"A decent bed—I don't know how long it's been since I even seen one, let alone slept on one. My poor 'ol feet can use the rest, too."
Daniel looked under the table at his scuffed shoes.
"Hoover leather don't last long. Pretty soon the holes in my shoes get so big my whole danged feet almost fall out. Calluses like silver dollars. Bunions, ingrown toenails. You name it, I got it. I even twisted my ankle last time I hopped off a train." He wiggled his foot. "Seems okay now."
Homer nodded. "They'll get some rest here. I might even find you a pair of boots. C'mon upstairs and I'll show you where you'll sleep." He glanced at the gunnysack as Daniel went to pick it up. "It ain't going nowhere. It's safe down here."
Daniel trailed Homer down a narrow hallway with flowered wallpaper on both sides and another picture of Jesus. They went through a white door with dozens of coats of paint and up a steep flight of stairs. Homer opened another door and stepped aside for him to enter.
The room was small, dark, and musty, with only one window, and occupied a space under a gable. Its ceiling sloped on two sides and a few strips of faded wallpaper had peeled down in places. Flour and water paste will fix it.
A large double bed with a heavy oak headboard loomed out at Daniel like a magic carpet from Heaven. He couldn't resist going over to sit on the patchwork comforter.
A large portrait of Christ in a gilded frame hung over a tall dresser, and the soft eyes of the Master looked down at him from across the room. Daniel's eyes blurred and the face wavered before him. He thought he saw Jesus blink.
"This will do just fine," he said.
Homer ran a meaty palm across the top of the dresser; it came away dusty and he wiped it on his overalls.
"It's yours while you're here."
"I can't stay long," Daniel said. "One of these days I gotta hike myself back home."
"I guess you miss your family. Wife and little ones?"
"Wife and three children. My dad, too. I miss 'em like all get-out."
Homer crossed the room and gazed out the window at the fields beyond.
"How are they making out with you gone?" He turned and looked at Daniel. "They got any help?" Daniel made no reply. "You didn't leave them all alone, did you?"
"Well, yes, I—I went looking for work. The rent was long overdue, and I thought I could find—well my in-laws are there, and—"
"Don't they even know where you are?"
Daniel's throat constricted; the space behind his eyeballs burned.
"No, I reckon not."
"I heard some men took off like that," Homer said. "Never met one till now. I can't picture myself doing the same thing. Think your wife will still want you?"
"Don't know."
Homer came over and stood before Daniel.
"You must be homesick. Just tell me when you want to go home. But I hope it won't be for a couple of months."
"I can't promise anything." Daniel felt like a bucket of soured shit. "If the homesickness gets bad enough—" He removed his glasses and picked at the corner of an eye before putting them back on.
"There's a lot of work to do here," Homer said. "After potatoes, there's fruit trees. The apples are so heavy they're already about to bust the branches." The man grinned. "Of course, you can eat as many as you want. If you like apples. Well, if this suits you, I'll bring up your things and you can make yourself at home. I'll tell Elta to bring you up a tub of hot water so you can soak your tired feet."
"I'd appreciate it." Daniel got off the bed and reached for Homer's hand. "I can't tell you how much this means." His eyes smarted. "And if you don't mind, I'd like to try out this here bed for a little while."
"Take your time." Homer turned to go, then said over his shoulder, "The potatoes can wait another few days. In the meantime, we'll pray for your little family if it's all right with you."
"Thank you," Daniel said. "I've been so busy trying to survive I almost forgot how to pray." He removed his shoes and glanced at the picture over the dresser.
A few minutes later, Homer appeared in the hall with Daniel's pack. He set it inside the door and said, "There you go. If you need anything, just holler."
Daniel waited for him to leave, then removed his tools and lined them up on the floor beside the bed. It was good to be rid of the extra weight. He picked up George's banjo, examined the strings and reminded himself to fix the broken ones someday. Exhausted and with a full stomach, he lay on the bed next to the banjo. She's almost like a good woman, said the banjo man.
A loud crash woke Daniel from a sound sleep, and from inside his head came a child's voice:
Now I sleep, pray my soul. I wake and die.
He sprang upright.
"Bobby—that you, son?"
Something—or someone—screamed, and the hairs stood out on the back of his neck. He listened. He knew he'd been dreaming. But what? From a distance came the long, lonely whistle of a train, and he remembered his old hobo passenger. Has the banjo man died?
The eerie sound continued for several more minutes. Perhaps it was only a panther, not a human. Saul had told him stories about wildcats when he was young. How they'd stretch out on tree branches at night, waiting for horses and buggies or walkers to pass under. But he didn't know of anyone who'd died from wildcats springing down on open carriages.
After a while the crying stopped. Daniel rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Jesus.
"I don't know what it means," he said under his breath. "But I trust you to help if anything's wrong back home."
Chapter 12
Saul rose from the rocker and waved when LaDaisy left the privy and headed down the path to the house.
"Come have a seat, girl, you look wore out."
"You got it right," she said, coming over. "It's fixin' to storm."
He cupped a hand behind his ear. "Whatzat?"
"I said—" She pointed to the sky and yelled, "Look at the clouds."
Saul gazed toward the southwest. "Yep. We can use the rain."
"That's the truth." She sat on the top step and fanned herself with the neck of her dress. "It's just our luck they'll pass on over without leaving a drop. Those are 'mama' clouds, Saul, big droopy bags of wind."
"Hey?"
"Funnel clouds."
"Nope, just straight winds. I seen many a funnel cloud in olden days and these ain't them." He raised his head and sniffed the air like a hound. "But rain's coming for sure. Can ya smell it?"
She got up to leave. Sometimes it was pointless trying to explain anything to Saul. She suspected he might be going blind, as well as deaf.
"I have to get supper started. You can eat with us if you want."
"Sounds like a good idea."
LaDaisy laughed. "You weren't deaf that time, mister. Mention food and your ears perk up like an old mule."
"Told you I ain't deef."
"Says you. But you're welcome to eat. There isn't much."
"I ain't hungry anyhow."
When he grinned, gaps between his teeth turned him into a jack-o-lantern. His stick-out ears rode up the sides of his head into a disappearing hairline. Tufts of gray hair sprouted from his ears, no doubt growing in beds of earwax.
She knew if she didn't watch after him, he might not eat at all. Even now his skin was about to fall off his bones. Feeding him was the least she could do for her father-in-law, and the kids enjoyed having him around.
"Suit yourself, and keep an eye on those clouds."
She headed back to the house, glancing at the dark sky again. The storm was approaching fast. On impulse, she went to the storm cellar and pulled open a wooden door almost hidden under a rock garden a few feet from the back of the house. The flowers growing on top bloomed despite the dryness: black-eyed Susan, tiger lilies, mint, and purple iris, whose roots lay on top of the ground drying out. Another summer soon gone and she still hadn't divided the tubers.
She dropped the door back against the ground and descended the steps into a musty, cool cellar that
smelled of dirt, though its walls and ceiling were lined with boards. But even with the open door and an iron pipe for ventilation, she felt buried beneath the mound of soil and rocks and flowers. Her family had used this dark hole only twice to hide from the wind.
This is how my baby feels buried underground.
Saul had stored a bushel basket of potatoes in one corner last fall, and mice had gnawed the few shriveled tubers that remained. After they moved here, Daniel built shelves along the cellar's back wall for her Mason jars of fruits and vegetables, pickles and preserves. Except for a couple of jars of green beans and tomatoes, the shelves stood empty, a reminder of the poor times come upon them. An assortment of dusty fruit jars and a box of zinc lids sat on the floor under the shelves. How long since she'd had any fruit or vegetables to put up? She was afraid to open the old jars lest the food was spoiled.
After checking to see if the old wooden bench and pile of blankets were still there, she came back upstairs, but hesitated about closing the door. Just one glance at the black, fast-moving clouds boiling overhead changed her mind and she left it open.
The wind picked up and swirled dust and leaves around the backyard. Bed sheets, diapers, and pillow slips flapped horizontally on the clothesline. She ran to the corner of the house and yelled at the kids playing on the truck as dirt devils kicked up around them.
"Go in the house, it's going to storm! Hurry!"
The two boys stared at their mother a minute, then jumped down from the truck, ran in the house and slammed the screen door. Catherine came over as LaDaisy went back to the clothesline.
"Mama, Mary's crying."
LaDaisy listened. "She's hungry, Cath. Go in and talk to her. I have to get these clothes down before they get rained on." She swatted the girl lightly on the bottom.
"Hurry now. Go play with baby till I come in."
Catherine went in the house and LaDaisy yanked clothes off the line, throwing clothespins in the basket with the clothes. Finishing just as thunder boomed and lightning crashed too close for comfort, she waved at Saul and yelled.
"Get in the cellar!"
He didn't hear. She dropped the basket of clothes by the back steps and tore up the path to the little house, hair flying in the wind, dress billowing up over her knees. Saul came down the rickety steps.
"Whatzat?"
Her heart pounded and sweat rolled down her cheeks as she pointed to the storm clouds.
Saul shook his head. "Just a straight wind. I seen many in my day—" He grabbed his hat as the wind lifted it up. "Whoops!"
"Get in the cellar!" she screamed. "It's a tornado!"
The roar of the wind drowned out her voice.
"Th-the cellar. Quick!" She started back at a run, thinking of the kids alone in the house, calling over her shoulder, "You get in that cellar right now, Saul!"
She continued to the house, burst into the kitchen and grabbed Earl's arm.
"Take Bobby to-to the cellar. Now, Earl. Hurry! I'll get Mary."
A loud clap of thunder—too close—and the rain poured. The house groaned. A blast of wind hit the side full force and drenched the kitchen through the open window. It was almost pitch black outside, and the sky roared like a freight train, drowning out Catherine's screams. LaDaisy snatched Mary out of the cradle and ran back to the kitchen.
Mary cried as Catherine screeched, her face beet red and tears running down her face.
"Follow me!" LaDaisy shouted. "Come on, Cath, to the cellar—"
"Mama, Mama. I'm afraid!"
When the terrified girl didn't move, LaDaisy slapped her smartly across the face.
Oh dear God. What have I become?
"I'm sorry, Cath, now come on."
The screaming stopped abruptly but Cath continued to sob.
LaDaisy's hair stood on end as she yanked the screen door open and pushed the girl outside. Shielding Mary's face against the wind and rain, the two stumbled down the cellar steps in the dark. She realized she'd forgotten the flashlight. God help us.
The boys cried, but Saul was there.
"Ain't much of a storm," he said. "Why, I seen some could turn your hair white." He took a small hand in each of his and led the boys to the bench. "Now just sit your butts down and you'll be okay. It's just wind."
"I want my daddy!" Earl screamed, and Bobby said, "Big wind, Grampa."
LaDaisy grabbed Catherine's hand and led her to the bench, her chest heaving from exertion and fear.
"Say a prayer," Saul told Earl. "Your daddy ain't here, but if he was he'd be praying, wouldn't he? You know he would, so get busy and pray."
Rain poured through the open cellar door and Saul went up and pulled it down with a bang. Now the cellar was thrown into complete darkness, enough to keep the boys crying and start their sister up again.
LaDaisy fought for breath as she pushed Catherine down on the bench, grabbed a musty blanket and wrapped it around her.
"Hush up, Cath! You're safe down here. Stop crying before I give you something to cry about."
It was enough that Mary cried and struggled in her arms. She unbuttoned her dress and gave her a breast to suck on. From the dark came Bobby's voice.
"... me down to sleep ... I wake and die."
Oh dear God. LaDaisy's heart turned over, hearing her son's innocent baby prayer. She thought of Daniel, knowing if he were here, he'd be totally useless. Part of her wanted to strangle her husband for leaving them in this danger. But they needed him, and now was no time for bitterness. Daniel, Daniel, where are you?
Outside, the storm raged and limbs crashed to the ground nearby. Something thumped against the cellar door. Wind whistled through the cracks of the old boards as the family huddled in the dark waiting for the noise to stop. LaDaisy's ears popped, and her stomach jumped. The children had quieted, and Mary nursed contentedly. Her diaper was soaked—as if she cared.
LaDaisy listened, but heard only the silence. "I think it's over. Saul, can you open the door? I heard something hit; it might be blocked."
He mumbled a reply and she heard him climb the steps. The door groaned. Daylight streamed in as he pushed until it fell back against the ground with a thud.
Rain poured through the open doorway. Mary had fallen asleep and lost the nipple. LaDaisy's eyes adjusted to the light as she covered herself and roused the children huddled on the bench.
"It's okay now," she said. "The storm's gone."
Catherine and Earl stared at their mother with big, startled eyes.
"I want my daddy," Earl said.
"Well, as you can see, he ain't here."
"Where is he?"
She had no answer, but shook her head and turned away as Saul went out in the rain. She shook Bobby's arm gently and he sat up.
"Storm's over, Bobby. We can go back to the house now. I'll cook supper."
Her children were barefoot and dirty, but safe.
Their fears gone now, Catherine and Earl ran up the cellar stairs and into the yard as though nothing had happened.
"It's raining," Catherine sang. "It's raining. It's raining."
"Thank God," LaDaisy murmured.
She grabbed Bobby's hand and led him up the steps, holding Mary against her left shoulder. They stood by the back porch letting the rain pour over them, the kids laughing and skipping through the grass soaking wet, thoughts of the storm lost to memory. LaDaisy's hair hung in soppy tendrils around her face. The water felt refreshing and cool after the sweltering days they'd spent wiping sweat from their brows. The blessed rain washed the grime off kids and clothes, and filled the rain barrel at the corner of the house.
Year after year, the resident goldfish stayed at the bottom of the deep barrel to survive the harsh winter months; spring and summer found it skimming mosquito larvae from the top of the water. A one-inch-long fish when they won it at a carnival five years before, "Goldie" had grown another three inches. LaDaisy often wondered how it could live its whole existence in a barrel of water without another living fish to associ
ate with, and she always made a point to speak to it when she dipped water for washing hair or watering houseplants.
Sometimes she felt like the fish.
The dark clouds moved off to the east, over pastures and dirt roads turning to mud. Sunshine burst through the rain. The grass looked greener as raindrops pelted the earth. She became lost in thought, until a sudden noise from Saul made her turn around.
"Sweet rain for the garden," she said.
Saul gazed up the path toward his house, and she followed his line of sight to the remains of the house he'd called home. She stared, unable to comprehend what had happened. Then she burst into tears as the old man walked slowly up the path, past the outhouse, the garden, now littered with debris—boards, window sashes, doors, broken glass, clothes, and chairs.
"No, Saul, no. Come back, please."
He paid her no mind. When he reached the porch he hesitated, then slowly climbed the steps and lowered himself into the rocker, which, amazingly, was untouched by the storm.
Behind the porch lay a pile of lumber—smashed flat and furniture probably blown to the next county. He rocked back and forth, his old shoes sliding against the worn boards, his face an impenetrable mask.
Unable to stop crying, LaDaisy turned and entered her own house, put Mary down and called the kids in.
"Nobody needs a bath tonight." Trying to sound cheerful. "Get the wet clothes off and I'll fix supper."
"Where's Grandpa?" Earl asked.
"He'll be here in a little bit." LaDaisy knew Saul was rocking on the porch of a house that was no longer there.
She rummaged through the icebox for something to cook. Scrambled eggs? Oh my. She'd forgotten to put the ice card in the window and the icebox felt warm inside. She opened the small door at the bottom, pulled out the pan of water and emptied it into a five-gallon pail. The fifty-pound block of ice had melted to a chunk about six-inches in diameter. She found the card and stuck it up in the window, mentally calculating which day it was.
Remembering the laundry basket, she went back outside and found it upside down next to the cistern, which had gone unused until she could no longer afford city water. Clothes were strewn all over the yard. Catherine's bloomers hung from the lilac bush by the front porch. Earl's overalls, socks, and underwear were likewise draped over bushes and other places no clothes should be.
Face the Winter Naked Page 14
