Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  "For crying out loud. This darn thing better work when it's game time."

  "It will." Daniel scanned the front page. "Hey! September 4th? This here's a Sunday paper, Chris. It's almost a month old."

  "So?"

  "So I want the latest news, you little twerp. Did you pocket my money and steal this from a garbage can?" He sniffed the paper. "Smells like coffee grounds and oranges."

  "It was in the hall, I just—"

  "You mean you just saved yourself a trip downstairs and made two-bits profit." Daniel adjusted his glasses and peered intently at the boy. "Didn't I teach you anything, you gotta keep stealing?" He opened the paper and pulled out the comics as Chris dug the coins out of his pocket and dumped them on the nightstand. "Thank you," Daniel said without looking up. "Don't try that again. Well, I guess old news is better than none." He handed Chris the comics. "Here, find out what 'Joe Palooka's' up to—you can read, can't you?"

  Chris rolled his eyes. "Yes, I can read."

  "Just teasing." Daniel grinned and mussed up his hair. "You're a good kid. Otherwise I wouldn't put up with you."

  Chris spread the paper on the floor and lay on his belly to read.

  "'Mutt And Jeff's' good, but I already read it."

  "Do tell."

  Daniel nodded absent mindedly, his eyes focused on a small article in the Jackson County news. His heart almost stopped as he read the headline again. What th—? A month ago? How come I didn't see this before?

  INDEPENDENCE WOMAN HELD IN SHOOTING OF LANDLORD

  He read silently, his eyes clouding over and head spinning as Chris laughed aloud at the comics.

  LaDaisy Tomelin, of Independence, was booked yesterday afternoon for suspected manslaughter in the shooting death of her landlord, Clayton Huff. The deceased was the nephew of Rufus Baker, owner of Baker's Haberdashery. The shooting occurred in the living room of the house the Tomelins rented from Mr. Huff.

  Daniel's mouth went dry. He stared at the paper without moving. He shook himself and read the article again, and the paper fell from his hands to his lap.

  "Daniel?"

  He became aware of Chris standing before him, comic page in hand.

  "Daniel—what's the matter?"

  He tried to focus on the boy, but all he could see were the words in the article. His wife arrested? Clay dead?

  "Hey, it's time for the game." Chris threw the paper on the bed and turned the radio back on just as Tom Manning spoke through the static.

  Welcome to the twenty-ninth World Series of Major League Baseball. It's a beautiful day for game number three here at Chicago's Wrigley Field, starring the New York Yankees and Chicago Cubs ... the bleachers are packed ... I'd estimate about fifty-thousand noisy fans here. Just listen to that crowd!

  Daniel ripped the item out of the paper and laid it on the night table, then gave Chris some more money as the announcer's voice came through loud and clear.

  ... Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig are putting on an impressive display at batting practice. The Babe launches one two three four ... nine balls to the outfield stands ... and there goes Gehrig's seventh.

  "I need today's paper, darn it."

  "Can't you get it yourself? The game just came on."

  "Now that's plain rude, Chris. I asked you because you run faster and I'm tired from working to put food in your mouth. The game ain't going anywhere."

  "I've been waiting all year for this, Daniel!"

  "Sorry." Daniel read the article again after Chris almost flew from the room, banging the door behind him and clattering down the wooden stairs to the lobby.

  "Goddammit, LaDaisy, what's going on out there? I would've shot the bastard myself and saved you the trouble."

  But he knew he could never have done it. As with Shine at the war front, he'd be petrified at the thought of killing a human being.

  Chris came back a few minutes later and threw the paper at him before going back to the radio.

  "Thanks," Daniel said. "You weren't gone long enough to miss anything."

  "What's going on?" Chris leaned down to the radio without waiting for an answer.

  It's the top of the first inning and here comes the first batter.... Now the pitch, he winds up ... he lets it go ... it flies over the plate. Manning's voice grew louder. And it's a strike. The crowd roared.

  "Something bad happened to my wife and the landlord."

  Strike two.

  "What happened? Shhh, wait a minute." Chris rammed his fist into the catcher's mitt.

  ... he winds up, he pitches, he ... a crackle of static ... and it's a foul.

  Daniel pulled the paper apart. He searched every article on every page, but there was nothing about his wife or a shooting. The news was no longer news.

  A few minutes passed as Manning continued calling the plays, but Daniel didn't hear them.

  Ruth comes to bat ... he lines a Root pitch into the right-center bleachers, he's running, he's running, he's rounding the bases and the Cub fans are jeering. He put the Yanks up three to nothing.

  "Well, that's that," Daniel said.

  He jumped up and began a frenzied search of the room, found all his belongings and dumped them in the old gunnysack: Homer's boots, a new bar of Lava soap, his can of Cloverine, his shaving mug and brush, Chris's Pepsodent. His purse had become too small for his hoard of coins. He'd begun storing them in a cigar box tied shut with a piece of elastic from an old pair of underwear. Into the sack went the box of money.

  "What are you doing?" Chris watched with wide-eyed innocence. Daniel turned to him. "Get all your stuff together, get my banjo. I can't explain now, we have to leave. I have to go home."

  "But—"

  "Hurry up. You going with me or not?" His voice was sharper than it needed to be.

  "No!" Chris cried. "The World Series is on, Daniel!"

  "I'm sorry. Something's happened. I—I can't talk about it now."

  "Is it the nightmares?"

  "No."

  "Just let me finish the Series, then I'll come. Please, Daniel, please. I'll never ask for anything else in my whole life." Tears spurted from the boys eyes as he leaned his head down to the radio.

  Strike three, he's out!

  "What about your new job, Daniel? You can't just walk out."

  Daniel swallowed a lump in his throat. Of course he didn't want to leave the job, and the last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt Chris.

  "It can't be helped. Maybe they'll give me some time off for an emergency. I'll see the boss before we leave." He shrugged and softened his voice. "If you're coming with me, you'd better get a move on, cause I ain't hanging around to explain something I don't understand."

  He read the disappointment on Chris's face and immediately thought of Frank. What was he doing to the boy? He took a deep breath to compose himself.

  "Okay, you can finish the games. A couple more days won't make any difference, we'll go Monday. Guess I put the cart before the horse. I forgot how it is to be a boy and want something real bad. But when the World Series is over, we're leaving." He picked up the paper again and scanned the pages. Nothing. "I'll go see the foreman tomorrow while you're listening."

  Chris nodded and wiped his eyes. "I'll do something for you someday." He held up his gloved hand as Manning called, Strike three, he's out!

  Whack. "Got it."

  "So you did." Daniel forced a smile, which made his face hurt.

  He couldn't sit, so he rose and paced the floor as the game continued from one inning to the next. The excitement increased as the announcer called the plays over the roar of the crowd.

  It's the fourth inning ... the Cubs' batter Joe Judge at the plate ... here's the pitch ... he swings ... he strikes and runs ... he's going ... he scores a run and ties the game four to four.

  With each strike, Chris yelled and caught the imaginary ball in Frank's mitt. And the radio held its own through most of the game, with just a few bursts of static.

  It's the top of the fifth with two balls, two
strikes ... Ruth steps up to the plate ... the crowd's screaming and Babe Ruth is shouting something at Root ... he raises two fingers ... he's pointing out toward center field ... Root winds up and pitches ... Ruth swings and connects ... Tom Manning shouts, The ball is going, going, going, high into the center field stands ... and it's a home run!

  "They're gonna win the Series!" Chris screamed. "The Yanks are gonna win, Daniel."

  Daniel caught the boy's excitement as Chris tossed the catcher's mitt into the air and caught it coming down, laughing, jumping, and yelling hysterically.

  "A fine game, Chris, a very fine game. But it ain't over just yet."

  Early Sunday morning, Daniel went to his foreman's house and explained he needed a few days off. Would he still have a job when he came back?

  The foreman hesitated. "I don't have any complaints about your work," he said, pulling up one of his suspenders as he finished dressing for church. "You understand we can't leave the job vacant. Others will apply for it."

  Daniel nodded. "Yes sir. I'm aware of that. But it can't be helped."

  "I wish I could say the job will still be here when you come back, but I don't know."

  Daniel's hazel eyes drilled straight into the foreman's through his owl glasses.

  "I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask." He shook the man's hand and went back to the hotel.

  He sat with Chris as the Yankees finished off the demoralized Cubs.

  That was for Frankie. Now I can go home to my loved ones. I'm as jobless now as I was when I left.

  They got a good night's sleep and left the hotel early next morning. Lugging the sack and the banjo, the two began walking east along 23rd. Street. They were not used to walking anymore. The gunnysack felt heavier than usual and the sun was in their eyes. After an hour at what seemed a snail's pace, they flagged down a car and hitched a ride.

  "Where to, mister?"

  "As close to Independence as you can get," Daniel said, as he and Chris climbed in the back seat.

  Chapter 26

  Saul brought the children home from Bernadine's. Later, after putting them to bed, LaDaisy went outdoors and sat on the front porch, thinking how much had changed in the last few days: a birth in one room, a death in another, separated by just a few hours. In her wildest dreams, she could not have imagined that could happen. The memories would be stronger while Ida Mae was still in the house, and she longed for the day her sister could go home. But the doctor had insisted the new mother needed her rest and shouldn't be moved yet.

  LaDaisy went to bed in the kids' room, but slept in fits and starts on a lumpy mattress next to Catherine. A man was killed in this house. She tried to recall the terrible events, but they wouldn't come. She assumed she'd killed Clay. But that was crazy—she wasn't capable of shooting anyone, even in self-defense. She thought of Daniel and the war. How could such a gentle man kill his enemies?

  The next day, Sheriff Gudgell escorted her to jail, where she was booked for manslaughter. She sat dejected and afraid in a stark cell for the next three hours, worrying about her children until Vera posted bail.

  "Come on," Vera said, putting an arm around her daughter. "Let's get you out of this place."

  "The kids, are they all right?"

  Vera nodded as she got in her car. "They're fine. Bernadine has them."

  "I've never been in jail before, Mama. It was awful."

  "Yes, I'm sure it was." Vera looked straight ahead as she drove to the west side of the Square and parked in front of the Tasty Ice Cream shop. "Let's stop here for a sundae."

  "Oh for crying out loud, Mama. The last thing I need is ice cream. Just take me home."

  Vera wagged a finger at her. "Don't ever refuse ice cream when I'm buying, LaDaisy. Come on."

  It'd been a long time since she'd had the luxury of eating ice cream in this shop. She followed Vera into the building, where they ordered chocolate sundaes and carried them to a small table in a corner.

  "I wanted to talk to you before you go home," Vera said. "There's something I need to explain. It might help you understand what happened." She picked the cherry off her sundae with her fingers and popped it in her mouth.

  "What do you mean?"

  Vera didn't reply immediately, but fed herself ice cream covered with melted chocolate, whipped cream, and nuts.

  LaDaisy picked up her spoon, as well, then put it down.

  "It's no use," she said. "I killed Clay, and nothing can change that. I just want my life back to normal."

  "Wait until Ida Mae can talk to someone," Vera said. "Then you'll understand what I mean." She stopped talking and glanced away, embarrassed. "First I have to tell you it was Rufus who insisted they arrest you. There was some question of self-defense. But Rufus refuses to believe Clay molested you, and he has enough clout in this town to request favors."

  "What?"

  "You know he's always liked you. But Clay was the son he never had, all he had left of his sister." She paused, fiddling with her ice cream. "Rufus blames you for Clay's death."

  "Are you enjoying yourself, Mama? Why are you trying to hurt me?"

  Vera's voice softened as she reached across the table and took her daughter's hand.

  "I'm not trying to hurt you, dear. You've been through quite enough. But there's something you should know. Did you ever hear how Clay's mother died?"

  LaDaisy shook her head. "I don't think so."

  "Rufus doesn't discuss it, but his sister, the poor woman—Ruthann, her name was—she took her own life. They kept it out of the papers to spare the family. He told me the story just once, then never mentioned it again. Who can blame him?"

  LaDaisy laid her spoon on the table. "Oh no! That's ... how'd she do it?"

  Vera pushed her dish away.

  "It was quite gruesome, I'm told. Oh, LaDaisy, this is so hard for me. I almost can't bear to talk about it."

  "Well don't stop now. What happened?"

  "She—she went crazy. Some said there was another man. Being a married woman with a child, she couldn't handle the deception. And one day she ... she soaked her hair in coal oil and struck a match."

  LaDaisy gasped and covered her mouth with the back of her hand, staring in horror at her mother.

  "Ruthann had long, thick hair. That terrible day—it was spring, sunny and warm—she removed her hairpins and set her chignon loose, letting her hair flow almost to her waist, and ... and it went up in flames."

  "My God!"

  Vera stared out the shop window for a long time.

  "She ran screaming through the yard with her beautiful hair on fire. Then her dress caught—"

  "No!"

  "Her husband—Clay's father—the poor man was beside himself. He flew down the back porch steps three at a time, caught up with her, and threw her to the ground. He burned his face, hands, and chest rolling her on the grass to smother the flames."

  LaDaisy wept as Vera continued.

  "He couldn't save her."

  "This is so awful, Mama. What happened to Clay's dad?"

  "Nobody knows. He just disappeared. Perhaps he killed himself. Or ended up in the asylum at St. Joe." She opened her purse and found a handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes and passed the hankie to her daughter.

  "Poor Rufus." LaDaisy dried her eyes and gave the handkerchief back to her mother. "And Clay. Oh Mama, I didn't know. I wish I'd known this sooner."

  "Why? Would it have stopped what happened? I don't think so. Clay had a mean streak. Ida Mae thinks he hated women."

  "Because his mother destroyed herself?"

  "Well, I don't know. I think it's possible. You and I have had our differences, LaDaisy. Some of them due to my problems with Richard. But to set the record straight, I didn't really trust Clay."

  "You could've fooled me." LaDaisy tasted a spoonful of chocolate sauce and ate the cherry.

  "I kept my distrust hidden for my husband's and Ida's sake. I tried to get along with Clay. But I wasn't too happy when your sister married that skunk." She sighed. "I
suppose I shouldn't speak ill of the deceased."

  "Clay came with the money when you married Rufus."

  "My sister didn't kill anyone," Ida Mae told LaDaisy's lawyer a few days later. "I did it myself."

  The man was young and handsome, with a penetrating gaze that left her fumbling for words.

  "Why did she confess?"

  "LaDaisy says she doesn't remember." Ida Mae sighed and looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms. "But she does. Of course she does. We both remember. I—I was insanely jealous, and when she tried to warn me what Clay was doing to her, I refused to believe it. Finally, I followed him here."

  Her voice broke, and he waited for her to compose herself.

  "Everything she told Sheriff Gudgell is true—but only up to the shooting. She didn't do that."

  "Who did?"

  "I already said it was me."

  "Yes, ma'am, go on."

  "I saw him rip her dress. He was like some vicious animal. He pulled her down on the floor, and LaDaisy went for the gun, but he kicked it across the room. And—and when it landed by me, I picked it up and cocked it, like I've seen cowboys do in picture shows."

  The man scribbled something in his notebook. "Then what happened? You picked it up and then what?"

  "Then I shot the son-of-a-bitch right in the face." A strangled cry escaped her throat. "The next part's blurry. The gun knocked me down—there's a big bruise on my right shoulder—I started labor." She looked up at him, crying hard now. "You believe me, don't you?"

  "I don't know. So you think your sister confessed because—why?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" Ida Mae said. "She did it to spare me from questioning when my baby was coming."

  "Perhaps."

  "I know it's true."

  He became thoughtful. "You're saying you want to go to jail?"

  Ida shook her head. "No, that's not what I want. I don't want either of us to go to jail. LaDaisy said she killed Clay in self-defense. But I'm the one who really did it."

  "You were that angry?"

  Her eyes widened, so full of tears she couldn't see. "I—I was in shock. I had to see for myself what he was doing. It wasn't pretty. The man I loved—thought I loved—he slapped me once, you know? But I didn't tell anyone, and he was raping my sister."