Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  She choked back a sob as he pumped into her. At one point, her vision fell on the closet door. The shotgun. But there was no way in hell she could reach it. No chance to get the key from the dresser and unlock the door.

  Her head swam. All she could think of was blowing Clay's brains out as he finished with a groan and collapsed on top of her.

  Her tears fell silently. It was over. There was nothing she could do about it now. Then Mary cried out, and she fought to get out from under him.

  "My baby! Clay, my baby needs me!"

  "Shut up before someone hears you."

  She struggled again, tried to get up a knee to kick him where it would hurt most.

  Her voice rose. "I want my baby!"

  He slapped her sharply across the face.

  "Told you to shut the hell up!"

  LaDaisy sobbed as he finally rose and began dressing.

  "You won't tell a soul, will you, sister-in-law?"

  She got up and staggered to the cradle with tremendous pain in her thighs. "Shhh, Mama's here." She gently lifted her baby and held her closely, her heart breaking. Her dignity shattered. She wept into Mary's hair, then turned to Clay with murder in her eyes.

  "The least you can do is give me a receipt."

  "A what?" He hitched his suspenders up over his shoulders. "You want a what?"

  "I just paid my rent. I want a receipt."

  "I'll give you a fuckin' receipt, bitch." He looked around the room. "Where's some paper?"

  LaDaisy found a scrap of yellowed notepaper and a pencil on the dresser.

  "And put the date on it."

  He scribbled a note and handed it back to her, then quickly left the house.

  She waited till she heard his car drive away. He was gone; she could lock the door now. It never would've happened if she'd locked it in the first place. But she knew all the neighbors, and not one of them would force their way inside her house and assault her, as Clay had done. She clutched the receipt in her fist, and held on to Mary for all she was worth. Tears fell freely, and Mary was falling back to sleep. She laid her in the cradle, smoothed the paper and read.

  Three months rent paid by LaDaisy with consented prostitution.

  "Oh, my God."

  Her legs weakened. She sank to the side of the bed, staring at the words through blinding tears. After a while, she crumpled the paper and threw it across the room to the top of the dresser. When her rage and pain had subsided somewhat, she smoothed out the note and placed it in the box with her baby's shoes. Another part of her had just died.

  She went out to the kitchen and put two big kettles of water on the cook stove to heat, then dragged the galvanized washtub in from the back porch and filled it. She could try to scrub, but she knew she'd never get Clay's filth off her body. Tears came again as she pulled down the tattered window shade, breaking off a piece of the dry, brittle paper in the process. Then she pulled off her dirty clothes and dropped them in the garbage before stepping into the tub of warm water.

  Hard sobs racked her body as she sat with her eyes closed. No other man besides Daniel had ever touched her.

  Chapter 9

  Toward evening, Daniel came upon a Frisco Railroad line out of St. Louis, with a long freight stopped right in the middle of open country. He didn't much care where it was headed. But if luck was with him, it might go to Springfield.

  He stared at the train with a heavy heart, his eyes burning and watering. He'd hardly noticed when June became a scorching Missouri July. He'd lost track of the days while his body withered and cracked in the heat.

  Not only had he become more gaunt this year, but even his mind felt emaciated and haggard. Bouts of weeping came frequently. He wore out another pair of "Hoover leather" insoles. His calluses scraped the rocks and brush through holes growing bigger with each step. Where he'd find more cardboard to line the shoes was anybody's guess.

  His feet were sore, and his can of Cloverine salve almost empty. Shoes were only part of the problem. He felt pain throughout his body, from the top of his head on down. His legs were worn-out inner tubes melting in the sun; the relentless heat sucked the muscle right out of him. His gut ached and groaned, shriveling from lack of food. His bowels were a mess—he was either plugged up or had the runs from eating dandelions; wiping paper was nonexistent, forcing him to use leaves and hope they weren't poison ivy. Sometimes there was no pond or spring where he could clean his hands.

  He'd been glad to leave the tar-paper shacks and their assortment of riffraff behind. The nights he'd spent in those places had not produced sleep for fear someone would cut his throat.

  Campfire discussions were depressing, for the subject always turned mournful, sad, and often angry with elected officials. Men no longer trusted their president, nor their government, for that matter. The daily news was all the same, and people gathered the old newspapers blowing in the streets to use for blankets.

  Still, some were excited to think Mr. Roosevelt might be elected and kick the crooks out of office. Prisons would be filled with men who had lied and stolen from the people who elected them. But November was a long way off; anything could happen between then and now.

  Daniel had wearied of the incessant moaning and bitching, and when morning came he'd grabbed his things and hit the road. Here was basically a happy soul who carried enough worries of his own right now. He didn't need the burden of someone else's. Time and again, he asked himself why some of those men didn't get out and look for work. But the answer, as always, was the same: There was no work to be had. Many of those homeless souls had given up in despair, their hopes and aspirations sucked from their minds and hearts.

  A hot wind had come up at one point during the day and blown his cap off. He'd spent an hour searching along the dirt road he'd traveled since leaving the house where he'd received money, food, and good company—plus an egg nobody but the hen knew was missing, and which he'd fried on his campfire a short time later.

  He tried to avoid activity during the hottest hours of the day, for his face was already blistered and the sun even penetrated his thin shirt. He'd taken to traveling by foot during the cooler morning hours or after the sun went down.

  He wondered if the train was going anywhere. It hadn't budged; he didn't know if it ever would. Maybe there was no train. Maybe his imagination was working overtime.

  Seeing no other living soul, he nonetheless stayed hidden in the shadows of stunted trees and thick undergrowth, scanning the length of the train until he found what he was looking for—a boxcar with its door partly open.

  He wondered if government officials realized they'd done the vagrants a big favor when they kept the railroads operating while bankrupt. Well, a night in a boxcar wasn't much better than sleeping in a barn, except barns didn't have wheels to take people to their destinations.

  Daniel's heart raced at the thought of being caught and clubbed by a railroad cop. When finally he decided it was safe to emerge, he grabbed his belongings and ran crouching alongside the freight cars. Reaching the red boxcar he'd chosen earlier—with the company logo of a stretched coonskin on its side—he threw his gunnysack through the open doorway, grabbed the handle and pulled himself up into the hot, dusty interior. Breathing hard and sweating like a hog on a spit, he slid the heavy door almost all the way shut, allowing just a crack to see outside.

  He picked up his sack and moved to the interior of the car. And when his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw he was alone in the forty feet of empty space. He sat down on the wooden floor and leaned his head against a wall, gasping from exertion, waiting for his heartbeat to steady. He wiped his sleeve across his face, closed his eyes and tasted the salty sweat as it rolled over his mouth and dripped off his chin, now covered with a two-day-old beard.

  A shrill blast from the freight's whistle nearly scared the daylights out of its passenger. The train began moving slowly, then picked up speed through the countryside. The rocking boxcar and clacking of steel wheels on the rails lulled him to a medit
ative state.

  Daniel awoke just before dawn when the freight rumbled across a railroad bridge. Thinking he must be near a city, he gathered his supplies and waited for the train to slow down. When he jumped to the ground, his left foot buckled when he hit the cinders. Eyes watering, he held tightly to his gunnysack and banjo and slid down the embankment on his hind end.

  Sitting in a ditch full of briars and weeds, he removed his shoe and carefully felt his ankle for swelling. The pain was intense. But there didn't appear to be any broken bones. Probably just a light sprain and would go away in a few days if he didn't aggravate it too much.

  An early morning fog shrouded the countryside, providing cover and privacy. But he was in the middle of nowhere, and which direction to take when he started walking again was a mystery.

  He fell asleep, and awoke to find the sun burning off the fog. As early as it was—about eight o'clock, judging from the sun's position—he could already tell the day was going to be a scorcher. Too hot for walking, but walk he must. He had to find a place to wash his sweaty clothes and tidy up before hitting the road again to find work.

  People would be up and about by this time, and he needed food in the worst way. Would he be lucky to find a woman as hospitable as the maid Anna? The woman who fretted about turning bums away in case they were Jesus in disguise. He wished everyone was as nice as she was. She hadn't seemed so at first, but he'd liked her the minute the boy started screaming, "No more damn bums, Miss Anna." The child knew she welcomed every tramp who knocked on the door—when the mister and mistress weren't around. Some people were kind. But others were mean enough to say, "Get the hell off my property before I call the sheriff!" and mean it. Daniel had met his share of bad-tempered folks.

  The ankle was much improved. At least there were no jagged bones sticking out. It was straight and sturdy enough to bear his weight as he retrieved his belongings and walked away from the tracks with the sun behind him.

  In the distance rose forested foothills and low mountains, and for a minute he was confused. Then he knew: The train had traveled toward the Ozark Plateau while he slept, when he'd thought it should go straight west. He stopped walking and gazed all around, wondering exactly where he was. Springfield? No, he couldn't be so far south or west.

  The terrain was hilly and rocky, covered with undergrowth and scrub vegetation along foot trails and dirt roads gouged with deep wagon ruts. Daniel stumbled often over fallen logs and stones hidden in the weeds, at the same time careful to watch for copperheads, rattlesnakes, and itch weed. Sumac and dogwood lined the steep banks along the few dry creek beds. When autumn came this place would be a riot of color: brilliant red, yellow, orange and bronze leaves, the air heavily scented with red cedar. But the area was sadly lacking rain. One creek bed was nothing more than a muddy puddle, unfit to drink or even wash in.

  He took to the woods to avoid the relentless sun, and the woods were thick with burrs, wood ticks, and "beggar's lice" just beginning to bloom. He hated the sticky little seed pods covered with fine hairs. But he knew deer browsed on the plants and many types of birds feasted on the seeds. He crossed ravines and gullies, trod over footbridges and cattle guards—not surprised by the lack of cattle in any shape or form. At one time or another, someone had lived here and erected barriers to keep their livestock in.

  Now and then he scared up a doe and froze in his tracks to watch her grace and speed as she leaped over the briars and vanished in the coolness of the woods. He wished he could move his stiff, sore body like she did. But he could do without all those burrs sticking to his overalls' cuffs.

  He could've kicked himself for jumping off the train in this rocky part of the state. He was already exhausted and almost out of drinking water. The Shepherd of the Hills region of Missouri—if he was indeed so far south—was no place for a tramp with a bum ankle. At times he was forced to rest by the side of the road, setting down his heavy sack and banjo and searching the distant hills for signs of life. The few dilapidated cabins beyond the dusty weeds and broken rail fences appeared deserted. Travel was slow over steep, winding dirt roads, and when he'd finally had enough dust and grit up his nose, he took to the woods.

  Sometime later and dying of thirst, Daniel came upon a natural spring trickling through some rocks in a glade protected by scrubby trees, black hickory and shortleaf pine, and dotted with primrose, yellow coneflower, ferns, and other shade-loving plants in a bed of Indian grass. A fence lizard darted across a flat rock adjacent to the spring. He shed the banjo and gunnysack and leaned over to catch a drink. Cool, clean mineral water flowed into his cupped hands, and he gratefully quenched his thirst before rinsing his parched face and refilling his water jug. He lowered himself to the ground and leaned back against the lizard's rock, closed his eyes and dozed to the soothing trickle of spring water, the scent of pine sap, and the staccato drilling of a woodpecker.

  A few minutes later, his rest was disturbed by the sound of a woman's voice in this quiet wood. He opened his eyes, thinking he must be dreaming. But no, a few yards away stood an old lady in a ragged print dress and old-fashioned sunbonnet, waving a long stick and shouting like an auctioneer.

  "Sooooeeeeeeeeeeee, here Buttercup. Drat. Where'd she go?"

  She swung around as Daniel cleared his throat and automatically reached for his coin purse.

  "Oh." She came closer and waved the stick in his face. "Where'd y'all come from?"

  "Careful where you point that thing," he said, ducking.

  She tossed the stick aside and squatted on her heels to face him at eye level.

  "You see a big spotted sow go by?"

  "Nope, did you lose one?" She was a living scarecrow with sprigs of gray hair sticking out from under her cap and skin tougher than the leather in his shoes.

  "Yes," she said, "and the sow's the only thing 'tween my family and starvation. We got her bred to a neighbor's boar, so we owe him a baby pig when they come. Darn her hide anyway. Be just like her to go off and have 'em in the woods." She continued to gawk at Daniel, her eyes piercing him through and through. "Where y'all headed so early?"

  Daniel squinted at the sun shining between the trees, and when he shut his eyes, small orange balls floated across his vision.

  "I thought I was heading north to find work. But unless someone moved the earth, I think I'm going the wrong direction."

  "What kind o' work?" She eyed the pack and the banjo. "You a fiddler? You got a hammer and stuff, too, so maybe—"

  "I'm a carpenter, ma'am."

  "You won't find no work around here. Me and Ezra—my old man—we got eight people in our little house, four of 'em babies, and we's just skimpin' by." Her voice was sad, but her eyes suffered drought and couldn't make water.

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm real sorry."

  "Ezra hurt his back, so he can't plow or plant. The government's hard up, too. Over at the county seat, they said everbody's up the same crik and there ain't no more money to bail us out."

  "A new president's coming in November," Daniel said politely. "Least I hope so. And I hear ol' Tom Pendergast is making new jobs up in Kan' City. I wish I was there right now so he could give me one, danged if I don't."

  She rocked back on her heels and laughed. "Haw. You might as well wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one gets full the fastest. To hell with Pendergast. I heard he ain't nothing but a damn crook." She shook her finger in Daniel's face. "Mark my words, he's going to jail someday."

  Standing again, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called the sow.

  "Sooooeeeeeeeeeeee. Heeere Buttercup. Here pig."

  "I know some don't like Mr. Pendergast," Daniel said. "Sure, he's just another politician and one's bad as another. But I figure he must have a decent streak if he puts men to work. At least he's not as bad as Hoover."

  Daniel didn't like talking politics, especially with people who disagreed with him. Nothing he could say would change their opinions anyway. What was he doing discussing politics with a feisty o
ld woman in the middle of the woods?

  "You're entitled to your opinion," she said.

  "Maybe your other folks could do the plowing if the mister can't," Daniel said, changing the subject, "or even a neighbor. Your hog farmer, for instance."

  "He won't. Nobody feels like plowing. The little ones can't and their mama's gotta save her energy for nursing the baby. Why, the poor girl's all wore out. She's like a dead woman sitting and staring with a baby hanging on her, and he prob'ly gets as much milk from her as he would from a boar hog."

  "I'm sorry," he said again.

  "Sorry don't help and sorry don't feed people." The woman shrugged her skinny shoulders. "Got no tractor, anyhow, just a miserable ol' mule. What could we plant? Something that don't need water, I reckon, cause we ain't getting any rain soon, are we?"

  "Maybe that's why the hog took off," Daniel said, "looking for a pond to wallow in."

  "Sow," she corrected. "Or maybe she's teched in the head, it being hot and her so close to farrowin'."

  Daniel rose and stretched. "Yes, ma'am. Everything's dry and dusty. It's been so long since it rained, I almost forgot what it looks like."

  The woman stuck out her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr.—?"

  "Daniel." He clasped her hand gently.

  "Mr. Daniel, I'm Bess. You got family somewhere?"

  "Yep."

  She nodded but didn't pry. Daniel assumed he wasn't the first family man she'd seen roaming through the hills in search of work.

  "When the new piggies are big enough, we'll sell 'em to a butcher across town."

  "That right?" Daniel looked around for a town, but didn't see any.

  The town is a mirage. Old lady Bess is a mirage. The train I come in on and myself, too, are just mirages. The whole of life is nothing but a big spankin' mirage.

  "Well, it was nice talking to you," Bess said, "but I need to find my cussed sow or there won't be any babies to sell. I hope you find work, but I wouldn't count on it too much if I was you." She stopped him with her hand on his forearm as he turned to leave. "Hold on now—can you dig wells?"