Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  Thank God he didn't take that thing.

  She relaxed, and remembered a time Daniel had asked what she'd do if he left her for another woman. "I'd track you down," she'd replied, "and shoot your ass full of holes with your own shotgun."

  They'd collapsed on the bed in a fit of laughter, hugging and kissing and stroking each other's bodies. She'd pulled off his cap, held it at arm's length. "You can't have any if you wear the cap."

  "Give it back." He swatted her on the butt. "You know I'm naked without it."

  She threw a leg over his hip and planted a long, wet kiss on his mouth, ran the tip of her tongue teasingly across his lips. She pulled away and gazed down at him, caressing his face with her warm breath. "Take your choice. A naked head or my naked body." She'd dropped the cap on the floor beside the bed as he groaned and urgently worked the buttons of her dress.

  LaDaisy backed away from the gun, intending to close the door. Then she stopped, her eyes drawn to a small metal box on the closet shelf. Shotgun shells? But no, she saw the box of buckshot at the back of the shelf.

  She carried the metal box to the bed and sat down. What's in here? Old papers? Snapshots? The flashlight flickered off. She shook it a few times to get it going again. Damn, it's either batteries or light bulbs, and I can't afford either one.

  Why had Daniel hidden part of his life in his closet? The gun she could understand. But if there'd been family pictures from his childhood, she would loved to have seen them. Pictures of his mother, Saul's wife, Martha, whom she'd never had the privilege of knowing. Daniel in a lace christening gown? Short pants and ruffled collars? She smiled, unable to imagine him dressed so fancy. Daniel wearing knickers. Yes, she could see him in those. A favorite cap. Scores of aunts, uncles, cousins. Maybe a pet terrier with a spot on its shoulder. His whole childhood could be in this rusty metal box. Things his own kids would like to see.

  A small keyhole indicated a way to unlock the box, but where was the key? She tried to remember if she'd seen such a small key around the house. Maybe it's why he let everything rust; he couldn't open the box.

  I can.

  She placed the box on the bed, got up and peeked in the cradle, then tiptoed to the closet and closed the door. She didn't want Bobby to wake and see the shotgun, or ask questions she couldn't answer. She locked the door before tiptoeing through the darkened house to the kitchen.

  A few minutes later she returned with an ice pick, but found it was too big to pick the lock. She thought for a moment, then went to her sewing basket on a chair next to the dresser, shone the light in and found a slender crochet hook. Perfect. After a few seconds of twisting the hook in the keyhole while trying to hold the flashlight, she heard a small click.

  The cover opened easily despite the rusty hinges. She shined the light in the box. There were only a few items. She drew them out one by one and examined them. Daniel had been in the Army, she already knew. In Europe. But he hadn't wanted to discuss his experiences in the Infantry, and she'd respected his feelings.

  Here were his draft papers and I.D. card with his picture, a good-looking seventeen-year-old in an Army uniform. No discharge papers? She thumbed through the items but didn't find any. He would've been nineteen when he was discharged two years later. By then the war was winding down.

  Weight. Height. Hair? Prematurely bald. She couldn't help smiling a little at the description, for Daniel had been practically hairless from the day she met him. As with his uncles and father, Saul, there was only a fringe of hair around the back of his head and above the ears.

  She laid the papers on the bed beside her and removed a yellowed envelope with water spots on it, addressed: To my darling Daniel. A love letter?

  Feeling like the lowest of snoops, she pulled two items out of the envelope. Reading by flashlight, she saw one was another military document. She dropped it on the bed beside the other papers. Her curiosity got the better of her and she unfolded the letter.

  For Daniel Tomelin. To be opened after I pass over.

  "Wh—?"

  She ran the light over the page, realizing the date was only a few months before Daniel's mother had died. These were Martha's last thoughts to her son.

  I'm such a hypocrite. Tears collected in the corners of LaDaisy's eyes. Unable to stop herself, she read words meant only for her husband, the beam of light moving slowly across the page.

  My darling son, you have always been the joy & pride of my heart. Oh my dear boy, I would give my life for my children gladly. Keep your life pure & good that I may look down and rejoice and be sure I will recognize and welcome you with open arms when your work on earth is done.

  Your loving mother.

  LaDaisy wept quietly, her tears falling onto the page. Why didn't he show me this? I needed to know.

  Her heart breaking, she kissed the dead woman's signature. It seemed hours had passed by the time she finally folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Laying it on top of the military documents, she remembered the other paper and opened it. A "Certificate of Merit"? What on earth?

  Reading further, she discovered Daniel had received a merit award for at least three months of overseas duty, and—LaDaisy almost dropped the paper—he was wounded?

  She read the document, though new tears blurred her vision. Daniel had lied about his finger. The "accident" he claimed happened when he fell from a tree as a kid never happened.

  No.

  She continued reading, her stomach tightening with each word.

  Wounded from a round of machine gun fire. Shrapnel in his right shoulder. One-third of his ring finger blown off. LaDaisy choked back a sob. He'd worn his wedding band on his middle finger. He made up stories about the stub for his kids. "God gave me just part of a finger because He needed the other piece for someone else." Or a coon bit it off. Some such nonsense. And the kids believed anything their daddy told them.

  All lies. Why, Daniel? Why couldn't you own up to a war injury?

  Mary stirred in her sleep. LaDaisy rose and looked in on her, then returned to the box and searched some more.

  Another envelope contained a scrap of folded paper and a snapshot—four Army buddies, with Daniel in the center, his arms around their shoulders and grinning for all he was worth.

  The picture was captioned: War Brothers. She gazed at the soldiers for a long time, noting the signatures penned underneath each one. Leonard. Frank. Milt. Big Woody. Nice looking American boys still in their teens. Certainly not men when they were drafted; definitely men after they met the enemy.

  Where are they now?

  She caressed her husband's face with a thumb, feeling paper instead of whiskers. She kissed his image and pressed it against her cheek. But there was no sensation of warmth, no pulse. No odor of sweat from his hard labor. Just a dead sheet of paper.

  She laid it aside and found more pictures: a pretty young woman, soft and virginal in a loose white dress, white cloche and gloves, a strand of pearls decorating her bosom. An orchid pinned to her shirtwaist.

  All my love, Jenny.

  She turned the photograph over and recognized Daniel's squiggly handwriting: Give to Paul McMillan's family, and below it the words: "Moved to Scotland." Who's McMillan?

  Unanswered questions.

  She picked up the piece of paper she'd cast aside earlier. Carefully unfolding it, she saw penciled at the top in an almost illegible scrawl: Proverbs. The words were so faint she could barely make them out. Part of an edge was torn off. She turned it over, but there wasn't any name. Whose? Daniel's? Saul's? Words were missing where the paper had been creased. Only one sentence stood out from the others: Proverbs 19-18. Chasten thy son while there is still hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying.

  She shrugged, returned the note and prints to the envelope and placed it with the awards. She picked up a faded sepia print of another pretty woman: Your loving mother, Martha.

  She laid it aside, too, and removed an envelope from the metal box. Inside was the wound chevron, awa
rded to Daniel James Tomelin in the line of duty for his country.

  Damn wars. Damned old men who start them. Cowardly old men who found ways to avoid fighting. Mostly poor men were called to war, bribed with the scent of money.

  LaDaisy sniffed and wiped her eyes. She replaced the items in the box and shut the lid—except for the chevron and her mother-in-law's letter. These she placed on top of the dresser.

  She locked the box with the crochet hook and put it back on the closet shelf.

  Hesitating, she stared at the shotgun, thinking how Daniel must've felt taking lead in his body, feeling the pain. Or worse, putting lead in someone else's body. She shuddered, then locked the closet and returned the skeleton key to the drawer, the flashlight to the night table.

  She picked up her jar of Pond's cold cream and spread a thin layer on her face. The jar was almost empty.

  Back in bed, she hugged her pillow, listening to crickets through open windows and doors. A breeze stirred gently through the window, across the bed, bringing in the sweet scent of honeysuckle and iris. A poor woman's orchids. She pulled the sheet up to her neck as an owl screeched nearby.

  A screech owl—was it an omen?

  She stared into the darkness, thinking, wondering, worrying. What would become of them all if Daniel never returned?

  Why hadn't he told her about the wounds? About his award?

  "Where are you?"

  From the other side of town came the long whistle of the late train crossing the high wooden trestle—on time for a change. Daniel always said he could set his watch by the train. But with the Depression, the freight had been late more than once.

  What if he never returned? Her lips moved in silent prayer. What's become of my good man? Please send him home.

  What am I saying? Though she'd uttered the words, she really didn't think Daniel would suddenly appear one day. After all, more than a year had passed. If God had wanted him to come home, He would've answered her prayers months ago.

  Some days she couldn't even bring up the image of his face, or remember how nice he smelled after shaving. Confused and unhappy one day, LaDaisy was infuriated the next. She couldn't stay this way forever. But could she move on? Remarry? What man would want a worn-out, used-up woman with four kids? Another man's leftovers. No, she'd never find anyone willing to do that.

  But waiting for Daniel seemed a hopeless dream. If he left, it was obviously because he didn't want her anymore—why would he come back? And if he did, what would she say?

  Welcome home, it's good to see you. Did you have a good time pretending you weren't a married man with kids? Maybe you were out making babies with some other woman. How many little boys have your bald head? And how many girls the Tomelin birthmark in their ear?

  Not a day went by that she didn't argue with herself: take Daniel back or kick his deserting ass out the door? It was useless, because deep in her heart, she knew it was over between them.

  Silent tears fell, and a short time later, she heard the patter of bare feet on the linoleum. The side of the bed heaved, the springs creaked as a small sweaty body climbed onto the bed and snuggled next to her.

  "Bobby? What's the matter, honey?"

  "'fraid. Sleep Mama."

  She gathered her son in her arms. Of course he was afraid, waking in the dark room he shared with his brother and sister, finding himself alone. "It's okay, honey, Mama's here."

  Sometimes mothers are afraid, too. These days, everyone's afraid.

  Chapter 7

  Daniel stood across the road watching the two-story white house. It wasn't long before a man in a dark suit came outside and cranked a 1931 Ford Roadster, got the engine running and climbed inside. He tipped his cap as the car backed down the long driveway and pulled into the street. But the driver ignored him, stepped on the gas and left him in a trail of exhaust and grit. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. Picked up his sack, hitched the banjo up on his shoulder and started across a dry lawn. Giant spirea and a few overgrown lilac bushes framed the front porch. On the front railing sat a concrete urn with a few bright but scraggly moss rose blossoms. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of home. He could almost smell lingering traces of blossoms long dead as he climbed the steps for the second time since midnight.

  A wooden swing hung by two chains from one end of the porch ceiling. Last night it had looked inviting. But when he'd sat in it, the chains had protested so much he'd gotten out again for fear of waking the owners.

  Now the front door was open, the heat of the day rushing into the house through the screen. A young boy ran past on the other side of the door. He stopped and stared as Daniel dropped the gunnysack on the porch and carefully placed the banjo beside it.

  The youngster, about five years old, turned and ran yelling through the house.

  "Mama, Mama, there's an old tramp on the front porch!"

  A dark heavyset woman in a print dress hurried through an arch beyond the front room. She scowled as she came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

  "Shush, Edward, you mama got a headache."

  The child pointed to Daniel. "But Daddy said no more bums, Miss Anna. No more damn beggars."

  Daniel flinched. If any son of mine cussed, he'd get a good shellacking behind the woodshed and his mouth washed out with laundry soap.

  But he put the thought behind him and touched the brim of his cap.

  "Howdy, ma'am. I wonder if you—"

  The maid thrust the boy behind her skirt and sized up the stranger through the screen. She glanced behind him at the gunnysack, which lay on the porch like a tired old hound.

  "We don't give handouts. Mr. Cornwallis, he say no more beggars, tramps, thieves, or preachers."

  Daniel, not to be turned away before he'd stated his purpose, nodded politely.

  "That's very wise, ma'am. They'll eat you out of house and home if you let 'em."

  "I'm glad you understand," the maid replied as Edward peeked out from behind. "Now you better—"

  "Yes, yes, of course," Daniel said. "I better introduce myself. I ain't no ordinary tramp or bum, ma'am." He indicated the tools in their various places in his overalls. "As a matter of fact, I'm just a simple tradesman. A cabinetmaker looking for work."

  She shook her head. "We got cabinets."

  "Of course you do. But I ain't selling cabinets. I'm not just a carpenter, but an all-purpose handyman. You got anything broke? I'll fix it for a drop of milk, a sandwich, or a cold spud."

  "No." She backed away from the door. "Nothing broken here."

  "Much obliged, then. Sorry I bothered you."

  As he turned to go, he kicked the screen door and the top hinge fell out.

  "Look what you did!" cried the woman.

  Daniel removed his cap.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am." He shook his head. "You better have the mister look at it when he gets home."

  He stuck his cap back on, picked up the gunnysack and banjo, and started down the steps. Smiling to himself, he placed a foot exactly so on a certain board, just enough to tip it.

  "This here step needs fixin', before someone breaks his neck."

  "Wait!" Anna called as he started down the walk.

  He turned around.

  "You could fix it," she said.

  "Reckon I could. But you already said you don't need nothing fixed."

  Anna stepped onto the porch to inspect the damage, then went back inside. "I'll make you a bite to eat while you fix the door and step."

  She disappeared, going back toward the kitchen as Edward ran after her.

  "But Miss Anna, Daddy said no more damn tramps."

  "Hush up, child. You wake you po' mama. She spank you little britches for talking nasty."

  "But Miss Anna, he—"

  "Shhh! I gotta tell you again, you get the switch."

  Daniel set down his gunnysack. He laid the banjo against it and reached in his bib pocket. He grinned as he pulled out the nails and screws he'd removed from the step and screen door earlier.


  When Edward came outside to watch, Daniel said, "You can help me if you want, sonny." He laid a nail in the boy's hand. "You just hold that there nail till I want it again. Don't dare let go of it."

  Edward clutched the nail in his fist and climbed up in the swing. "Yes, sir, I won't lose it."

  Daniel went to work, humming to the squeak of the noisy swing as he reached for his hammer and screwdriver. He held the door in place and positioned a screw in one of the hinge holes.

  "What's in your sack?" Edward asked.

  Daniel glanced at the boy.

  "Dead chickens."

  Edward eyed the gunnysack. "What are they doing in there?"

  Daniel screwed the screw in the wood and got another from his pocket, held it between his lips while he adjusted the hinge some more. He removed the screw from his mouth to speak.

  "They're waiting for me to pull their feathers off so I can make myself a nice pillow."

  "They are?"

  "Yep. You holding that nail nice and tight? Don't lose it."

  Edward opened his fist, showing Daniel the nail.

  "Good boy."

  He finished repairing the screen door, then set to work on the step. When he was done, he turned to Edward.

  "You can gimmie the nail now, Eddy." The boy got out of the swing and dropped the nail in Daniel's open palm. "And go tell your housekeeper she can bring my food now."

  Edward ran into the house and through the archway beyond, and in a minute, the woman came to the door.

  "It's too hot here on the porch. You can eat on the back steps. It's cooler under the oak."

  She went back through the archway as Daniel retrieved his sack and banjo and went behind the house to sit on the top step. A blooming columbine grew next to the steps, again reminding him of home, as did a small garden off to one side. Nearby stood a white hen house enclosed in chicken wire. A couple of hens pecked in the dirt.

  Anna came outside from a screened-in porch and handed him a plate with a sliced tomato, a pickle, a spoonful of potato salad, a roast beef sandwich, and a dollop of cottage cheese.