Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  The rest of the night passed uneventfully.

  By mid-September, as the air turned crisp and frost lurked around the corner, Daniel scraped old wallpaper and paint in the hotel, repaired woodwork, and repainted walls. It was an easy way to help pay the rent. He was in his element working with his tools again.

  Between those odd jobs, he worked at a construction site, digging foundations and building forms for concrete. When the concrete set-up and the building rose higher—the Tower of Babel, he told Chris—he worked inside laying sub-flooring, nailing studs to soleplates, affixing laths to studs for plastering. As floor after floor rose, so also did Daniel's spirits.

  Evenings found him piling coins in stacks on the desk in their room: quarters here, nickels there, dimes and pennies in other piles. His small towers of coins rose like the buildings he worked in.

  Soon I'll be walking through my own front door and holding my favorite girl in my arms, and bouncing my kids on my knees.

  Both were finally getting their fill of food. Chris's color improved. A weekly soak in the hotel bathtub turned him from a grubby street urchin to a human being. With nights turning colder—some mornings frosted over—Daniel found himself and Chris some used wool sweaters and a cap for Chris. Soon they'd both need winter coats.

  "How about we go see a picture show?" he asked Chris one Sunday.

  A horror film, The Mummy, was currently playing at the Loews Midland, an elaborate movie palace with tall mirrors and crystal chandeliers, a mezzanine and side arches, plus an organ. Standing in the spacious lobby in their shabby clothes, the two were humbled by the wonderland atmosphere. Movie patrons in store-bought finery seemed to look down their noses at the pair before turning away.

  Chris stared in awe at his surroundings. "Did I die and go to heaven?"

  The next day, Daniel paid a visit to an attorney's office to enquire how he'd go about getting custody of the boy. The first step, according to a secretary, would be to contact the child's parents.

  The woman pulled a yellow pad of paper from a drawer and took up a pencil.

  "If you'll give me their name and address, I'll send a letter."

  "But—" Daniel wasn't sure he remembered the address Glenn had given him.

  "They at least need to know the whereabouts of their son."

  He shrugged. "Chris said they don't want him anymore, so they shouldn't cause any trouble."

  She looked up at him and smiled. "People often say things they don't mean when under pressure, especially in the Depression. If their son left on his own, they'll be worried, I'm sure."

  "They kicked him out," Daniel insisted.

  She nodded. "Children often say that, but it's not always true."

  Daniel was growing weary of this woman's comments. What did she know about Chris's former home situation? She was only a secretary.

  "I believe what he told me, Miss. And I spoke to someone else who knows the family. He didn't think very highly of them. Lots of kids ... both parents like a dog too lazy to scratch its own fleas." She seemed about to laugh, then caught herself and became professional again.

  "I see." She tapped the pencil on the table. "Can you support this child, Mr.—?"

  "Tomelin," Daniel replied. "And I've been supporting Chris for months now. I have work, and I plan to take him to my house with me."

  "Your house—you have a wife? More children?"

  "Yes ma'am. I figure one more won't hurt, and he needs a home."

  She pushed her glasses back on her nose and jotted something on the pad.

  "You say his name is Chris?"

  "That's right. Christopher Davis. His family's in Springfield."

  "That's a long way off. How did he get to Kansas City?"

  Damn, if she ain't the nosiest woman I ever met.

  She waited, pencil poised over the paper.

  "He rode on a freight train with me, ma'am."

  "You made a child hop a train?"

  "No, I didn't make him. He got on by himself."

  "And you let him ride with you to Kansas City?"

  "That's what I said." He took a deep breath to keep from lashing out at this woman who was only doing her job. He had better things to do than stand here all day trying to get anything through her thick head. He peered intently at her through his owl glasses. "What was I supposed to do? I couldn't kick him out of the boxcar."

  "Well ..."

  "I'd appreciate if you'd just tell me what I have to do to get custody." I don't have all day.

  She nodded. "Yes, of course. As I mentioned a few minutes ago, the first step is to contact the parents."

  "Good luck with that. I got me a kid that needs a home, and I ain't letting him take off again on his own if I can help it."

  "Parents' names, please."

  "Davis."

  "First names?"

  "I don't have that information. But the people in Millie's Diner know where they live. If you send a letter to them, I'm sure they'll get it to the right people. Just say Daniel Tomelin and Chris asked you to do that." Daniel waited while she thought it over, then added, "Maybe you can find out from the police department. Either way, someone will know who they are."

  Daniel left a few minutes later with her promise to contact the proper authorities in Springfield and have the situation investigated. And in the meantime, she advised him not to leave town with the boy till he heard back from the attorney's office. They'd send him a letter as soon as they heard anything.

  "I'll be here," he'd replied. "I mean to give this boy a real home."

  Later that afternoon, he bought new strings for George's banjo and gave Chris his first lesson.

  "Just play it for me," he said, "or yourself. You don't have to stand on a street corner playing for a handout." Wonder what became of the banjo man.

  "When are we going to your house?" Chris asked one day. "You should have enough money saved now."

  "Yep, the money's piling up. But I ain't going home just yet. It won't be long, though."

  "Don't you miss your kids?"

  Daniel turned away, his eyes suddenly brimming. "I miss them sorely."

  "Then why—?"

  "You wouldn't understand."

  "But—"

  "Just drop it, Chris."

  Chris picked up the banjo and sat on the bed picking out "Happy Days Are Here Again."

  "Oh nuts," he said, hitting a wrong note. "Some days are happy for some people and for some they ain't." He laid the banjo aside and turned face-down on the bed.

  "Hey, what's the matter?" Daniel asked.

  "Nothing."

  "Something is. C'mon, Chris, what is it? Are you homesick?"

  "No."

  "Couldn't blame you if you were. I can afford a train ticket to send you back to Springfield if you want to go."

  Chris raised his head. He wasn't crying, but tears were close.

  "Don't say that!"

  "Then what's wrong? Is it something I said?"

  "None of your business." Chris pulled a pillow over his head.

  "Mouthy little brat, ain't ya?"

  "Go away."

  "Yes, sir, Christopher Davis."

  "Stop calling me that!"

  Daniel laughed. "What should I call you—Christopher Tomelin?" Chris flopped over again and hid his face.

  Daniel didn't press the issue. But something was hurting his young friend, and he had a good idea what it was.

  After work the next day, Daniel saw a doll in a pawnshop window that reminded him of Catherine. What kind of daddy would hock his daughter's toy? Without hesitation, he went inside and dickered with the clerk over the price. It was more than he could spare, so he left and returned later that day and showed the man his outhouse carving.

  "Will you trade me for this hand-carved walnut privy? I sure would like that doll for my girl, but I don't have much money."

  The man examined the carving. "Interesting." Then he laughed. "You shoulda whittled a little brown turd in the bottom of the hole."


  "Well, now, I never thought to."

  "Some folks pay good money for hobo carvings," the clerk said. "What else you got?"

  Daniel threw in his wooden chain with the swivel on the end and pointed to a small radio on a shelf behind the counter.

  "How much for that there radio?"

  The clerk shrugged. "That old thing? It's got a busted dial and the plug's got a short in it. Make me an offer."

  Daniel reached in his bag again. "How about this little lamb? It's even got curly wool, and that took lots of detail work. I hate to part with it, but if you want it, your missus could use it in her manger scene next Christmas." He placed it on the counter and brought out a small bust of Abe Lincoln and a buffalo nickel. He turned the nickel over. "And here's the Indian head on the other side of this five-cent piece." He grinned. "Now for sure you can tell folks not to take any wooden nickels." He waited for the man to examine the carvings.

  "Very fine work, mister. Reckon you can have the radio if you want it bad enough to give all your good carvings away." He looked expectantly at Daniel, waiting for a reason.

  The reason wasn't long coming. "I got a boy who wants to hear the World Series. Kind of hard to do without a radio, so I thought I'd surprise him."

  "Then you'd better hurry home, the first game's next Wednesday."

  Daniel left the store a few minutes later, with a doll under one arm, the radio under the other, while also trying to hang onto the gunnysack slung over one shoulder.

  Chris let out a whoop when he saw the radio. "Hot dog! Does it work? Can we listen to the World Series? Oh man, I didn't know you were going to do that."

  "Neither did I," Daniel said, "till I spied it in the pawn shop. It's got a couple things wrong with it, but I think I can fix them. If I can't, I'm a no-count fixer-upper."

  "Hurry up so we don't miss the games."

  The next day, Daniel repaired the radio, then he and Chris went shopping at the pawn shop again. This time, they picked out new belts for Earl's and Bobby's britches, plus a small cameo brooch for LaDaisy's Sunday dress.

  "At least your kids won't have to wear banjo strings," Chris said. "Your family's gonna think you swiped these things."

  Daniel chuckled. "Maybe so. But I can't go home empty-handed."

  "Peace offerings," Chris said, and they both laughed.

  The days went by fast. Daniel spent as much time with Chris as he could, always coming back to the hotel so they could listen to "Amos 'n' Andy." They'd laugh so hard at Kingfish's antics their bellies hurt and tears rolled down their faces.

  "Gonna brush our teeth with Pepsodent!" Chris yelled when the program went off the air.

  The following Wednesday and Thursday, they listened to the first two games of the World Series, between the New York Yankees and the Chicago Cubs. Static burst from the radio at times and cut off the broadcast. But Chris was in his glory, for he'd only heard second-hand accounts of previous games.

  Daniel tried to show interest in the games, but he lacked enough sports knowledge to understand what was happening. Frequent thoughts of Frankie and the catcher's mitt intruded. At such times, it would be easy to slip back into the war. But to his surprise, he hadn't had a real screaming fit in the middle of the night for several weeks. Whether it was from working so hard that his need for rest overpowered his memories, he didn't know. Whatever the reason, he was glad not to fall apart in front of Chris, but he thought telling the boy about his nightmares on the train had helped him deal with them. They still came, but not as often. Once, he awakened on the edge of a dream to find Chris watching him from the other side of the bed.

  "I woke up before the nightmare got started good." He reached out and tousled Chris's hair. "You can go back to sleep now."

  Chris hadn't felt like sleeping anymore, so they spent the rest of the night talking, and it kept the nightmares at bay for at least another night. Daniel didn't know if Chris realized how much comfort he was to have around at such times. And now it looked like they might make their relationship permanent. He couldn't tell Chris just yet, but he'd received a letter from the lawyer's office about setting up a custody hearing. Chris's folks had contacted the office through the Springfield Police Department, indicating they couldn't afford to feed their other children, let alone take Chris back. They in fact welcomed someone taking their "problem" son off their hands.

  Daniel knew he had to find the right time and the right way to let Chris know his family couldn't take care of him anymore. Chris already knew as much, but it would still hurt to have it out in the open. There were a few weeks to think it over, and there was the issue of convincing LaDaisy to take him in. But if Daniel didn't know anything else, he knew what kind of woman his wife was. She couldn't be unkind to anyone, especially a homeless boy.

  After the first game, he took the mitt from his sack and handed it to Chris, whose eyes lit up and mouth dropped open.

  "Where'd you get this?" He turned the glove over and over and slid his small hand inside.

  "It belonged to my Army buddy, Frank," Daniel said. "His daddy gave it to me a few months ago. His initials are right there—F.K."

  "This is swell. But why did he give it away? Didn't Frank want it anymore?" He balled his fist and slammed it in the pocket.

  "Frank died in the war, Chris. He won't be using it anymore."

  "Oh."

  "When's your birthday? Maybe the glove's a birthday present from my friend."

  Chris shrugged. "Next month, right after Halloween." He slammed his fist in the glove again. "You sure? Maybe you should give it to your own kids."

  "Yep, I'm sure. My boys are still kind of small to wear it."

  "Oh boy, I never had a catcher's mitt before. Now I gotta get a baseball."

  "And grow into the glove," Daniel said, laughing. "I'm glad you like it, and Frank would want you to have it."

  Throughout the second game of the World Series, Chris pounded his fist into the mitt whenever a strike was called. When a player caught a fly, he stretched his own arm up to catch it.

  "Whack. I got it!"

  The radio crackled and squealed as the announcer's voice came on.

  ... top of the ninth ... here comes the pitch.

  More static cut off the end of the broadcast, but the Yanks were already ahead.

  "Did you hear that, Daniel? The Yanks are winning."

  "Don't be too sure," Daniel said. "There's still two games left."

  But Chris was sure of himself. "They won the first two, so they'll probably win the others. Wait and see."

  Chapter 24

  LaDaisy raced down the dark road with Mary in her arms. Houses along Hereford Street were far apart and only one house near the end of the block showed signs of life with lights on and front door open. A radio blared from inside the middle-aged couple's home as she ran up the front steps and banged on the screen door.

  Ozzie Jensen came to the door and peered through the screen.

  "What is it?"

  "I'm LaDaisy Tomelin, from down the block. Please, help me!"

  He opened the door and stepped back. "Come on in, Miz Tomelin. What's wrong? Someone sick?"

  "I can't come in, I need help!" She shivered, and suddenly realized how cool the night air was. She hugged Mary tightly to keep her warm, and to close the gap in her torn dress.

  Mr. Jensen flicked on the porch light and came outside in his bare feet.

  "You're about to fall down. What do you need?"

  "My sister—she's at my house—please, someone get Dr. Wilson. I don't have a phone."

  "The doctor? Is she hurt?"

  "No, she's having a baby. Please help." She shifted Mary to the other shoulder.

  "Who is it, Ozzie?" Lou Jensen appeared at the door, untied her apron and tossed it on the nearest overstuffed chair. "Why, it's LaDaisy. What's wrong, honey?"

  "Lou, thank God. My sister's about to deliver her baby at my house. At least I think she is. I don't know for sure, she seems close." She stopped to get her
breath, and Mary reached up and touched her cheek. She grabbed the cold little hand and kissed it.

  "Oh, my goodness." Lou came outside. "Ozzie, get to town on the double and find the doctor. I'll go back with this girl and see what's going on. Hurry. Oh my God, and put on some shoes. You can't drive barefooted."

  Ozzie stared at Lou a minute, then went inside, returning in a pair of house slippers.

  "Don't stand there all day, Ozzie, this ain't a ice cream social. Now git."

  "Bring the sheriff," LaDaisy said, "and my mother, Vera Baker. She lives—"

  "I know where she lives," Ozzie said in a lackadaisical tone. "What do you want the sheriff for?"

  "I don't have time to explain. Please hurry. I have to get back."

  Ozzie went around the side of the house. In a few minutes his truck roared to life and rumbled up the road, headlights shining on the pavement and leaving a trail of gas fumes.

  "Land sakes, honey," Lou said, "you're shivering. You'll be lucky if you don't catch your death. Wait here." She went inside and returned with a sweater for LaDaisy and an afghan to wrap around the baby. She took Mary from LaDaisy's arms. "I'll carry her. Come to Lou, sweetheart. My goodness, she doesn't weigh a feather." She turned to LaDaisy as they walked quickly down the road in the growing darkness. "How far along is your—sister you say?"

  "Yes, my sister, Ida. Her doctor said she's ready any day."

  "What's she doing at your house, if you don't mind my asking?" Lou glanced sideways at LaDaisy. "Shouldn't she be at the hospital? I'll swear, young girls don't have a lick of sense anymore when it comes to birthing. Why, I remember my own laying-in. Couldn't lift a finger for weeks lest I bled to death."

  "I think she's very close," LaDaisy said. "She walked out here from town."

  "Walked?"

  They turned into the Tomelin driveway.

  "It isn't that far." She stopped to get her breath. "But she shouldn't have walked it in her condition. Now her water's broke and she's having strong contractions." Her husband's dead on my front room floor.

  "Dear me. We'd better hurry."

  LaDaisy dreaded walking into the house. "Just follow me to the bedroom, Lou. Don't stop to look around, or ask questions. There's been an accident ... there's a dead body."