waited till the children were visiting their cousins. When the weather was warm, the older ones took Bobby outdoors to play right after breakfast. They didn't usually wander back to the house until they were hungry, or, as Daniel would say, they were so covered with dirt they couldn't tell each other apart. She was left with only Mary until Elizabeth brought Ralph for nursing..

  Afternoons while Mary napped were LaDaisy's private times to restore herself, both physically and mentally. Then she would turn the radio on and spend fifteen minutes with "Myrt and Marge." Even her father-in-law took it easy during the heat of the day after hoeing his garden. The few raindrops evaporated before hitting the ground. Saul's crops were parched, producing more dust and insects than vegetables. The old man himself was dried out, tough and leathery.

  She would miss his company if he wasn't around. Since Daniel left, his father had started dropping by on Friday evenings to listen to "One Man's Family," and on Sundays he came for "The Jack Benny Program," laughing with her and the kids before they went to bed.

  He came in handy for things she couldn't do herself, such as wringing the neck of her last laying hen so they could have meat for supper one Sunday. The old bird—the last of eight she'd bought as chicks years ago—was tough as shoe leather, but she'd turned it into a tasty stew with dumplings.

  Other times, he brought whatever small produce he'd managed to raise to maturity. Often as not, his hands were empty, but he'd sit in the kitchen and visit or play with Mary.

  "She's going to be pretty like her mama," he said one day, and LaDaisy was pleased.

  "Really, Saul? Do you think so?" She blushed. "Even Daniel don't say I'm pretty very much."

  "Then Daniel's head ain't on right. The boys resemble their daddy mostly. Earl's the spittin' image. I see some of him in Bobby and some in Catherine. The girl's more like you, except she's got the Tomelins' big hazel eyes." He paused for a long time, thinking.

  "This little girl looks like she came from the woodpile." He looked at LaDaisy and grinned. "Now don't get me wrong, girl. I know she didn't crawl out from under no woodpile. But she's yours through and through. Maybe she'll change as she gets older. But right now I don't see her daddy except in her eyes."

  His words tugged at her heartstrings, as they always did when he reminisced about Daniel. Sometimes she wondered where he drew the line between his son's family and his own, most of whom were already buried.

  "Mary's the spitting image of Grandma Blue," she said. "Her name was Frances. It's too bad Daddy doesn't live closer so he can get to know his grandchildren." She grew thoughtful. "I suspect he stays away so he won't bump into Mama. She'd probably gouge his eyes out."

  Saul brought up memories of the dead baby, and she turned automatically toward her bedroom and the baby shoes on her dresser, and Clay's rent receipt.

  Again, she had the distinct impression Saul knew what had happened with Clay the first time. She almost wished she could pour out her troubles to him. Would he understand, or consider her a willing participant?

  "I wish Daniel was here," he said.

  "Oh Saul, so do I." LaDaisy blinked back her tears. "Do you reckon he'll ever come home? I don't think he will. I don't even know if I still want him after what he did."

  Saul nodded. "Nobody blames you for feeling that way. It was a bad thing he did. But maybe you could forgive him?"

  "Daniel doesn't deserve my forgiveness, Saul. He brought this on himself. And—and sometimes I hate him with every nerve in my body. Other times I—" I still love him? Yes. There's no denying that.

  Saul picked up the empty basket.

  "For a while I thought maybe he'd come home, but now I don't know." He reached out and touched one of Mary's curls, then leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "Daniel would be proud of this little girl."

  "If he's still alive."

  "Oh, he's alive. I'd know if he was dead."

  "How?"

  "He'd come in the night and say good-bye."

  "You're scaring me!"

  He lay a hand on her shoulder. "Don't mean to scare you, girl. I told you before about dead folks coming to see me before they move on. About the third day after they die."

  "Oh I know it, but—"

  "Us Tomelins got strong bonds."

  "You'd actually see Daniel? Like you see me standing here?"

  "I might. Most likely I'd sense his presence." He took his straw hat off the back of a chair and put it on. "Used to scare me when it happened. But I figured a man won't do anything dead that he won't do alive."

  Saul's Adam's apple slid up and down when he spoke, like when he used to chew tobacco. He couldn't afford to chew now, but his Adam's apple went up and down anyway.

  "Dead Tomelins know the rest of us got second sight, so they come to let us know they're okay."

  "Being dead is okay." She wiped her tears away and smiled.

  Saul grinned, and she saw her husband in his face.

  "Aw, now, you know what I mean." He opened the door, then spoke over his shoulder. "It ain't only dead ones come visit. I seen live folks, too. Sometimes they pop out of their skin, then go back in when they're done checking on ya."

  LaDaisy didn't believe such a thing was possible.

  "Well, Saul, i
f Daniel does come—dead or alive—will you let me know?" She crossed her arms defiantly. "If he's got the guts to show his face after running out on us, there's a few things I want to tell him."

  Sometimes LaDaisy had odd feelings of her own. Like the time she imagined Daniel sitting on the edge of their bed, watching her undress. Another time, she saw him fiddling around outside with his truck. She'd had to pinch herself to be sure she wasn't dreaming.

  I'd almost expected him to crank up the rusty old flivver and drive off, and that ain't normal.

  Her imagination ran wild. Suppose Daniel escaped his body and visited when Clay had her pinned to the bed. What would he think? That she was helping? Or would he hear her crying. Do ghosts see and hear, or do they lose those physical senses when they die? The real Daniel might light into Clay with both fists and a two-by-four with nails in it, then run over him with the truck if caught in the act of raping his wife—but what would a ghost do? What could a ghost do? Would Daniel's ghost hate Clay Huff as much as he did alive?

  After Saul left, LaDaisy opened Daniel's gun closet. She hated firearms with a passion. Guns were made for only one purpose: to put a bullet through a living creature's heart. It was all she could do to touch the 12-gauge as it stood in one corner of the closet. She hesitated a moment, then picked it up carefully and laid it on the bed.

  How do I load this thing? He said I didn't need to know, but did he consider I might have to defend myself someday? Pioneer women knew how to shoot guns. Why can't I shoot a rapist?

  She didn't know the least thing about loading a gun, and she even doubted she had the nerve to fire one. Still, she'd seen Daniel load it a time or two, so maybe she could figure it out.

  When Clay comes over and unbuttons his pants again, he'll run screaming out of here with buckshot in his worthless ass.

  She removed the box of shells from the closet shelf and turned to find Bobby standing by the bed reaching for the gun.

  "Bang!"

  "Don't touch that!" She ran over and smacked his hand away. "No, Bobby!"

  "Daddy's gun?"

  "Yes, it's Daddy's." She picked it up. "But you're never to touch it, understand?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I said so. It'll hurt you."

  She replaced the gun in the closet and locked the door, but clutched the skeleton key in her fist, afraid to return it to the hiding place with her son watching.

  Bobby lost interest in the gun and went over to the cradle, stood on tiptoes and peered over the side. He turned to his mother. "Shhh." Then gave the cradle a push.

  "Yes, she's sleeping. Be quiet so you don't wake her." She wanted him out of the room so she could hide the key. "Where's Earl and Cath? Go find them."

  He didn't move immediately, but stood gazing up at her.

  "Daddy come home?"

  Almost every day, she could count on one of the kids to ask.

  "I don't know, honey. I hope so."

  His eyes grew wide and he pointed to the closet.

  "Daddy shoot gun."

  "I don't know what Daddy will do, Bobby."

  A few minutes ago, she had contemplated shooting another human being. How could she face her children if she carried out her plan? She tightened her grip on the key until it bit into her palm.

  "Now, go find your sister and brother so they can clean up to eat. I'll scramble some eggs or cook some pap."

  "Pap."

  He ran from the room and she quickly put the key away.

  Taking a deep breath, she headed for the kitchen, relieved in a twisted way for making a half-hearted decision to shoot Ida's husband the next time he assaulted her big sister.

  Not for two or three more days, at least. Clay wouldn't come around after she'd told him it was time for her monthlies.

  The next morning, the Channing Ford turned in the driveway. Elizabeth was early, but there was no sign of Ralph.

  "Where are you hiding him?" LaDaisy peered past Elizabeth as she came inside.

  Elizabeth stood in the middle of the room, obviously ill at ease as she glanced everywhere but at LaDaisy.

  "I—I won't be bringing him anymore, Mrs. Tomelin."

  LaDaisy frowned. "Not bringing him? I thought we agreed he needs a couple more months—"

  Elizabeth's face turned scarlet and she refused to meet LaDaisy's eyes.

  LaDaisy motioned to the davenport. "Please sit down, Elizabeth, we'll talk about it."

  "If you don't mind, I prefer to stand."

  The two women faced each other uncomfortably. LaDaisy felt her milk letting down, but Ralph was not there to claim it. In a few more minutes it would seep through her dress.

  "Well, I've obviously done something to upset you. But I'm not a mind reader. Have you found someone else? I'll understand if you have." She waited for a reply, and when none came, she continued. "Why won't you talk to me? I need all the help I can get with my husband away, Elizabeth. I appreciate you've trusted me with your baby all this time. He's like my own—"

  Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. "You were good for Ralphie, and I hate to put him strictly on cows' milk because it makes his stools hard."

  "Then why?"

  Elizabeth met LaDaisy's eyes briefly, then glanced away.

  "It's the men."

  "Th—" LaDaisy caught her breath. "Men?"

  "Actually, just one man." The words spilled out in a torrent of embarrassment. "The man who comes to—to visit you during the day. Don't think people haven't noticed. They've—I've seen his car parked down the road. Oh yes, he tries to hide it. But I know what's going on, you without a husband and all."

  LaDaisy sat down in the rocker, staring past the woman, seeing the yard and trees through the screen door, dreading what she knew was coming.

  "Go on."

  "Oh, this is embarrassing for me, Mrs. Tomelin. Your husband is gone. Everyone in town knows he's gone. But you're still married, and this man comes to your house—"

  "What are you talking about?" But LaDaisy knew the answer.

  "I can't risk coming here and walking in on you and ... him."

  LaDaisy's breasts tightened and shut down the milk supply. God help her if she dried up and had no more milk for Mary.

  "Surely you don't think?"

  "I don't know what else to think."

  LaDaisy covered her face with her hands.

  "The man is ... he's my sister's husband, my landlord, for God's sake."

  "Your brother-in-law? That's even worse."

  "No, no!" LaDaisy jumped up and faced Elizabeth, angry and afraid at the same time. "You don't know what you're saying. I'm—he comes to collect the rent. He—"

  "You have money for rent?" Elizabeth was aghast. "Or do you pay it another way? I know Mr. Tomelin isn't here to provide the rent. I know this because you already told me. Otherwise, you wouldn't have needed to wet-nurse my son in exchange for food."

  "Let me explain."

  Elizabeth turned to leave. "You can't explain anything I'll believe."

  Unable to take any more, LaDaisy jumped up and got in her face. "Who made you so goddamed high and mighty? How dare you come in my house and accuse me of being a whore."

  Elizabeth quickly left the house, slamming the door behind her. Only then did LaDaisy allow the tears to fall.

  No more milk for my kids.

  She collapsed on the davenport. After a few minutes, she looked at the clock through tear-swollen eyes and realized it was time to feed the kids. Feed them—what?

  Chapter 11

  Traversing hills and streams en route to Springfield was torture for Daniel. His body ached. The soles of his feet burned and new calluses crusted old ones. In late afternoon, the sky turned dark, and nasty green clouds appeared in the southwest. The smell of ozone tainted the heavy, moist air and left him struggling for breath. He stopped walking, mopped sweat from his brow and stood very still, surveying his surroundings. It was too quiet. Not a leaf stirred; no bird sang.

  Something was up.

&
nbsp; He recalled that more than a hundred years ago, the earth had shuddered violently and split open at New Madrid, some distance behind him in the Bootheel region. The temblor had rocked, not only Missouri, but states as far away as Boston, and when it was over, the Mississippi River flowed backward.

  The earth was restless and wobbly—and Daniel Tomelin was right out in the open.

  A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed a moment later by a loud thunderclap that almost peeled his skin off and set his ears ringing. A sharp wind rose and blew dust up his nose and in his throat. He coughed, and looked up as a drop of rain splashed his glasses. He pulled his rain slicker from the gunnysack and pulled it on just as the rain began in earnest, then stashed the banjo in the bag.

  There's no bed for a man to hide under.

  Rain fell soft and cool on his face, relief from the scorching heat his body had endured since spring. When the sky opened and heavy rain pelted the ground, the thirsty soil soaked it up. The storm's front was still some distance away, but he squinted to see through the downpour.

  In the distance appeared a stone house with a thatched roof. And not far from the house stood another building. A church? If I can reach it, I'll be safe.

  When a male voice filled his head with song in a strange language, Daniel recalled Grandma Susannah's stories about a distant relative from Wales.

  His skin tingled, and the foreign thoughts startled him. Through misty lenses appeared an old mill house. A woolen mill? How did he know that? White sheep dotted the hillside—he could almost smell the wet wool. What were they doing out in the rain? Where were sheep dogs bringing them to fold?

  What had these to do with tramping through southern Missouri in a thunderstorm? He was thousands of miles from his grandmother's homeland.

  He turned his rain-soaked face away as the wind swirled leaves and twigs in his path. The rain had slowed, but the storm rumbled and crashed overhead as lightning spiked around him. He realized his life was in danger and dove into a ditch by the side of the road.