Bernie stroked Mary's cheek with a finger. "She's so precious. May I hold her?"
She took the drowsy baby and kissed the top of her head. "Such a sweetheart. I saw the cutest baby dress at Knoepker's the other day. Just perfect for Mary." She turned to LaDaisy again. "If there's anything I can do till my wayfaring brother returns, just let me know—oh, I don't know why I used that word. Wayfaring? But I have a strange feeling that wherever he is, he's traveling by foot. How odd." Bernie rocked Mary in her arms. "I'd be happy to watch this one if you need a break, so don't hesitate to ask."
LaDaisy debated whether to tell Bernie about the letter and war mementos she'd found among Daniel's belongings. The two women walked slowly up the walk toward Saul and the children.
"I found some papers and things Daniel hadn't told me about, Bernie."
"Oh?"
"War papers and medals—did you know he was wounded in the war?"
Bernie shook her head. "Well, I did know. But he wanted to forget, so I never pressed. Some things need to stay private, know what I mean?"
"I do, yes."
"Then you understand why he didn't tell you."
"I'm his wife. Surely—"
"Of course you are, dear. But did it occur to you my brother's war experience may have been too painful to talk about, even to you?"
"I keep thinking it might have something to do with him leaving—or his nightmares. Did you know Daniel had terrible nightmares?"
"Why, no, I didn't."
"They got really bad before he left. Used to wake him, and he couldn't get back to sleep. But he wouldn't talk about them. And they made him crabby and short-tempered with me and the kids." She sighed. "Maybe they got to be too much and he just took off."
"It's certainly possible," Bernie replied. "Trying to outrun his nightmares?" She paused. "He ran away once before, when he was fourteen."
LaDaisy came to attention. "Oh? He never mentioned it, Bernie. How long was he gone, where did he go?"
"He was gone for three days, but he never told us where he went."
"Strange. Did he say why?"
Bernie nodded. "It was because of Mother. Maybe you know she was very sick for a long time before she died. That year was worse than most."
"A shame." LaDaisy recalled Martha's last letter to her son.
"Yes, and I think Daniel couldn't handle it anymore. He needed to be alone."
"He's too sensitive for his own good. He gets emotional about the least thing."
"He's always been tenderhearted, LaDaisy. But we'll just have to wait till he comes home and tells us himself. I wish he was here now. He'd be such a comfort to you after what you just went through."
You don't know the half of it, Bernie.
"Which brings me to what I was going to ask you." Bernie looked past LaDaisy to her father. "I know your house must be crowded with yourself and the children, and—"
"We manage."
"Of course you do." Bernie patted her sister-in-law's arm. "But I thought I'd ask to borrow my dad for a while. I mean, can he come live with me?"
"Well, I—"
"Oh, please say yes."
"Well."
"Think about it, dear. I ramble around that big house since Albert ... since the foundry accident took his life. We never had a chance to have children. I'm alone more than you know."
"I understand."
"Then will you let him? Dad must get in your way at times."
LaDaisy smiled. "When I can't stand him anymore, I shoo him out the door with the kids. I don't mind Saul, Bernie. He's good company." His presence keeps my sister's husband from forcing himself on me.
"Please?" Bernie wiped her perspiring cheeks and neck with a lace handkerchief. "I'd like to see more of him in his old age. Do say yes."
"I wouldn't want him to think I'm kicking him out."
"He wouldn't think that," Bernie said. "Dad loves you like a daughter. He can still come to visit and tend the garden. I'm not so far away—just straight up Pearl Street. He's walked it many other times, and the fresh air will do him good. When he doesn't feel like walking, I'll bring him by auto. Besides, you need help cleaning up after the storm."
"It's the landlord's job."
Bernie raised her brows. "True. But when I drove by there the other day, I saw he hadn't done a thing. Sometimes we have to take matters in our own hands. Think of the kids barefoot with all the splintered boards and nails and glass."
"I'll ask Saul and see what he says." LaDaisy didn't like the idea of being completely alone. But what right did she have to keep her husband's father from the rest of his family? She couldn't think of a good reason he shouldn't live at Bernie's.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." LaDaisy took Mary from Bernie's arms. "He might say no."
"He wouldn't dare." Said with a smile.
Bernie gave LaDaisy a peck on the cheek and put her hat back on. They bid each other good-bye and LaDaisy caught up with Saul and the children.
"I wanted to stop at the cemetery before going home," she said, settling the little ones in the wagon again. "Do you all want to come? We'll pick some flowers for Grandma Martha's and Great-grandma Susannah's graves, and little Wayne's."
"And the twins," cried Earl.
Saul cleared his throat. "Yes, we'll put flowers on my little twin babies' graves, too, God love 'em."
Catherine grabbed Saul's arm. "Tell me about the babies, Grandpa."
Saul removed his straw hat and unbuttoned his shirt at the neck. "Reckon there ain't much to tell, little gal. They didn't even live long enough to get named."
"When Bobby and Mary was borned they got names."
LaDaisy took her daughter's hand. "Come on, then. Let's find some posies to put on the graves."
A few minutes later, she knelt beside Wayne's grave and pulled weeds away from the small, flat headstone, trying not to imagine her infant in the dark box. To her surviving children, the site was simply a lump of dirt with grass and weeds on top; but inside was a part of herself and Daniel.
Someone had destroyed the lamb again.
"Oh, Saul!" She pointed to the broken concrete.
"I hope whoever did this is happy," he said, shaking his head. "I don't think I can fix it."
She rose and let Bobby lay a handful of dandelions on the grave, leaned over and kissed the top of his head, then took his hand.
"Come on, we'd better go home now." She turned to Saul. "Bernie wanted me to ask you something. I don't know how you'll feel about it, though."
"Whatzat?"
LaDaisy leaned close to his ear and shouted. "We'll talk when we get home."
On the way, a red car kicked dust in their eyes. LaDaisy swore under her breath as she recognized Clay at the wheel.
July ended and August arrived, scorching everything in sight. The grass turned brown. The only moisture was perspiration rolling off the bodies of rich and poor alike.
Though Saul was reluctant to leave LaDaisy alone, he accepted his daughter's offer to move into her home. Bernadine's two-story house was shady and cool. He spent the hot afternoons on the screened-in front porch—in his own rocking chair—away from the insects and the sun's burning rays. The arrangement worked well. He had a room to himself, and he didn't have to clean it if he didn't want to.
LaDaisy was happy for him. But she and the kids missed seeing him around the property at all hours. Rocking on the porch. Hanging his hand-washed underwear on the clothesline. Making frequent trips—or carrying his overnight bucket—to the outhouse.
But when late afternoon came, they could always find him working in his garden.
LaDaisy was out there talking to him one evening when he suddenly dropped his hoe and stood very still.
"What is it?" she asked. "Saul? Are you ok?"
He turned, nodding. "I'm fine." He was looking queerly at her. "Just thinking." He pulled off his cap and wiped his head, face, and neck with a red-checkered handkerchief, then stuck the cloth back in his over
alls' pocket.
Feeling uncomfortable, she turned away from his penetrating gaze and started for the house. On second thought, she changed her mind and went directly to Saul's old place.
He came up next to her and set the hoe down against the step, and together they surveyed the remains of a house that looked like a bulldozer had come through. The porch was still attached to the foundation. But the roof and walls were gone. Splintered pieces of Saul's bureau were scattered in the area where his bedroom had been. The icebox had blown into the yard and lay on its side with the door open, revealing rotting food in open cans and dishes—they'd already salvaged whatever foodstuff they'd found still edible. Some cans looked about to burst. The small cast-iron heating stove stood in the same spot as before. But the metal flue pipe stuck up in the air, leaning crookedly, and broke off where the ceiling had been. The bedstead, kitchen table, and one old wooden chair lay broken in the yard. All around were window sashes and splintered boards, broken glass, and metal fragments. The cyclone had made toothpicks out of everything.
Saul sat on the top step, face in his hands. LaDaisy touched his shoulder briefly.
"I have to get onto Clay," she said. "He needs to come over and clean this up before one of the kids get hurt. All we need is lockjaw from a rusty nail. He should've done it right away."
Mary's cry caused her to turn back to the house, and a short time later, Saul walked up the road to Bernie's.
That night, after scrubbing the kids in cool water and putting them to bed, LaDaisy sat at the kitchen table wondering if she should send Earl to school in the fall. There was no money for new clothes, shoes, tablets, pencils, or crayons, but she could get help with those if she had to. She could sew him new shirts from Daniel's old ones. Winter would be worse, with the necessity of a warm coat and boots. It was a lot to consider.
The thought of school excited the boy. He talked all the time about going with the "big boys" to the schoolhouse a few blocks north. But he was still young. She could probably get by with holding him back from kindergarten and starting him in first grade next year. He was bright; he'd catch up.
She couldn't concentrate on school, and had a vague feeling she was forgetting something. She rose and went to the front room, saw the ice card in the window where she'd put it, then returned to the kitchen. The house was too still. Creepy.
Feeling restless, she rose again and checked the front and back screen doors to be sure they were locked. In hot weather, she left them open to catch the breezes. Since Clay had taken to entering any time he pleased, she'd been careful about locking them at night. But she couldn't lock them during the day, for then the kids couldn't go in and out.
If only she could believe Daniel was coming home. What on earth had he done to them? Too much time had passed; too many hurt feelings denied to save her sanity. She was well beyond forgiveness. If he had the gall to show his face again, what would she say to him—welcome back or go to hell?
She rested her head on her arms on the table and closed her eyes. Suddenly, her head popped up and she stared at the small calendar on the wall by the kitchen window.
"Oh, my God."
She jumped up and went over to the calendar, saw the penciled mark she'd placed there the month before. Her heart pounded as she counted the days.
Her twenty-eight-day cycle had passed two weeks ago. Without a stain. For the first time since she was eleven years old, she'd forgotten to count her periods.
Chapter 15
Daniel stood outside the produce market, his eyes smarting as Homer's truck rumbled down the dirt road. The man stopped to pump gas at the Flying A, then lost no time kicking up the dust. Only then did Daniel open his fist again and stare at the coins in his palm. Unbelievably, Homer had paid him fewer wages for the entire month of August than he'd earned for three weeks in July.
"Some of it's for transportation," he'd said, "for me driving you all the way up here."
Daniel started to protest, realizing he was getting gypped. He was tired and out of sorts. He'd helped unload the heavy bags of potatoes and assorted other vegetables Homer had brought to sell. He'd ridden in the back of the truck with the lot, including a smelly hog in a pen, which they unloaded at the stockyards. The hog would be auctioned off the next day. Homer couldn't stay, but planned to come back before the auction started. By then, if he was lucky, Daniel would be on his way north.
Maybe luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe he was just cut out to bum around the country the rest of his life, while Homer and Elta Petrie went back to their comfortable farmhouse to figure out new ways to cheat the hired help.
How could someone who calls himself a man of God cheat another human being? Someone who'd slaved alongside him in the hot sun. There'd been no contract, to be sure. But Daniel had expected fair wages, nonetheless.
Yes, sir, a fine Christian man, Mr. Homer Petrie is, the goddamn hypocrite.
Not even the secondhand boots made up for the lost money.
"I expected a fair wage, Homer, not slave wages. This here's only half what you gave me for three weeks in July."
"You'd have to pay a fare if you'd come on the train, Daniel. Unless you hopped one, and that'd be cheating the railroad, wouldn't it?"
Daniel's eyes burned as he stared after Homer. He'd counted on this money to take home to LaDaisy. My rambling has come to an end, wife, and my heart longs for home.
He didn't dare let the tears fall. It was all he could do to choke down the bitterness rising inside of him. Such would do him no good, nor teach Homer a lesson about fairness.
He closed his hand around the money, brought his fist up to his mouth and kissed it. With nobody around to see, he removed the pouch from his bib pocket and placed the coins inside. The purse had grown fatter from the odd jobs over spring and summer. But he'd hoped for more, and thought the potato job would be the last.
He put the purse away, intending to count the money when he found a secluded spot. There was probably about twenty-five bucks stashed in there. Certainly not enough to pay off his back rent. But the first thing he'd planned to do when he got home was get that sucker Clay Huff off his back once and for all.
Homer's truck vanished in a dusty fog around a bend in the road. Good riddance. Daniel turned and walked into town. It was late afternoon and the streets held little activity. Some stores were boarded up. A few people went in and out of shops still open in the public square. Most hurried by without nodding or speaking, though Daniel tipped his cap.
People didn't trust beggars, and it's exactly what he resembled with the pack, the banjo, his ragged clothes, and several days' growth of beard. He'd gained about ten pounds at the Petries'. But his eyes were bloodshot and cheeks sunken. Few people had work. Those who did were probably embarrassed in the company of a common tramp.
I'm not a tramp, I'm a laborer, same as anybody else.
Still, they passed him by without so much as a "howdy."
He thought there might be an early fall from the way his right shoulder ached, the imbedded shrapnel acting like a barometer. He found it almost impossible to stand upright. His back was out of line and weak from carrying the tools and burlap bag.
Oddly, the more he used from his supplies, the heavier the bag seemed to grow. Even George's banjo added to his misery and caused him to shift it from one shoulder to the other as he walked. He couldn't bring himself to leave it by the wayside. The strings could break, as some already had. Yet he wouldn't take a million bucks for the instrument; as George had predicted, the battered keepsake was welcome company on the road. What had become of the banjo man? Dead? Someone coughing his lungs out, starving, and bitter at the government didn't last long.
Another winter like last year was out of the question. Daniel had survived it by wit, but not much wisdom. Almost freezing to death takes a lot out of a man, and he'd lost more than he realized. Not just physically; something deep inside had changed.
He'd walked with his grandmother and his ancient relative. He'd traveled
with the ghosts of Army comrades and the living ghosts of his wife and children. He'd walked with himself and he'd walked with God from dawn to dusk.
He had no desire to hang around until Homer returned. By the time the auctioneer started pitching hogs, baby chicks, ducks, crocheted doilies, hand-painted pictures, and assorted other items, he'd be long gone.
By late afternoon his stomach was gnawing on his spine. He hesitated about robbing his precious cache of coins, but gave in and found a small diner on St. Louis Street—a street paved with wooden blocks instead of the usual bricks—went inside and ordered a ham sandwich.
My last meal for a couple days.
The waitress watched him eat as she carefully wiped the countertop with a wet towel. When he'd finished, she took the few cents he offered, opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
"Much obliged, ma'am." He shined his glasses on his sleeve, put his cap back on, and wiped his hand across his mouth. "It's all I can afford."
"But—"
"The Lord will bless you," Daniel said. "It was a mighty fine sandwich." He turned to leave.
"Wait!"
He turned. "Yes?"
"Here." She hesitated a moment, then dropped some coins in his hand. "It was only worth half as much."
"Well, now, I—"
"That sandwich," she drawled, "it was made from, uh ... yesterday's ham, and ... it weren't fresh." She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed her arms over a flat chest. "I'd be cheating you if'n I said it was."
He understood what she was doing.
"I've ate worse."
She smiled. "Yep. Bet you have."
"God bless ya, ma'am."
"Where you going now? There ain't no work around here. You prob'ly guessed."
"I'm heading up to Kan' City," Daniel said. "I hear Mr. Pendergast he's putting men to work."
"Nah. That crooked old bastard? I doubt it."
"I might've heard wrong. But it's worth a try." He turned to go. "I'll mosey along now, if you don't mind."
"Maybe you'll get there in time to listen to the World Series."
Face the Winter Naked Page 16
