She stooped over and picked up her brassiere and slip. Looking around, she found a few of Mary's diapers. Gathering what she could, she glanced once more at Saul before going back inside. The sight of him rocking on a porch without a house was too much to bear.
Chapter 13
Daniel worked in the fields with Homer through the rest of July and halfway through August. He loved the smell of dirt, freshly dug potatoes, even the barnyard manure Homer spread on the fields. Something about country living made him realize he was only a mortal after all. The Lord had breathed dust in his nostrils, fashioned him of clay, and trapped his soul in a boney, skin-covered cage. Apparently, he was required to remain in this state and work with his hands, rearranging the elements until his time expired.
Sometimes while walking, before arriving at Homer's, his mind had fogged over. His body had seemed to shed layer after layer of flesh, like peeling away the papery skins of an onion until nothing was left. At such times, he was no longer conscious of physical sensations. This invisible body had a dreamlike quality as he floated mindlessly over the countryside. When consciousness returned, he found he'd covered many miles. What caused him to sleepwalk so far without bumping into something?
He harvested new potatoes before the vines died. Serviced the machinery. Assured all chains, conveyor links, deflectors, and sharp edges were padded enough to protect the tubers. He adjusted the digger-blade height so the potatoes wouldn't hit the front of the primary chain.
Wearing one of Homer's old straw hats, he operated the potato harvester as he had one summer visiting his Uncle Tim's farm. Thirteen at the time, he'd felt high and mighty riding through the dusty fields as though he owned them. Familiar with how the machine worked, he now maintained a proper forward speed to ensure good soil separation and keep the conveyors full of potatoes. He checked frequently to be sure the tubers dropped no more than six inches to prevent bruising and black spots in storage.
The men worked through the hottest days and sometimes didn't quit until twilight. Time passed slowly under the burning solar rays. The sun bronzed Daniel's skin and toughened it like buffalo hide. Though his cheeks were still hollow, good country cooking had added extra pounds to his lean frame. The calluses and blisters healed inside the Army boots Homer provided. Despite the heat and long workdays, life was easier than it had been for months.
Not a drop of rain fell until after the potatoes were dug, bagged, and ready for market. Then the clouds burst and drenched the fields with pure, cool water for three hours straight.
After a supper of creamed peas, new potatoes, and Elta's Dutch apple pie, Daniel sat on the front porch with a tall glass of iced tea, letting the falling rain clear his mind as evening came.
Elta had seen the rain coming and moved her potted begonias and geraniums from the porch railing to the ground. This woman had a love for flowers, and he was especially drawn to the peony bushes beside the driveway.
As raindrops splashed the foliage, he thought of LaDaisy. At one time his wife's garden had also been a showplace with a variety of flowering shrubs and other plants: Rose of Sharon, bridal wreath, lilac, columbines, and great bushes of crimson peonies, their satiny petals shining in the sunlight. Autumn mums bloomed in the fall after other blossoms faded. There had always been color of some kind through the entire year. Even gray and brown limbs and red berries for birds and rabbits looked beautiful against wintry skies and a backdrop of snow. As with life itself, the winter season was not a simple black and white picture.
Daniel's senses heightened as the familiar fragrances came back to him, as though he were standing in the middle of his own yard.
The large oval dirt patch underneath the tire swing was the only spot in town where nothing grew except his children. With God's good earth smeared on their hands and faces, they thrived without a care in the world. The Lord knew what he was doing when he created children and mud.
But LaDaisy had lost interest in her plants when unemployment hit and they couldn't afford the twelve-dollars and fifty cents monthly rent on their home.
Still, the red peonies thrived. Each spring, big black ants crawled on the buds, sucking out the juice and helping the blossoms unfold.
On his last Memorial Day at home, he'd cut a bouquet of peonies covered with beads of morning dew and walked to the cemetery before sunrise, while LaDaisy was still asleep. He'd arranged the flowers in a fruit jar full of water and placed them on Wayne's grave, then bowed his head.
Little did his wife know when he sometimes left the house at dawn to watch the sunrise, he often visited their firstborn. This time, he'd leaned down with teary eyes and sniffed the delicate peony scent one last time.
His mind had already been made up to leave. In the process, he'd become a man worthy of a son by his own name. If not, he'd know the reason why.
Elta's peonies had lost their blooms months ago, as she lost her own day by day.
Sometimes, sitting there on Homer's porch, Daniel took out his whittling tools—the sharpened crochet hook and penknife—and carved delicate figurines of Moses or curly lambs for Elta's buffet.
He'd taken to strumming the banjo while the couple were inside huddled next to the radio. This time of year, they discussed the World Series. He never intruded on their private lives, but sometimes he heard what the announcers were saying. Then he'd stop fiddling with the banjo and listen. Though he hadn't much interest in sports, he learned a lot about baseball this way. When there wasn't a game, they turned to politics.
Daniel listened to Mr. Roosevelt's promises to the people. The citizens of America were full of fear and doubt. But many considered Franklin and Eleanor saviors who would end their struggles after November's election. He thought he might vote for Mr. Roosevelt. When the time came, he'd make it a point to be near a polling place in his county seat.
"He's a good man," Homer said one evening.
"That's the talk I heard up by St. Louis," Daniel replied. "Some folks act like Mr. Roosevelt's God and the answer to their prayers." He paused. "Some don't, of course."
Homer sat on the porch steps and listened to Daniel's strumming. "Nobody has any use for Hoover, it's for sure."
"A chicken in our pots every Sunday," Daniel said. "But some of us don't have a pot."
"I've got a pot, but it's always empty."
Daniel chuckled. "You need a rainbow with two pots of gold coins, one at each end."
Homer rose to go back inside. "You'd beat me to it."
"I ain't found one so far," Daniel said.
Daniel's wanderlust over the past year had taken him all over the country and brought him back to his home state. Sooner or later, he'd have to pack up and head back north.
He heard the lonesome train whistle now and got up to stretch. Picking up the banjo, he let himself in the house and went quietly up the narrow stairs to his room. He turned on the overhead light, removed his purse from the top dresser drawer and poured the coins out on the bed. A small fortune? Well, maybe not.
He sat on the bed and separated nickels, dimes, and quarters, stacking them one on top of the other. There were actually more than he'd thought there would be. But it wasn't enough.
Homer had already paid him for July's harvest. He'd handed Daniel one dollar and eighty cents for almost a month of hard work in the sun. Daniel had expected more. How much more, he didn't know. But this small amount wouldn't go far. Still, how could he complain? He'd been fed and given a roof over his head. A soft, clean bed for his weary bones. Privacy for praying on his knees beside the bed. A pair of boots, though a little too big. He didn't know how they'd be for walking—even with two pairs of socks, he might still get blisters.
Over the ocean he came. Despite the dangers, he traveled to a new country without fear in his breast.
Susannah's voice. A strong woman teaching from her grave.
When Homer had handed him the money, he'd said, "I held out the Lord's tithe, as I always do with hired help. One-tenth of what you earned."
&
nbsp; "But—" Daniel stared at the coins in his open palm. "Well, I—"
"Elta and I taught our sons to give back to the Lord from the money they earn."
Daniel felt hot tears starting behind his eyes. I ain't your son, dammit.
"I didn't earn much over the past year," he said. "So I reckon one-tenth of nothing comes out to nothing." There wasn't a damn thing he could do but accept the meager wages for his back-breaking labor. These are good people. But even good folks can rob you blind.
Homer promised that after the trip to town tomorrow, he'd pay him the rest of his earnings.
And then?
The dog days of August were behind them. Labor Day arrived with a parade through the public square. Summer vacation was over. Children traded bare feet for stiff new shoes and—if their parents or guardians could afford them—Big Chief tablets, yellow pencils, Crayolas, and paint boxes.
Nights were becoming cooler. Daniel had no desire to spend another winter sleeping in haylofts or hunched down around a hobo's campfire trying to keep warm in clothes growing more ragged by the day. He itched to move on, pulled by an unknown force to hit the trail again and go home. This was a good time to travel; gone was the misery of summer heat, not yet too cold at night to sleep outdoors.
Before turning in for the night, he stashed his tools and personal items in the gunnysack. His old shoes with new cardboard insoles. Frankie's catchers' mitt.
He dusted off his battered flat cap, slapping it sharply on his thigh, then laid it at the foot of the bed by his overalls. The boots he lined up side by side on the floor by the bed.
From the picture over the dresser, Jesus winked. Or so it appeared through the mist in Daniel's eyes.
In the morning, he'd hitch a ride to Springfield in the back of Homer's truck—Elta would want to go along to shop or gawk at the other ladies. But after Homer paid him the rest of his wages—minus the tithe—Daniel Tomelin would find a train going north.
Chapter 14
Clay wasn't happy with the tornado damage to Saul's place, but if he could've, he would probably have blamed the disaster on his tenant. While it was true he hadn't charged the old man rent after buying the property—the little house had better care when someone lived in it—he was at least responsible for cleaning up the mess. Days passed, and he ignored the situation after his first inspection.
LaDaisy and the kids helped Saul collect whatever personal items they found scattered through the yard: bedding, clothes, dishes, pictures, and other keepsakes. Daytime found him rocking on a porch with no house attached. It was a pathetic sight. Try as she would, she couldn't get him to come inside until nightfall.
The Sunday following the storm, LaDaisy dabbed rouge on her cheeks and applied red lipstick. She finger-waved her hair and put on a clingy summer dress with a flounce that fell below her knees, then a wide-brimmed hat and sensible shoes. She walked her family to the church six blocks away, pulling Earl's beat-up wagon with Bobby and Mary tucked safely inside. Saul kept pace with her, looking spruced up in a clean shirt with his overalls starched and ironed.
The squeak-squeak of the rusty axles drew curious glances. Worshipers nodded as they neared the building. She hoped nobody noticed the runs in her stockings, but she couldn't bring herself to step inside the church bare-legged. It was bad enough to be poor without also insulting the Lord.
She parked the wagon by the church steps and dropped Mary off at the nursery. Her small group sat in the second row of pews from the front, with Saul at one end and herself at the other, bookends for the three children wedged between them.
Piano music played softly as the Reverend Pitney crossed the dais and took a chair next to Deacon Hartwick and Elder Snow. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, a dreamy expression on his face as a few stragglers came in and sat down. Then the soloist rose and sang in a voice Daniel had called opera screech.
"Amazing grace, how sweeeet the sound
That saved a witch like meeee."
The congregation shifted restlessly in their seats, the heat and humidity already causing discomfort as they flipped pages in their hymnals or fanned their faces with cardboard fans attached to sticks, and which were imprinted on one side with a picture of the Good Shepherd and the other an ad for Carson's Funeral Home.
LaDaisy spied a familiar face across the room—Daniel's sister Bernadine. They made eye contact. Bernie smiled, and LaDaisy made a mental note to say hello when the service was over.
Catherine squirmed and whined. "Mama, I'm too hot, can we go home now?"
LaDaisy silenced her daughter with a look and pointed to the altar as the singing stopped and the minister rose.
"Let us pray," came Brother Pitney's nasal southern drawl, and the congregation bowed its collective head.
"O sweet JESUS. We thank you for this beautiful MORNING. For the OPPORTUNITY to come TOGETHER in your HOUSE of worship. To sing the PRAISES of the Lord. PRAISE GOD."
When the prayer ended, murmurs of "Amen," "Sweet Jesus," "Save this sinner, Lord," and one loud "Earl kicked me!" filled the church.
LaDaisy ignored the child and raised her head as offertory music floated into the heads of the worshipers. She opened her purse and counted pennies for her children's offering. Into Earl's palm she dropped three cents. She gave two cents to Catherine and one penny to Bobby.
"Hold it tight," she whispered. "When the plate comes by just drop it in." She gave Earl a warning glance. "Don't take any out this time, okay?" The boy rolled his eyes.
Bobby tugged on her arm. "More pennies, Mama!"
"Shhh."
"Praise the Lord," said Brother Pitney with a toothy smile. "More pennies, Mama!"
She wished the floor would open up and swallow her.
"Earl gots more!"
Bobby's loud voice caused heads to turn. People stared and fanned their smirking faces. It was always this way when she brought her noisy children to church. Just once she'd like to sit peacefully and enjoy a sermon without becoming the laughingstock of Independence. She leaned over and whispered in Bobby's ear.
"Earl's older than you are. Now hush up." Heat crept into her cheeks as she looked apologetically at the people around her. She reached past the children and handed Saul a nickel.
When the offering plate came to their row, Deacon Hartwick held it down for each child. LaDaisy added her own five cents.
The congregation was now a sea of waving fans, rustling hymnals and programs in stifling air reeking of sweat and lavender toilet water. Across the aisle sat Vera and Rufus—Vera probably gritting her teeth at her grandchildren's antics. Beside them in the pew, were Ida Mae and Clay Huff.
Clay's presence was disconcerting. LaDaisy resented his intrusion in her place of worship. He didn't belong there, even if he was the vilest of sinners. If the church members knew he'd raped his sister-in-law, they might've ended his hypocritical appearances once and for all. Clay was the perfect candidate for fire and brimstone.
She appraised her sister as the congregation rose for the final hymn.
"Abide with me; fast falls the eventide.
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide."
Bloated and swollen, the thought of giving birth for the first time must've been agonizing for Ida. But LaDaisy knew from experience the pain her sister suffered in labor would be forgotten the moment her newborn was placed in her arms. Like tooth extractions, memories of a painful childbirth faded with time. Otherwise, no woman would have a second child.
"When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with meeeee."
Fans and hymnals were quickly stashed in the racks behind the pews. The music followed them from the church as people rushed outdoors, where a stiff breeze cooled their bodies. Men loosened their ties and children lost their Sunday school papers, dropping them on the ground for the wind to carry away. Saul went outdoors while LaDaisy collected Mary from the nursery.
"Through cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with me."
The air refreshed her face and the wind fluttered the hem of her dress. Her dark, sweaty stockings clung to her legs. The first thing she'd do when she got home would be to roll down the tight garters and take the damn things off.
"LaDaisy, wait."
She turned to see Bernie waving and waited for her to catch up.
Bernie caught her breath. "Do you have a minute?"
"I was going to say hello, but you seemed busy."
"Yes, someone cornered me." Bernie lay a hand on her sister-in-law's arm. "I wanted to ask about Dad. What a terrible thing to happen to you, LaDaisy. The storm, Dad losing his little house." She glanced up the path where Saul and the children waited. "You were lucky the funnel missed yours."
LaDaisy nodded. "I thank God every day for the storm cellar, Bernie. If not for the moldy old crypt, maybe none of us would be alive."
"Have you heard from Daniel?"
"Not a word."
Bernie pulled a hatpin from her summer straw hat and took it off, shaking her thick wavy hair loose. "I don't know what to make of it," she said. "My brother's a strange bird—I'm the first to admit. But even birds fly back to their nests at some point."
"I haven't given up on him yet, Bernie. I don't know what happened, but I have a feeling he'll be back in his own good time." She paused. "We miss him."
Face the Winter Naked Page 15
