Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  "I'm my own guardian."

  "That's what you think." Daniel mussed the boy's hair. "I want to do the right thing for once in my life, and you getting an education is the right thing."

  "Gee whiz!"

  "Well, tough luck, Chris. You're giving up your freedom for a home."

  Four hours later, the two stood in a long line outside the two-story, yellow brick building that housed the Pendergast employment business.

  Daniel shook some coins from his purse and handed them to Chris.

  "What's this for?"

  "Remember the little café we saw right before we got here? Next to the beer joint. Think you can find it again?"

  "Sure."

  "Then scoot on over and buy yourself a glass of milk and a scrambled egg. Bring me back a sweet bun."

  Chris left, and Daniel turned back to his place in line. Such a long, long line to the front door. Even if he got inside there was no guarantee they had work for him.

  Around noon, most of the people were miserable and some dropped out of line. Daniel, too, was almost at the end of his patience.

  For two cents, I'd say forget it and head on out to Independence.

  By three o'clock, the line was considerably shorter. And, finally, by dinnertime Daniel stood at the entrance of the building. Men came back out, some jubilant, others downcast. Chris had gone for more food. Now he was back with grilled hotdogs on buns. Daniel ate standing in line, grateful the long wait was about over. Chris sat on a nearby curb with the banjo and gunnysack as, at last, Daniel stepped inside the building.

  Chapter 22

  An hour passed. Mary awoke and LaDaisy nursed her, played with her, bathed her, and put her down again. She'd finally cut a tooth and had a cherub smile. She was more active, rolling over both ways, and could almost sit alone. So far, she hadn't tried to climb out of the cradle, but it was only a matter of time. One of these days, she might pull up and go over the side, as Bobby had done. But she was still too small and delicate, and her mother worried.

  LaDaisy set the cradle swinging, returned to the front room, and sat in the rocker darning Catherine's bloomers. The linoleum felt cool and refreshing to her bare feet as she wove tiny, neat stitches back and forth, filling the rip with thread. She hoped it would hold till she could buy flour sacks to make new ones. Oh, Catherine. Always busting the seams out of your britches.

  As twilight fell, the wind picked up and branches scraped against the house. A thump on the roof made her jump. Probably a squirrel. No longer able to see her work, she rose and turned on a lamp. Wishing for a glass of iced tea from the crock on the kitchen counter, she went out and turned on the overhead light.

  All at once, her skin prickled. Feeling a presence in the room as a draft of air brushed her bare arm, she turned slowly.

  "How—how did you get in?"

  Clay moved out of the shadows.

  "I walked in, stupid bitch."

  She saw the hole in the screen door.

  "You'd better leave." She thought of the butcher knife—it was on the other side of the room, and he blocked her path.

  She backed away, then turned and ran to the front room.

  He gave chase, then saw the gun standing in the corner.

  "No you don't!"

  She reached for the shotgun. He lunged and knocked her against the wall. The gun landed on the floor and he kicked it across the room. She sobbed, struggling to reach it. But he tackled her legs and pulled her feet out from under her. She fell hard, almost knocking the wind out of her.

  "No!" She scooted away and huddled by the wall, catching her breath between sobs. "Go away, Clay, please." Think fast. "Saul's coming back any minute. He's ... he'll bring the sheriff."

  "You're bluffing." He snorted like a mad bull and laughed. "I'm not afraid of the old bastard." He had her cornered. "You're going to pay for breaking up my marriage. So help me, you'll wish you'd never been born."

  "No."

  He came at her; she crouched against the wall, terrified.

  "How do you want it this time?" he taunted, finding amusement in her fear. "Tied spread eagle on the bed? Bet whores like that."

  "Please leave. I—I won't tell anyone."

  "You mean you won't tell anyone else. Did you tell the old man, too?"

  "No."

  "I've got plenty of time."

  She searched the room for the gun. Where did it land?

  He reached for her. She jumped up and he blocked her escape. The mandolin. She grabbed it from the shelf.

  "Come on," Clay said, "don't be a pain in the ass. You're going to pay for what you did." He grabbed her dress, ripping it down the front as she whirled away from him.

  Struggling to breathe, she raised the mandolin over her head with both hands and slammed it down hard. When the teardrop bowl splintered, his head sounded like a gourd.

  Clay staggered and fell. He grabbed his head, trying to staunch the flow of blood running between his fingers, over one eye and down his cheek.

  His blood should be black. She looked at Daniel's mandolin still in her hands, its hollow body cracked open. What have I done?

  Clay moaned and got to his knees. He jerked his head around, staring at something beyond LaDaisy—the expression on his face changed from shock to terror. He tried to stand, but before he could react, a shot rang out. He crashed backward, caught by surprise and shot dead-on with a hole in the middle of his forehead.

  LaDaisy screamed as Clay's blood ran on the linoleum. Then someone else screamed, she couldn't tell who.

  "I didn't do it!" she cried. "I couldn't reach the gun!"

  The room swirled as she shrank away from the body, absently picking up pieces of the broken mandolin. Daniel will fix it. The back of her eyeballs ached and her tears swelled, about to explode like a balloon pricked with a pin. The smell of gunpowder was overpowering. She was faintly aware of Mary crying.

  Hearing a moan, she turned slowly to see her sister crumpled on the floor in the kitchen doorway, the shotgun nearby.

  "Oh my God!"

  Ida tried to rise, saw Clay's body and collapsed again.

  Ignoring her baby's cries, LaDaisy ran to her sister and dropped to her knees beside her as she sobbed uncontrollably.

  She gathered Ida Mae in her arms. "Oh please, please stop, Ida. What are you doing here? Let me hold you, please don't cry."

  Ida was inconsolable. Finally, LaDaisy patted her shoulder and rose.

  "I'll be right back."

  She picked up the still-smoking gun, ran to the bedroom and threw it in the closet. She peeked at Mary—she'd fallen back to sleep—and returned to the front room, avoiding Clay's body as she went back to Ida.

  The floor was wet. Ida's dress and shoes were soaked.

  "Ida?" LaDaisy slapped her sister's cheeks gently and shook her arm. Getting no response, she jumped up and got a wet washrag and wiped Ida's face.

  "Ida, snap out of it, your water broke! You can't have your baby on this dirty kitchen floor. Come on, please."

  Ida opened her eyes. Her face contorted with fear. She clutched her belly and screamed.

  LaDaisy watched helplessly as Ida's stomach tightened under the cotton summer shift. She counted the seconds. There was still time.

  After a minute, Ida Mae breathed normally again. But her eyes were glazed and she was wringing wet with perspiration.

  "LaDaisy! Help me, I hurt."

  LaDaisy thought fast. "Let's get you up. Can you walk?"

  "I—I don't know." Ida Mae whined and tried to sit up, but fell back again.

  "C'mon," LaDaisy urged. "You can't stay on the floor, for God's sake. Try again, Ida. Get up—come in on my bed."

  Ida managed to sit up. She looked past her sister at Clay and her hands flew up to her mouth.

  "No, no, no! I killed him! LaDaisy, I killed my husband."

  "Maybe he's not—come on, let me help you."

  Ida tried to get up again. "I have to go to him. Please let me go, LaDaisy. He's my, my husba
nd."

  The leash you gave him was too damn long, silly girl. How could you not know what he was up to?

  "Don't worry about him now, Ida." Her voice was too sharp. "Come on, get up."

  She helped Ida Mae up, walked her to the bedroom, removed her wet shoes, and propped her up on the bed with pillows behind her back.

  "Stay there."

  "I couldn't go anywhere if my life depended on it."

  "That's for sure," LaDaisy said.

  She ran to the kitchen, grabbed a dishtowel and threw it over the puddle of amniotic fluid. Returning to the bedroom with a glass of water, she held it to Ida's lips.

  "Take a sip, just enough to wet your mouth in this heat. You don't want to throw up." Not on Grandma Tomelin's quilt.

  She rummaged in the closet for old towels, a blanket, a rubber sheet. Anything. A corrugated box? She ripped it open and flattened it out.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I have to put something under your butt."

  "Not cardboard, LaDaisy."

  "Hush up, I don't want my bedclothes wet. Lift your hips."

  "Do you think my baby's coming?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. The water broke, and that's a good sign."

  "Oh no."

  "You had one contraction since coming here. How many more?"

  "I don't know, I can't remember. A few. They hurt."

  She raised Ida's hips and slid the cardboard under them.

  "I don't want to be here, LaDaisy. I'm going to the hospital."

  "Ha. It's too late for that."

  Ida sobbed. "I want Clay and Mama."

  LaDaisy worked an old wool blanket on top of the cardboard under Ida's hips, padding it for comfort. Then she pulled the messy bloomers off—modesty be damned—and tossed them into her laundry basket.

  "I don't want you to see me like this."

  "Like I've never seen you naked before. Be quiet."

  "What am I going to do?" she wailed. "Where's the doctor? Where's my husband?"

  Your husband? The asshole is dead.

  "Stay right there, Ida. Try to relax. I'll get some help." She paused, then asked, "How did you get here? Tell me you didn't drive in this condition. It's getting dark."

  Ida shook her head. "No. I walked."

  "You—?"

  "Yes. I—I followed him." She bit her lower lip and pinched her eyes shut. "I wanted to see for myself."

  "You wanted to see if I lied?"

  "I had to know." Huge tears spilled down Ida's face. She reached a shaking hand up to wipe them away, but they kept coming.

  "Well, now you know." LaDaisy brushed her sister's hair off her damp forehead. "Stop crying now, sis. You'll need all your strength to bring this baby out. We'll discuss the other matter when you're feeling better."

  "Is—is he dead?"

  "I don't know." I hope so. No, I can't wish Clay dead, no matter what he did. "Try not to think about it, Ida. Think of your baby. I'll get the doctor and Mama."

  Ida nodded, but was soon engulfed in another contraction.

  "Oh, help me. Another one. LaDaisy, help me!"

  "Pant," LaDaisy said. "That's what I did, Ida. They told me to pant like a dog. I'm going for help. I'll be back soon."

  Ida grabbed her sister's arm. "Don't leave me. Don't leave me having my baby alone with ... with a dead body in there."

  "You'll be all right till I get back. It's not like Clay's going to get up and come after you. Now relax."

  She scooped Mary from the cradle, clutched her tightly to her chest and stepped around Clay's still form on the way to the front door. She tried not to look, but her peripheral vision picked up a blotch of red on the linoleum.

  Chapter 23

  "Where are you from?"

  "Independence." Daniel stood respectfully with his cap in his hands. "I've been out of work a long time and am near ready for the poorhouse."

  The gentleman looked up.

  "Do you have a trade? Anything you're good at? It'll help a lot if you do."

  "I'm a carpenter," Daniel said, "a cabinetmaker to be exact."

  The interviewer nodded and shifted some papers around on his desk.

  "Then you have experience."

  Daniel smiled. "That I do. I also witch for water, sharpen knives, dig wells, and plow fields." He paused, waiting for the man to respond. "I'll be much obliged if you can find me some work."

  "Family?"

  "Yes, sir. A wife, three youngins."

  "I see."

  "I ain't asking for a handout," Daniel said politely, "just honest labor. I'm willing to work at most anything."

  The agent handed him a form. "Maybe your luck's about to change. Sit at that table over there and fill this out."

  "Thank you," Daniel said.

  When he took the form back, the man read through it and placed it on a pile of papers at one corner of the desk.

  "Very good, Mr. Tomelin. You might've hit the jackpot by being a carpenter. Most men who come through here are common laborers. Or maybe never worked a day in their lives. You have a trade and that's a plus." He leaned back in his chair, removed a cigar from his shirt pocket, looked at it a minute then put it back. "Mr. Pendergast's company—Ready-Mixed Concrete—is going to be hiring soon. Ever hear of it?"

  "Yes, sir, I have."

  "Mr. Pendergast will be constructing a new city hall and courthouse downtown. So if you're able, you probably have a job. When could you start?"

  "Whenever you say."

  "Do you have a place to stay while we check your information and make a decision? I know it's a ways out to Independence, and you don't want to make the trip on foot every day."

  "No, sir, I sure don't." Daniel thought quickly. "I noticed a hotel next door."

  "The Monroe Hotel. It belongs to Mr. Pendergast."

  "Maybe I can stay there a few nights if it don't cost too much. I'm nearly broke, and I got a young boy with me."

  The man raised his brows. "Your kid?"

  "Nope. He's an orphan. I feel responsible for him."

  The man reached across the desk and gave Daniel his hand.

  "A hotel room costs seventy-five cents a night. I could probably get it reduced since you might come to work."

  "Thank you. I appreciate it."

  He scribbled a note and handed it to Daniel.

  "Give this to the desk clerk, tell him Tom Pendergast sent you."

  Daniel's eyes widened. "You're Mr. Pendergast? I didn't realize—"

  "No, no. I'm not Tom. He authorized me to help folks on his behalf."

  "Then tell him how grateful I am. I'd better go now and see if they have a spare room."

  "Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Tomelin. We'll be in touch."

  "Yes, sir. I'll be waiting." Daniel turned toward the door, then stopped and said over his shoulder, "There's a line a mile long out there. I myself waited all morning to get in here. Guess I'm one of the lucky ones. Can't help feeling sorry for the guys that don't make it."

  "Most come in and go right back out," the agent said. "Some just won't work. Period. Excuse me for being so blunt. It's like knocking down a row of dominos. Don't get me wrong. We've found work for many men. They're all human, and it's not Mr. Pendergast's nature to turn anyone down if he can help it."

  The interview was officially over when the man removed his cigar again and proceeded to light it.

  Daniel left the office in a state of euphoria. Ragged, destitute men—young and old—called to him as he passed down the line:

  "How'd ya do in there, mister?'

  "Any work today?"

  "How about me? I used to be a bookkeeper. Think they'll find anything for me?"

  "Luck was on my side," Daniel told them, trying not to gloat. "Maybe it'll be lucky for you, too. At least I hope so. Now if you'll excuse me, I have something I got to do." He broke through the line to go find Chris.

  Sometime later, Daniel and Chris stretched out on the bed in a small room on the second floor of the Monroe Hotel.
The desk clerk had shown them right in after Daniel presented the note from the employment agent.

  "Mr. Pendergast lets folks sleep here for thirty cents a night," the clerk had said, "if they're going to work for him."

  "That's mighty generous of him."

  "And if you can do a little repair work around the hotel, so much the better."

  "It makes sense," Daniel said, after a minute of thought. "People don't get something for nothing. I don't mind making up the difference for a place to lay our heads."

  Now he spoke to Chris. "My poor old bones are happy to get a real bed again. They almost forgot what it feels like after sleeping in barns and thickets. I don't mind earning my keep to get a cut-rate."

  "Yeah," Chris said. "It's a good deal." He stretched his arms out and nearly knocked Daniel's glasses off. "There ain't no pee smells on this bed. Back home, the mattress got peed on so much I almost puked sleeping on it."

  Daniel rolled his head to look at the boy. "That right?

  "Yep. With so many kids, the mattress never got dried out."

  "It's a darn shame, Chris. No wonder you left home." Daniel sat up and ran a finger lengthwise down the bed. "See here? I'm cutting this bed in half. That's your side over there and this here's mine."

  "That's silly."

  "You won't think it's silly if you get on my half. I kick like a mule if someone wakes me up." He lay down again. "Tell you what. Now I feel like a king, I'm going to find me some new banjo strings and fix that banjo right. If I get this job, you won't have to pretend you're a monkey with a tin cup." He waited for an answer. "Chris?"

  Chris was asleep. Daniel smiled, turned his back to the boy and closed his eyes.

  Sometime during the night, Daniel woke with a familiar buzzing noise in his head. The nightmare. He was right on the edge of it and had woken up just in time to keep from falling into the black trench. His breath came hard and fast as he lay there trying not to fall asleep again. He thought of Chris, and what the boy had told him earlier. What was it? Oh, yes. Just chase those bad thoughts out of your nightmare and go back to sleep. How?

  He thought hard. How do I do this? How do I wake up in the dream and still be asleep? Maybe just thinking about it for a while before going to sleep? Worth a try, but he didn't think it would work. Just a lot of hooey.