Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  "I gotta strike out over the hills where the big houses and the money are."

  The whistle blasted again as the freight slowed. When the train was going about three miles per hour, one of the other "passengers" came over and looked out the door.

  "None of them rich bastards will give you the time of day!" he said. "You'll bunk in hobo jungles like the rest of us."

  The man checked to see if the coast was clear, then jumped to the ground and vanished.

  "Barns are better," Daniel said.

  "Better'n what?"

  "Tarpaper shacks in Hoovervilles. Hell, George, I've been caught riding the rails and tossed in the clink. I've slept in flop houses. Some people would never think to eat grass or posies or tree bark to keep alive. Grass makes good salad."

  "Unless a skunk pissed on it."

  Daniel smiled and nodded. "And dandelions. In season. Posies, too. Grandma used to scold me for eating her nasturtiums, but I told her they was real tasty little flowers. There's lots of things people can do to survive when they're hard up, and barns are good for sleeping—if you don't mind the smell—so I curl up in barns when I can."

  "Find you a LaDaisy cow to cuddle."

  The place Daniel Tomelin liked to sleep was right next to LaDaisy. Sadness poured over him now as he recalled a night of love-making that left him exhausted and his poor wife unsatisfied when he fizzled out too soon. When she tried to console him, he'd rolled over in deep embarrassment and lay awake the rest of the night.

  "Don't worry about it," she said. "I'll survive." When she leaned over and kissed his cheek, he felt worse than ever. "You were tired and distracted. Next time will be better."

  Except he'd run out on her before there could be a next time.

  The train lurched, throwing him back against the wall. He shook his head and looked to see if the old man was still in one piece as the train moved a little way then stopped again. After a few minutes, it began rolling.

  George thrust the banjo toward Daniel. "Here, play me a concert."

  "Oh, now, I don't—"

  "You practically said you liked banjos better'n mandolins."

  "So I did, but—"

  His eyes still on George's face, Daniel plinked a note. He plunked another, and strummed a chord to get the feel of the instrument. Then, suddenly, he struck up with "Oh, Susannah," strumming and finger-picking and hammering-on till he thought his heart would split wide open.

  Each note echoed in the boxcar and in his mind. He wanted to make the tune last forever, to drive all his problems away. The world revolved around him. He felt the presence of an awestruck audience, as if his music had hypnotized everybody, as if Mother Earth had stopped spinning and time had ceased.

  Then, feeling his strength had somehow drained from his body, he slowly switched to a conclusion, saying good-bye to this golden moment of passion as the tune ended. The instrument grew silent, but the notes echoed in his soul. With a tremendous effort to get back to the real world, he put a smile on his face and gave the banjo back to George as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, when in fact something had.

  George caressed the banjo and nodded. "That was mighty fine, Daniel. You must've been born picking a banjo."

  "I'm rusty."

  "You put yourself down," George said. "Fact is, you got a mighty nice pickin' style, and that's the almighty God's truth."

  "Oh, well, guess I'll get myself a banjo someday, danged if I won't."

  "What happened to your finger?" George asked. "I never noticed it before."

  "Oh, this?" Daniel held his hand up. "Well, let's see. One day I hit my finger with a hammer. It swelled up so bad I couldn't get my wedding ring off, so I took me a butcher knife and—"

  "Hold on," George said. "You ain't going to tell me you chopped off your finger, are ya?"

  "Nope. I took the butcher knife and hacked me off a chunk of homemade bread and a hunk of ham leftover from Sunday's dinner, and made myself a sandwich."

  George eyed the finger stub again and grinned.

  "Damn, if you ain't the biggest liar I ever met."

  The day wore on, the setting sun preceding them through the countryside.

  "Comin' in somewhere," George said.

  Daniel looked outside and saw lights reflecting on water as the train crawled along the tracks.

  "Yep, but don't jump off here or you'll drown.... We're crossing the Mississippi. Next stop, St. Louis."

  A few minutes later, the freight left the river behind and moved south along the wharf with great determination.

  "Get your stuff," Daniel said. "We're coming to a switchyard. Be ready to jump when we slow down—watch your step, so you don't break your neck."

  The freight groaned and came almost to a complete stop. Inch by inch, it moved among the many rails around them. Boxcars, gondolas, oil tankers, and cattle cars sat idle on the sidings.

  Covering his naked head again, Daniel then eased George over the side of the car, stretching to help him reach the ground. The train shuddered and moved a little. Easy does it.

  When he was safely down, George laid the banjo on the ground a few feet away from the tracks. "Hand me down your pack, Daniel. You can't jump with all that stuff."

  When his bundle and the few tools were on the ground beside the banjo, Daniel himself slipped over the side of the car. The long, shrill whistle blasted as he scrambled away from the great wheels.

  He stood in the growing twilight, taking stock of his surroundings. The dusty freight had buried its snoot directly in the freight yard up ahead, its tail snaking out for a half-mile or so behind. They were still a good distance from the city proper.

  He'd been to St. Louis only once—before the Depression, when he and LaDaisy got married. I'm sorry you got stuck with a nobody, LaDaisy. You deserve better.

  From where he stood, Daniel couldn't tell how much had changed. October of 1923 had been a year of prosperity. Along with the boom of factories, coal smoke darkened the skies above the smokestacks. But night had concealed the blight of smoke, dirt, and grit, and viewed from the deck of a paddlewheel riverboat, the reflections of city lights had bounced on the surface of the Mississippi River.

  Most of the smoky atmosphere had vanished when the factories closed down one after the other. Some were barely operating now, according to news reports, working skeleton crews for long hours at slaves' wages. It was a vicious circle. Employers couldn't afford to pay people to work, and even if they could manufacture their products, few people had money to buy.

  George was asking for a dismal existence. What would he do? Where would he go?

  After they parted, Daniel Tomelin would hightail it down the road looking for odd jobs. A few more coins to fatten his purse, then he too could go home.

  He turned to George. "Maybe you should of rode further. You might get dizzy trying to find your way out of this freight yard."

  "Nah. I know these tracks, Daniel." He sighed. "Now I've come to the end of the line and there ain't no more tracks. It's hard to hop a freight when you got rheumy-tiz. I almost pulled you under the train last time you helped me up."

  "I didn't notice." Daniel retrieved his tools and stowed them away in his overalls. "You'll be all right where you're going?"

  "Got some friends in St. Louie. They'll help me get myself together again."

  Daniel hesitated, then stuck out his hand—a fine-boned hand with slender fingers and knobby knuckles already showing signs of hard work.

  "Take care, George." He stepped away as George turned to go. The old man's gait was unsteady. He stopped walking, then took a few more steps. He'll never make it.

  George walked a little farther, then turned around.

  "Well—"

  Daniel went over and stood before him. "Well what?"

  George slipped out of the banjo strap and handed the instrument to Daniel.

  "What? You want me to tune it or something? Got a busted string?" He examined the five strings and found them all intact.
<
br />   "Take her, Daniel."

  "Say what? Hey, no, wait a minute. You can't—"

  "She's yours if you want her."

  "Aw, now you can't just give away a part of yourself. This banjo's like one of your arms, or a leg. Why, it's like if I gave my cap away, I'd feel downright naked."

  George's blue eyes bubbled.

  "Go on, make me proud. I've no more use for a banjo. This ol' tramp's been down so long, he can't even sing a happy song no more. The old fingers is bent and stiff." He reached out and touched the instrument. "Sure, she's been a good friend. But there's things I need more'n any banjo, so you best take her, unless you don't like her."

  "Well, I sure do like her."

  "A banjo's good company when you're alone at night under the stars. When you're miles away from any other living soul with no one to talk to. Daniel Tomelin's further away than he wants to admit."

  Daniel could not speak as the old man turned and walked away; there was nothing more to say, and he understood more than he wanted George to know.

  The banjo man glanced over his shoulder once, and Daniel whisked his cap off his head and waved it through the air. The lone figure grew faint in the looming dusk, stepping carefully over ties and rails, heading north into the city.

  Daniel watched a moment longer, then retrieved his bundle, adjusted his burdens—the beloved banjo slung over one shoulder—and began walking south, hoping to find a cool pond or stream so he could rid his aching body of a week's accumulation of grit and grime.

  He was too proud to call at the kitchens of rich people looking like a bum.

  After leaving George, he wandered through the countryside, climbing barbed wire fences, crossing grassy meadows, walking dusty roads, which were nothing more than cow paths. Up and down and over the summer-blooming Missouri countryside and rolling hills he went, stumbling over rocks and gullies and ravines. Scrubby vegetation along the road offered only a few wild strawberries. He would have given his right arm for a big steak or a plateful of cold fried 'taters and onions.

  A few automobiles passed him during the long sweltering afternoon, kicking clouds of dust and grit in his eyes and making him cuss. Only one man stopped to offer a ride or inquire about his destination, an old farmer in a mule-drawn wagon full of old lumber.

  "Going far?" he asked.

  "Far enough." Daniel climbed up next to him on the wooden seat.

  "I'll take you a couple miles." The man tugged the reins and shouted at the mules. "Giddup, Annie, you bag o' bones. Hey there, Ben, git movin'."

  Daniel nodded, staring straight ahead up the winding dirt road over the broad backs of the animals. It was good to sit, good to smell the leather harnesses and sweaty mules as they shook their heads and snorted hot air from their wide nostrils. The plodders pulled in unison, their tails switching flies.

  After a few minutes of silence, the driver spoke. Out of the blue, he turned to politics, the last thing in the world his passenger wanted to discuss.

  "Waaaall," he drawled, adjusting his battered straw hat to shade his eyes, "if'n you got a lick of sense, you'll vote for Mr. Roos'velt come November. Old Hoover, he never done us poor farmers no good, no how."

  "That right?" Daniel watched the mules' long ears twitch, as though they were listening, and wondered if they were Democrats or Republicans. He chuckled silently, thinking they might be spies for the government. He removed his cap and glanced sideways at the driver. "Not being a farmer, I wouldn't know if it's true or not."

  "Don't you read the papers and listen to the radio?"

  "Nope. Can't afford them luxuries. Sometimes I pick up news at the barbershop." He stopped as the other man turned and eyeballed Daniel's head, and Daniel quickly put the cap back on.

  "Mr. Roos'velt's a good ol' boy," the man said, nodding.

  After a few miles, the team hauled up at the side of the road.

  "Sorry I can't take you no further," the driver said as Daniel retrieved his supplies and climbed down. "Big family, too, or I'd ask you to stay and eat."

  "This is good enough—you saved my feet a few blisters." He tipped his cap as the team turned toward an old unpainted house set back from the road. "Much obliged, mister."

  He squinted at the sun and started walking again.

  The longer he trod, the heavier his load seemed to grow. He rested several times at the edge of a woods, removing his shoes and inspecting his tired, sweaty feet. New blisters had split open and burned the backs of his heels. Calluses smarted on the soles of his feet. The cardboard insoles inside his shoes were falling apart. His stockings were in terrible shape, their front ends sliced to shreds by his long toenails.

  He missed his rusty old Ford pickup, still parked in the side yard back home. Sure, it had to still be there, because LaDaisy had never learned to drive. It was probably still sitting there with an empty gas tank.

  Daniel soaked his bones in the pond, enjoying the squishy mud at the bottom and feeling like a kid again. And when he was done, he stretched out on the bank so the warm night air could lick his skin dry.

  Frogs croaked and crickets sang. A rain-dipper moon sagged low on the horizon, a pale crescent of light rocking on its bottom. In the afternoon, there'd been a mackerel sky streaked with mares' tails—according to old-timers, the combination meant a storm was brewing. Water splashed nearby as a frog sprang into the pond. The buzz of night insects eased his mind as he gazed at the stars, noting how the constellations seemed to come partway down to meet him. The faint whistle of a train carried through the clear night air, bringing to his sleepy mind the events of the past few days.

  Dozing off and on, he woke at times to swat mosquitoes. Finally, having enough of the pests, he put his clothes back on and lay with his head on Frank's catcher's mitt and the banjo in his arms, the way he'd hold LaDaisy if she were there.

  A cool breeze blew up around midnight. Small clouds appeared in the star-studded sky. Daniel lay quietly, listening for sounds of life. But the night was tomb-silent now. He recalled the barn he'd seen before coming upon the pond. A barn would probably have cows, and there might be a henhouse nearby.

  He raised himself on an elbow and looked around, then put his shoes on and stood. It wouldn't be far to the barn, and the farm family would be asleep. There were a few hours left before the sun would pop over the hills. Time to find a midnight snack.

  He took his tin cup from the gunnysack and started up the hill. Yes, there was the barn, and beyond it a two-story farmhouse. He looked back toward the pond, then sneaked through the weeds and dirt and climbed over a barbed-wire fence.

  A horse whinnied. He glanced toward the house, saw it was still dark, then slipped over to the barn and unlatched the door. His heart pounded as he cracked the door open and slipped inside, getting a good whiff of alfalfa, manure, and animal sweat. Nearby, a cow shifted position in a stall and lowed softly.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could see the dark outlines of a few cattle. He knew they watched him with soulful brown eyes as he lay a hand on one of the rumps and felt his way down the flank. Just my luck she's a darn bull. But there it was, an udder almost to burst. As he reached for a teat, she switched her tail at his face and stepped away.

  "Steady," he whispered. "You'll spare me a cup of milk, won't you?"

  He tried again and she slipped out of his grasp. She switched her tail again, this time almost knocking his glasses off. Finally, she stood still while he squeezed the teat to get the milk flowing. He worked with one hand, holding his cup with the other to catch the stream.

  "Ah." He tasted the warm liquid, then drank it straight down. Holding the empty cup beneath the udder, he pulled the teat again till the milk squirted and re-filled the cup.

  Three cups later, Daniel slapped the cow's hind end.

  "Thank ya, ma'am. Much obliged."

  He let himself out the barn door, careful not to let it creak behind him, and lowered the bar into place. Nobody would ever know, and someday he'd pay it back one way o
r another.

  He started back the way he'd come, then remembered there might be a chicken coop nearby. He saw the outline of the shack, but it was too close to the main house and he couldn't risk stirring up the hens and rousing the residents.

  All at once, his skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck stuck straight out. Instinct told him to leave, but it was too late. A big skinny dog came tearing around the corner of the house, barking its fool head off.

  He took off at a run, the dog in pursuit. Down the hill to the pond, dropping the cup on the way. He stopped to get his breath and listen. A door slammed. A man shouted.

  "Who's out there? What's eating you, Buddy? Fox after the hens?"

  Daniel stayed very still, listening. When all was quiet again, he dared look toward the house just as a light flicked off in a downstairs room.

  The moon was higher now, but the air was muggy. His heart raced and his chest heaved as he went back to the pond. Close call. He removed his shoes again and stretched out on the ground, arms around the banjo, head on his pack, and thinking of the banjo man, LaDaisy, the cow, the dumb hound that probably couldn't sniff its way out of a gunnysack. He was lucky the farmer hadn't chased him and filled his ass with buckshot.

  He woke before dawn, his body chilled but refreshed. Sooner or later the farmer or his wife or kids—or God forbid, the hound—would pop their heads over yonder hilltop. His trespassing must come to an end before the sky got much lighter. He rose and walked around the pond to relieve himself in the weeds, then gathered his belongings.

  He needed fresh drinking water. Then he should search for George. What in the world had he been thinking to let the old man wander off alone? Where was he now? With friends? Doubtful. Daniel figured he could do both things at once, get the water on his way back to town to find George.

  By the time the sun was up, he'd retrieved the cup, rinsed it in the pond, and was headed back the way he'd come the day before.

  Four hours later, he found himself on a fairly deserted street on the outskirts of the city. A hot wind from the west swirled scraps of paper in the road and stirred up sewer smells. He felt lost, and a bit sick, too, the heat and walking taking their toll on him. He dropped his sack and banjo to the curb and sat beside them, his mind and body both numb.