Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  Daniel Tomelin, a battle-worn vet haunted by the carnage of World War 1, abandons his family in the Great Depression and goes on the road in search of relief from his horrific nightmares, and returns to find his family has become victims of violence. A novel set in a tragic era when hope was sometimes all they had.

  FACE THE WINTER NAKED

  A Novel of the Great Depression

  By Bonnie Turner

  In loving memory of my dad,

  Sharon Earl Thomas

  "We in America today are nearer to the final triumph over poverty than ever

  before in the history of any land. The poorhouse is vanishing from among us."

  Herbert Hoover, accepting the Republican presidential nomination.

  Palo Alto, California, August 1928

  Chapter 1

  May, 1932

  The walk across town in the merciless heat was more than he'd bargained for. He hoped he didn't stink, but the way his shirt was sticking to his back, he figured it was already too late. But smelly clothes were the least of his worries. How would these people feel meeting a man who watched their son die? He wouldn't blame them for running him off the premises.

  He set his gunnysack on the front porch, adjusted his tools, and straightened his overalls. Removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his scalp. He hesitated a moment, then picked up the brass knocker.

  An older gentleman opened the door, and the resemblance was startling. He recognized every detail of this man's features—how could he forget, when Frankie's face was permanently burned in his memory?

  "Yes?"

  "Good afternoon, sir. My name's Daniel. I'm looking for the family of my Army friend Frankie Kimball." He fished a scrap of paper from his pocket and checked the house number again. "It's the address they gave me at the gas station."

  The man stared at Daniel a moment, then came out on the porch and shook his hand.

  "Yes, I'm Frankie's dad. You took me by surprise—it's been thirteen years. Please come in, Mr.—?"

  "Tomelin. But you can call me Daniel. I'd be much obliged if you could give this ol' bum a drink of water." He looked down at his feet. "I must look like something the cat buried in the petunias. If you want, I'll go 'round back so I won't track up your floors."

  "You're a welcome guest in this house," Kimball said, "not a servant. My son wouldn't turn you away and neither will I." He smiled. "Besides, floors can be cleaned."

  "I wouldn't blame you none for not trusting a stranger," Daniel said. "But I'll be glad to come in and sit. That walk darn near wore me out."

  He wiped his shoes on the mat and followed Mr. Kimball into a parlor with furniture too nice to sit on in sweaty overalls.

  "Please have a seat, Daniel. I'll tell my wife you're here."

  Daniel hesitated, then sat cautiously on the edge of an overstuffed chair near a large stone fireplace, crushing his cap in his hands. So this is where Frankie lived. He looked around the room at the various artifacts and photos, feeling embarrassed in surroundings far beyond his means. His glance swept across the top of the mantel and came to rest on an eight-by-ten-inch photograph in a gold frame.

  It was Frankie, all decked out in his uniform, his service hat placed squarely above his brows. When his eyes met those of his friend, Frankie smiled, and the memories came back.

  The trenches. The mud. Everybody hated the mud. They ate in it, waded in it, slept in it. The weary horses struggled through mud axle-deep to deliver rations to the front lines. The noise. Earsplitting blasts echoing in your skull long after they stopped. Shells bursting overhead, sending his pals and himself flying for cover. Frank bleeding, crying, begging. Daniel cradling his friend's head in his arms, weeping onto a face filled with the terror of dying.

  "T-tell my mother I—"

  He thought he knew what Frank's unfinished words were.

  The glass over the print clouded and blurred Frank's don't-give-a-damn expression.

  "Mr. Tomelin?"

  A soft voice and a hand on his shoulder. He blinked back tears and looked up into a woman's gentle face.

  "I—I'm sorry, ma'am." He removed his glasses and dried his eyes with his cap. "Something just came over me."

  "It's quite all right." She handed him a glass of water and stepped away from him. "I'm Frank's mother."

  Daniel nodded and pulled himself together. "Thank you kindly. I mostly travel in the evening when it ain't so hot. This'll wet my whistle just fine." He drank the cold water straight down, handed her the empty glass, and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

  She gave Mr. Kimball a weary look and took a seat across from Daniel.

  "My husband tells me you fought with our son in the war." She smiled. "It's all right to talk about now. Enough time has gone by that ..."

  "Yes ma'am, side-by-side. We called him Frankie the Yankee." Daniel sensed Frank's lingering vibrations in his childhood home. Here, in this room. He felt a chill go through him, along with an urge to blurt out his feelings, but caught himself in time.

  "Frank mentioned the nickname in one of his letters," Mr. Kimball said. "You must be Shine."

  A sheepish grin crossed Daniel's face as he ran a hand over his slick bald head. "Yes sir, but only my war buddies called me that."

  Mrs. Kimball rose. "Come out to the kitchen. You've probably come a long way. The least we can do is offer you some lunch."

  "Well, yes, I've been all over the country. But I didn't come for food, ma'am, just to meet Frank's folks he talked so much about." He grinned. "It was either you or baseball. We couldn't get him to shut up. He talked about the Boston Red Sox and Babe Ruth." He shrugged. "I'm not much for the game myself."

  "Ah yes," Mr. Kimball said. "The 'Babe,' a great pitcher and a hard hitter. My son and I saw Ruth's first World Series game right before Frank joined the Army. It's too bad he didn't live to see his hero become a legend."

  "That day at the ballpark was special for your son, Mr. Kimball. He never forgot."

  "Did he tell you he put away six hotdogs? And popcorn, peanuts, and too much to drink."

  "Is that right? That sounds like Frankie. Of course, he was a only a teenager and still growing." He stopped growing on the battlefield.

  Mrs. Kimball seemed more withdrawn and formal than her husband. Daniel thought she might be uncomfortable with a man in her parlor who looked like a tramp and no doubt smelled like a goat. It was too late now to do anything about his appearance.

  "It seems like yesterday our boy went to war." She nodded at her husband. "We were so proud of him—I framed his medals and hung them over his bed."

  "Yes ma'am. Frankie would like that." He fiddled with his cap. "But the reason I came, I told myself I was going to find the families of my buddies who were lost in the war. I always meant to, but the years flew by and I had other responsibilities."

  "What a wonderful idea. Did you find them?" She motioned for him to follow.

  "Nope. Just you folks and another family. Two others had moved. Nobody seen hide nor hair of them."

  "So many are suffering from the Depression," she said. "Families breaking up, people dying."

  Daniel spoke as he followed the couple through the house, mindful his shoes might be tracking up the rugs.

  "I found Big Woody's family in Tennessee."

  They passed through the dining room arch into a large sunny kitchen with pots of red geraniums on the windowsill. She pulled out a chair for him and began preparing a meal.

  "Where did you say you're from?" Mr. Kimball asked.

  "Independence, Missouri." Daniel hung his cap on the back of the chair and sat down.

  "So that's where your accent comes from. The 'Show Me' state."

  "You been there? Guess my accent's pretty sad,
ain't it?"

  "Not at all." Kimball glanced around as his wife came over with plates and napkins and dishes of food. "Ah, here we go. Now don't be shy, Daniel, just help yourself," he continued. "I visited Missouri years ago. One day I got an urge to see where the Santa Fe trail started."

  "Is that right?"

  Mrs. Kimball took a seat and graciously passed him a bowl of chicken salad.

  "Tell us about your family, Mr. Tomelin—Daniel. Don't mind if I pry." She handed him a basket of hard rolls covered with a white cloth napkin, and uncovered a crystal butter dish.

  "I have a dear wife and three youngins," he said. "A sweet little girl and two ornery boys that take after their daddy."

  It was cooler in the house. He wished he could unbutton his shirt and roll his long sleeves back up, but he dared not. He was the surprise guest of his friend's parents. He could play the gentleman if he had to, albeit a gentleman dressed in overalls, dusty worn-out shoes, and sweat running down his sides. Again, he wondered if he smelled too ripe. I should've found a place to clean up before coming here.

  He spread his napkin on his lap and tried to remember his manners, so they wouldn't suspect he was on the edge of starvation. He helped himself to a slice of ham and a generous serving of green beans with bacon. The food smelled so good, he wanted to lay his face in the plate and inhale every morsel. But he laid his knife and fork down between bites and chewed his food thoroughly before swallowing. It wouldn't do to eat like a pig and insult these fine people. But my goodness, his poor stomach was groaning to beat the band.

  Mr. Kimball eyed Daniel's tools.

  "I assume you're away from home on business. Not everyone carries carpenters' tools when they travel."

  Mrs. Kimball agreed. "Yes, please tell us. You must be lonely away from your family."

  Daniel compared the Kimballs with Woody's family, who had seemed to resent hearing about their son. They were in dire straits, but there wasn't anything he could do about that.

  He became aware of Mrs. Kimball speaking.

  "Beg pardon?"

  "You were far away. I asked about your family. Maybe you'd rather not talk about them."

  He told them his story, because to not tell them wouldn't be fair. Yes, he'd left his family to look for carpenter work, traveling by foot, freight, and mule-drawn cart. At the same time, it had seemed a good plan to look up the families.

  But the nightmares? No, he couldn't talk about those—it was bad enough he'd deserted his loved ones in time of need. His life had become a jigsaw puzzle he couldn't fit together. How could he explain it to anyone till he figured it out himself?

  "Where will you go next?" Mrs. Kimball raised a brow.

  How could he go back and face his wife, his children, or his own father, for that matter, without a job?

  His hostess waited for an answer, which wasn't long coming.

  "I heard about a cash bonus the government set aside to reward us veterans for our service," Daniel said. "But we can't collect it until 1945."

  "Why on earth? It seems to me they'd give it to those poor wretches when they need it most. This makes me furious!" She turned to her husband, who nodded in agreement. "The veterans earned that money, some with their lives."

  Daniel wiped his mouth and placed the crumpled napkin by his plate.

  "That's what others are thinking, too. Some are going to march to Washington, D.C., and ask for their money early. Maybe I'll go along. It can't hurt."

  "I should say not," she replied.

  Mr. Kimball rose and motioned for Daniel to follow, and when they got to the parlor, he stopped before Frankie's photograph. He brought it down, polished the glass on his shirt, and replaced it exactly as before.

  "We tried talking him out of enlisting, but his friends had gone and he didn't want to be left behind. I only hope he didn't die without a purpose."

  Daniel bowed his head. "Frankie served his country well, Mr. Kimball. His was a noble purpose." He glanced up as Mrs. Kimball came in and stood beside him. "What I came to say, Mr. and Mrs. Kimball, is that your son told me with his last breath that he loves you."

  The woman's voice caught. "Oh—and was he, I mean, did he suffer? Please, Daniel, we have to know."

  "Frankie was brave, Mrs. Kimball. He passed on while I held him, and there was peace on his face."

  He looked at Kimball, who stared at his son's image without speaking. If he'd been to war himself, he would've known the bravery part was a lie, and just dying in someone's arms was a luxury few soldiers experienced.

  Mrs. Kimball took both of Daniel's hands in hers, gripping them tightly, weeping.

  "God bless you for coming." She gave his hands a little shake before releasing them. "Don't leave until I pack some food for your trip to Washington."

  "Aw shucks, ma'am, the food I just ate was plenty."

  She smiled through her tears. "Oh, I so want to do this, if you'll allow me."

  Mr. Kimball excused himself and went up a wide flight of stairs off the foyer, returning shortly with a well-worn catcher's mitt.

  "This belonged to Frank. He burned his initials in the leather, see? F.K." He handed the mitt to Daniel.

  Daniel slipped his hand into the glove. He could almost picture Frankie catching a fly-ball and throwing it to third base.

  "Looks like he used this a lot."

  "Take it."

  "Wh—?"

  "It's yours if you want it." Daniel started to protest, but Kimball cut him off. "You were Frank's friend, and you went to all the trouble to find us. He'd want you to have it."

  "That's right," Mrs. Kimball said. "Frank was our only child, so we have no grandsons to play with it."

  "But it's a dear keepsake, ma'am. It's like giving part of your son away."

  "We gave all of our son away the day he went to war," she replied. "Besides, you have sons, so it'll get some use again." She turned and started for the kitchen. "Now don't you leave till I pack your dinner." She paused a moment in the doorway and smiled back at him.

  She's just like Frankie when he made up his mind to do something. Daniel's heart warmed at the thought as he turned back to Frank Sr.

  "I didn't come for gifts."

  "I know, but she's right. We'll be honored. Please take it. Unless it would be too much extra to carry."

  Daniel shook his head and grinned. He stretched his arm to catch an invisible ball, then reached out to shake hands, remembering to remove the mitt first.

  "This means a lot, Mr. Kimball. I'll make room in my pack for this great gift. Thank you."

  The couple saw him to the front porch, where he picked up his gunnysack and started down the steps. He looked back once and waved before walking down the street.

  Chapter 2

  LaDaisy nestled the baby against her breast, trying to ignore her own mother as the woman moved lazily around the room examining whatnots and pictures. Pausing once at Daniel's shelf, Vera absentmindedly picked up a hand-carved walnut toothpick cup with a snake encircling the outside, stared at it a minute, then put it back.

  Her mother didn't understand Daniel's lust for a talent to call his own; his passionate desire to add a part of himself to the accumulation of Tomelin artifacts: oil paintings, music, and religious poetry filled with the fear of God.

  Vera finally walked over to the open front door and gazed thoughtfully through the patched screen at the shady yard. Halfway between the house and street, a huge white oak spread its summer canopy of dark green leaves. Daniel had tied a thick rope to one of the limbs for a tire swing. Not only the Tomelin children, but the neighbors, as well, had twirled, twisted, and dragged their feet beneath the tire until the grass grew a big oval dirt patch.

  "Where are the kids?" Vera asked without turning.

  "Bobby's napping. Earl and Catherine are outside somewhere. Didn't you see them when you came in?"

  "No." Vera paused. "Saul's hanging around again." She glanced over her shoulder. "He still lives in the little shack out back, doesn't h
e? I think Clayton wants to tear that down."

  "Over my dead body, Mama. It'd be just like him to throw that kind old man out on his ear. Not going to happen as long as I can help it."

  "So, what good is Saul?"

  "That's a hateful thing to ask. What's come over you?"

  "It wasn't meant to be hateful," Vera said. "You know me better, LaDaisy. I only meant, what does he do with his time? Does he work? Probably too old to work."

  "He's more good than you know. Yes, he works hard. He tends his little garden, keeps me in potatoes and green beans. Plays with the kids, pushes them in the swing and takes them for walks. Gets them out of my hair for a few minutes so I can think. He comes in and sits sometimes to keep me company."

  "You trust him?"

  "Really, Mama, your nasty remarks offend me."

  "Humph." Vera stared through the screen. "I just saw him go around back and the kids weren't with him."

  "Little rascals must've taken off again. Oh, well, they don't go far. Maybe they're looking for milk bottle caps again."

  Vera turned.

  "Milk caps? As if you need more clutter."

  "Earl pretends they're money. When he finds ten, he runs over to the store and Bart gives him a stick of horehound candy. Lord knows he doesn't have much else in the store these days, and nobody buying it anyhow." Then she chuckled. "Earl also collects soda pop caps. He pries the cork linings out and uses them to attach the metal caps to his beanie. Daniel showed him how."

  "I'll never understand you," Vera said, "letting those little ones outdoors all by themselves. Certainly no child of mine would—"

  LaDaisy stifled a yawn.

  "Would ever do this, would ever do that, would ever would ever. Oh Mama, stop."

  "I meant—"

  "They're probably at Rose's house."

  "You let them go alone?"

  "It's not that far." LaDaisy sighed. "Rose gives your grandchildren homemade bread right out of the oven. The cousins play with them, or they go to the creek to find tadpoles." She looked her mother squarely in the eyes. "When was the last time you baked light bread? Or invited my children to come sample any?"