Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  "I ain't no baseball fan."

  Her eyes popped open wide. "No baseball fan? C'mon, folks 'round here live for baseball. Yankees and Cubs. Don't you even like the Bambino?"

  "Bambino? Can't say as I know him, ma'am."

  She shook her head and peered at him over her glasses. "Why, he's Mr. Babe Ruth, of the New York Yankees. The greatest hitter of all time. They call him the Sultan of Swat. Sure you ain't never heard of him?" She chuckled, still shaking her head. "Can you beat that."

  Daniel smiled. "Come to think of it, maybe I have. I don't pay much attention."

  "Maybe you should," she said. "When you get where you're going, you oughtta sit down and listen to the games. You might surprise yourself and get interested. Gives people something to talk about when they run out of politics and crooked politicians."

  "Yes, ma'am." Daniel dusted off his cap and put it on. "Well, I'm off to see the world now. Thanks for your hospitality."

  "Y'all take care now, you hear?"

  A young man in a cook's apron stuck his head out the kitchen door behind her—a man with pale skin and snow white hair. Daniel had never seen a human albino. This fellow could walk through a dark alley without a flashlight.

  The man glanced at him momentarily, then spoke to the waitress. "I'm going to the outhouse for a smoke, Millie. There's no customers—except for this ol' gent." He nodded toward Daniel.

  "This is my stepson, Glenn," Millie said, turning to Daniel. She gave the counter another swipe with the rag.

  "Pleased to meet you," Daniel said. "And this here ol' gent's on his way out the door."

  After leaving the diner, he wandered aimlessly through the public square, near the city hall and the courthouse. Wherever he went, he heard talk of the World Series; he was just not interested.

  A pair of railroad tracks divided the city, and streetcar tracks ran through the major arteries. For a small town, Springfield was well developed with lots of concrete, brick, and native-stone buildings lining both sides of the streets. Here and there, a belching smokestack towered over factories and church spires. Utility poles supported row after row of electrical and telephone wires that resembled railroad tracks in the sky, tying the streets and blocks together.

  Wandering back toward the stockyards, Daniel ended up at a hobo camp on Commercial Street. The ragged, unshaven men eyed him furtively as he found a spot away from the others and lay on the ground with his head on his sack, cradling George's banjo in his arms.

  He didn't like the idea of carousing with tramps. They unnerved him. He could always tell who was looking for work and who'd given up long ago. Some were troublemakers, a dangerous lot. But there was safety in numbers.

  Men in hobo camps often stuck up for one of their own, never mind they might also rob him first. They had their own codes and symbols, which they sketched on signs, fences, and buildings. If you understood them you'd get along fine.

  HOOO: Keep going. Police are tough here.

  Dot in circle: Stay clear. Long jail term if caught.

  Cross in circle: Religious people, considerate on the whole.

  Triangle with arrows through it: You'll be shot here.

  Large X: Not a good place to stop. People are poor.

  Upside down triangle: Too many hoboes stopping here. The place is ruined.

  There were symbols for unfriendly people and for houses with vicious dogs. Another for a good place to stop where kind people gave food or money. Daniel had already met some of those people, and the word around hobo jungles was the homeless were better fed than some of the other citizens. That may have been true, but he'd seen an awfully lot of poverty and sickness in the shanty towns.

  Drifters gave each other news they'd heard while traveling and on the radio, when they were lucky enough to encounter one.

  It's how Daniel had learned of the Pendergast deal, had even gotten the address where he could apply for work. For the most part, vagrants were concerned about their own survival. In truth, though some were hoodlums, others were decent people who'd run out of luck.

  Someone coughed and spat as Daniel closed his eyes and listened to a discussion about the Cubs and the Yankees.

  "Babe ripped the Chicago Cubs in the press when he stuck up for the shortstop Mark Koenig." The drifter chuckled. "The Bambino's got a reputation for saying what he means, and he don't care who knows it."

  "Yup, heard about that deal. Koenig used to be a Yankee before going to the Cubs. Babe thought the Cubs did the player dirty when they offered him only half a share of the World Series payoff."

  "So'd everybody else. He was cheated after batting three-fifty-three in thirty-three games. I don't blame people for getting pissed off."

  "Nope, me neither," said the other man. "That's gratitude, ain't it?"

  "Sure the hell is. He deserved to be rewarded and he got screwed, and Ruth won't let 'em forget it."

  "So, who's gonna win the Series?"

  "Who do you think?"

  "Me? Yankees, of course."

  "Nah, personally, I don't give a damn who wins, just so they play square." After a minute, the man said, "But the Cubs are going to win, just watch."

  "Nope. Got a feeling in my gut."

  "Guts lie sometimes."

  The men's voices receded to the back of his mind as Daniel fought sleep. Give 'em one for Frank Kimball. Shine will even root for your team. You be watching the game, buddy. He couldn't afford to sleep, but sleep he did.

  At one point, he aroused enough to imagine someone going through his pockets. A dream or a rat? He brushed the imagined hand away and continued dozing.

  Milt's bleeding face suddenly appeared before him.

  "Watch out, Shine!"

  He grabbed for his rifle, but his hand passed right through like sunlight through a pane of glass. Never before had he been unable to pick up his weapon when he needed it. His heart chilled.

  "Watch out!"

  His eyes popped open at once, but the horrific image of his friend was gone. His heart throbbed and his mouth tasted sandy. His neck had kinked up and his shoulder was in a knot. He peered around, moving only his eyes, expecting to see Milt. But he wasn't there. The ghosts of friends who'd died at Flanders frequently haunted his sleep. Milt's face had appeared as real flesh and blood, and had left Daniel gasping for breath.

  The sky was still dark, but a streak of daylight glowed in the east. Except for the scratching of rats, mice, and sometimes cats in refuse containers, and the snorts and snores of his unfortunate grubby companions, all was quiet.

  He almost expected a burst of gunfire over his head, the ear-splitting blasts of mortars. He lay in the early dawn hours surrounded by vagrants, trash, and, likely as not, sewer rats, urine, and feces running through the culverts. The smell was intolerable. He listened. Not even birdsong broke the silence. There were no sounds of artillery; he was in no danger except from his own mind.

  He sat up slowly and found himself in one piece. Locating his cap, he pulled it on and started to rise—stiff, sore, and older by one more night on hard ground.

  A flurry of activity met his ears as shadowy images flashed by. Scuffling sounds, and men running and swearing told him something was wrong. He thought the police had come. But before he could join the others, something flew at him from the darkness. Something that seemed human, yet was too small to be one of the tramps.

  There was no time to react as a burst of fire lit up the inside of his head. His knees buckled. He felt himself sliding to the ground. Reflexively, he reached out and grabbed a nearby garbage container and pulled it down with him.

  "Watch out!"

  The voice faded from his consciousness.

  A rumbling train roused him. He awoke to find himself sprawled on the ground near the spilled refuse bin, the back of his head throbbing. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings. His eyes blurred and shadowy creatures moved through the haze. He sat still for a few minutes. He blinked, and blinked again, not understanding where he was or what he was
doing. He tried to focus on his surroundings: there were no poppies in this place, no trenches to take cover in—if he'd aimed at such a hole, he'd missed and hit the ground.

  The war's over, Daniel.

  Maybe that one is, but mine ain't.

  He waited for his mind to clear, and when it finally did, he realized someone had tried to club his brains out. He remembered seeing something pass close to him before it happened.

  Daylight was brighter now, the first rays of sunshine slanting between the buildings, highlighting the squalid conditions around him. The tramps were gone. They wouldn't have stuck around to take the blame for trying to kill someone. No sir. They'd cut out like greased lightning and leave him there to die. Nearby lay a length of board, probably the weapon his assailant had whacked him with.

  Panic gripped him as he remembered his money and reached for his pouch.

  Gone!

  Frantic, he rose unsteadily, his head throbbing, and searched around him. It was not in the garbage littering the alley. Not in his bib pocket, nor his shirt pocket. He dug his hands in his overalls' deep pockets. Nothing there but a few screws and nails. His gunnysack lay nearby. He yanked it open and searched among the shaving soap, the Lava, the Cloverine, his spare socks, underwear, and other personal items.

  He even searched the banjo: around the back, under the strings—why the heck anybody would hide a coin purse on a banjo was beyond his comprehension, but he looked anyway. He straightened the refuse barrel upright and picked through the garbage on the ground.

  Robbed! He'd been knocked out and robbed of his money. He sat down again with his face in his hands. How can I go home? I've failed my wife and kids, my dad, and my own worthless self.

  Tears seeped through his fingers.

  "What's the matter, mister?"

  Startled, he pulled his wet hands from his face and looked into the eyes of a young boy badly in need of a haircut and a bar of soap. The child of poverty, perhaps nine or ten years old, squatted before him staring into his face.

  "Why are you crying?" the boy asked.

  He was a ragged, skinny urchin, his eyes darkly shadowed. With a grim expression, he resembled a ninety-year-old man in an eight-year-old body.

  Daniel dried his eyes, blew his nose on a scrap of paper from the refuse, and discarded it in the bin. His head hurt like a sonofagun.

  "I've been robbed."

  "Robbed?"

  "I only had me a little money. I was taking it home to my wife."

  This boy might not have a family, and if he did, they'd probably stopped caring if his dirty bare feet had shoes or his hollow stomach had food.

  The boy sat on the ground beside him.

  "I got no money, either. What's your name?"

  "My name's Daniel."

  "Daniel."

  "Yep."

  He patted the boy's greasy hair. His own problems seemed to shrink with whatever troubles this little boy had.

  "Tell me about yourself."

  "I don't know nothing." Said with a shrug.

  "How old are you, about eight, nine?"

  "Twelve."

  "Is that right? Well, I'll be."

  "My old man said I'm the runt of the family."

  "That wasn't very nice. Why would a man call his son a runt?"

  "Because I'm too short."

  "I was short once myself," Daniel said. "In fact, when I was born I could fit in a shoebox." He nudged the boy in the ribs. "Between you and me and that lamppost over there—I bet you'll outgrow your dad someday. Don't let it bother you."

  "It don't bother me. Being short makes it easier to—"

  "Easier to what—sneak in picture shows? What's your name? I told you mine." He waited while the boy thought it over. "You can tell me. I ain't gonna bite your head off."

  "It's Christopher, a sissy name. My friends call me Chris." He grinned a little. "My old man calls me stupid, and some people call me asshole."

  Daniel came to attention.

  "Who taught you to cuss like that?"

  "My old man."

  "That's a naughty word for a kid."

  "Nobody cares what I say."

  "I care." Daniel's voice was stern. "You don't say it no more, ya hear?"

  "You ain't my old man."

  "Nope. But if you hang around you'd better pretend I am, cause next time I hear you say it, I might lay a strap on your butt." After a minute, he asked, "Your family here in Springfield?"

  There was no reply. Chris shrugged again and stared into space before turning to Daniel again.

  "I saw someone take your mon—I saw who robbed you."

  Daniel whipped around to face him.

  "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

  "I was—afraid." Chris took a deep breath and stared Daniel right in the eye. "Those other guys left. I was afraid he'd beat me up."

  Daniel picked up the banjo and strummed a note while Chris eyed the instrument.

  "Are you going to tell me who it was?"

  Chris shook his head no and stood. "Aw, I better not."

  Daniel strummed again. "Do you see the thief around here anyplace?"

  Chris thrust his hands in his pants pockets.

  "No, but he might come back."

  "He might at that."

  "He'll hurt me if I tell."

  "Nope," Daniel said. "Nobody's going to hurt you while I'm here and see 'em coming. If anyone tried, I'd whack him over the bean with this here banjo."

  Chris grinned, his eyes huge as they searched Daniel's face.

  "You'd break your banjo for me? Why would you do that?"

  "Oh, I don't know, Chris. Maybe 'cause I got me some kiddies of my own and would help 'em if they were in trouble."

  "How many kids? Where are they?"

  "I've got three," Daniel replied. "None of them as old as you, though. Just little tykes."

  "Where are they?"

  Persistent little cuss.

  A single note floated through the morning air.

  "They're home with their mama."

  "I don't have a mom," Chris said.

  "That's too bad. Is she dead?"

  "I don't think so. She's just gone."

  "I'm sorry." Daniel wanted to put his arm around him, but thought it might not be welcome. If Daniel himself didn't trust vagrants, why, then, should this boy? He kept his hands on the banjo. Besides, he was worried Chris could have lice, or something worse crawling in his dark hair.

  "It's okay," Chris said. "I'm tough."

  "So you saw who conked me on the head and took my money? Tell me, what did he look like? Maybe I can tell the sheriff to keep an eye out for him."

  "He was white."

  "Lots of folks are white." Daniel said. "I'm white, you're white—under all that dirt. What else did he look like?"

  "I mean he was really white, not just tan skin like you and me."

  Something rang a bell.

  "Go on."

  "His skin was white, like a piece of paper, and—and his hair was all white."

  "An old man?" Daniel studied the boy's face.

  "No. He wasn't old. Not as old as you. His hair was just—white, like his face."

  Daniel recognized the description of the young man in the diner, Glenn. But he let the boy continue.

  Chris's hands went deeper in his pockets. He rattled something around—probably marbles, Daniel thought. He used to carry marbles in his own pockets. He plinked and plucked the banjo, and a string popped loose. "Damn, there goes another one." He looked at Chris. "Sorry, I forgot you was here for a minute or I wouldn't have cussed."

  "Ha ha."

  "Well a boy your age ought not to cuss, but I'd understand if he had to."

  Chris seemed nervous, but Daniel continued prodding.

  "Do you know where the man is who clobbered me?" He laid the banjo down and stood.

  "I know where he works."

  "Where?"

  Chris pointed toward downtown.

  "He lives on St. Louis
Street behind a restaurant. His step-mom owns it, and—and I think she's embarrassed by, uh—the way he looks."

  Daniel raised his brows almost to the brim of his cap. "You don't say."

  "Yeah."

  Daniel hitched up his overalls and adjusted his hammer, screwdriver, pliers, and the hand saw. Then he stooped to retrieve his gunnysack, feeling dizzy as he came back up. He picked up the banjo and slung the pack over his shoulder.

  "Let's go find the diner and wait till it opens. Then you can point out this gent to me."

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  Chris refused to meet Daniel's steady gaze.

  "I'm afraid."

  "Told you I wouldn't let anybody hurt you." He motioned for Chris to follow. "C'mon, let's go get my money back."

  Chris refused to move. He stood with his shoulders hunched, his fingers twiddling in his pockets again. Daniel heard rattling that didn't sound like marbles.

  "What's in your pockets?"

  "Nothing." Chris pulled out a bottle cap. "Oh, just this. I collect 'em. I only got one."

  "I see." Daniel grinned. "First time I ever heard a bottle cap clink in a pocket all by itself. I'll be darned."

  He reached out with his free hand to grab the boy's arm, but Chris was too fast. His slender young body twisted out of Daniel's grip and he backed away.

  "Leave me alone!"

  He started to run. Daniel dropped the sack and banjo and caught up with him, grabbed his arm and spun him around.

  "It was you! You tried to knock my brains out and stole my money."

  "It wasn't me, I didn't do it."

  There was no other explanation for the coins he'd heard clinking in Chris's pocket.

  "You're a thief, and not a very good one."

  "I ain't either, let me go!"

  "Don't lie," Daniel said. "I heard money jingling in your pocket. You said you didn't have any. Bottle caps don't clink with nothing to clink on, young man. I know what money sounds like."

  Daniel glanced around. Seeing no one else on the street, he held Chris with one hand and reached in a pocket with the other. Out came the old leather pouch, not quite as full as it had been. It was partially open; some coins had spilled.

  "Give it back," Chris cried. "My—my family needs it."

  "Take me to your family."

  "No!"