Face the Winter Naked (17 page)

"You're
down the road a piece from a little one-horse town called Ozark. Springfield's
a few miles north."

"Guess
I walked further than I meant to," Daniel said. "Didn't plan to go so
far south."

The
man indicated the gunnysack. "What's in there?"

Dead
chickens.

Daniel
patted the sack. "This? Oh, just my stuff. My banjo, some tools and
clothes, shaving mug. Cooking pots and soap and Cloverine salve."

The
man eyed the bag. "Don't look big enough for all that."

"It's
a magic bag," Daniel replied with a grin. "The more I put in, the
bigger it gets."

He
rose and put the cap back on as the man came all the way in the shed. He saw
features now on the sunburned country face of the farmer—a stout man with a
double chin, big rubbery lips, and eyes the same shade of blue as the faded
overalls he wore. He was shirtless, his thick neck and arms sunburned and
muscular.

"You
look like you could use a good meal, stranger." The man stuck out his
hand. "Homer Petrie."

"Daniel
Tomelin. Pleased to meet you." He gripped Homer's hand and cranked it up
and down.

"We
get a tramp or two down here once in a while," Homer said. "I don't
begrudge them a place to sleep, long as they don't steal nothing."

"That's
decent of you, Mr. Petrie. You can search my sack if you want. But you won't
find nothing I didn't already mention. Besides, I'm a carpenter, not a tramp.
I'm a family man who found trouble, lost his job and money before lighting out
to find honest work. But there ain't much."

Homer
looked him over. "You need food before you can work. Can't work in such a
pitiful condition. I could stand you in my cornfield to scare the crows away."

Daniel
grinned. "Guess I lost me some weight. But, it can't be helped. I eat when
I can, and when I can't, I don't."

"My
old truck probably runs on more fuel than you do," Homer said. "Come
on up to the house and the wife will feed you hot biscuits, ham, and
gravy."

Daniel's
eyes lit up like twin headlights in a dark tunnel. His bowels gurgled at the
memory of good home cooking.

"It's
the best offer I've had all day, Mr. Petrie. I'll repay you with work if you
got any."

He
picked up the burlap sack and followed Homer out of the shed and up a dirt path
to a farmhouse. A silo rose behind the house, with a chicken coop and other
out-buildings nearby. But except for a lone white drake pecking in the grass,
there were no other signs of fowl. He spied a pump and set the bag on the
ground beside it.

"I
can use a cool drink."

Homer
pumped water into Daniel's cupped hands, the pump handle protesting with a
rusty squawk.

"We
got some rain yesterday," Homer said. "Just a lick and a promise. If
we don't get more, everything's going to dry up."

"Yup."
Daniel sucked the water out of his hands.

"My
crops depend on the rain."

"So
do people. Just let me wash the sleep out of my eyes before I go inside. I must
look like something the cat drug in."

Homer
stood aside as Daniel took his carefully hoarded sliver of Lava soap from the
bag, removed his cap and glasses, lathered up and rinsed with more water from
the pump.

"Now
I won't be ashamed to sit at your table."

He
retrieved his sack and followed Homer up a flight of steps onto a closed-in
porch and into a kitchen.

His
mouth watered from the smell of coffee and ham.
My luck is changing.
His
eyes misted from the goodness of this family to take in a total stranger and
feed him. People were weary of tramps coming around so often, and likely as not
the intruders might get a tail full of buckshot for trespassing on private
property.

This
was a religious family, judging from a picture on the kitchen wall of the Good
Shepherd carrying a lamb. A small plaque near the back door recited the
Twenty-third Psalm. Hanging on a hook by the icebox, was a dog-eared copy of
"The Old Farmer's Almanac," which some farmers consulted religiously
for planting and harvesting schedules and moon phases.

A
small fan sat on a kitchen counter, circulating the hot air as it oscillated.
Back and forth.
Swish
. Back and forth.
Swish
. Without letup, it
rearranged the cooking odors and greasy dust motes, but did little to cool the
room.

"Meet
the wife," Homer said. "This is Elta."

She
was a plump woman in her late forties, with wavy auburn hair and gentle brown
eyes, like a coon hound begging for a hush puppy. Her cheeks were flushed.
Rivulets of perspiration rolled over a double chin and disappeared into the
neckline of a sleeveless sundress.

"Please
to meet you," Daniel said.

"You're
welcome here," Elta replied with a shy smile.

She
wiped her hands on her apron, grabbed a pot holder and pulled a large pan of
biscuits from the oven. Dropping the hot pan on top of the stove, she fanned
her face with the pot holder and took a chipped plate and unmatched coffee mug
from the cupboard.

Elta
set a place for Daniel on a red-checkered oilcloth as he pulled up a chair and
hung his cap on the back of it. She poured steaming coffee and set a platter of
meat and scrambled eggs and the hot biscuits on the table in front of him.
Without a word, the woman served him as though it was her godly duty to feed
all the tramps in the country.

She
sat across from him and smiled, then bowed her head. Daniel returned the
courtesy, closing his eyes for a silent word of thanks. When he opened them
again, Elta's head was still lowered, her lips moving. He tried not to hear her
mumbled words, but caught the last one before she raised up again.

"Amen."

"Amen,"
Homer echoed. "Dig in, Daniel. Try some of Elta's jelly." He
indicated a small glass jar next to the butter dish. "It's
elderberry."

Daniel
ate with relish, savoring each morsel of food with a heart full of gratitude.
He shined his plate with a biscuit and thanked the hostess as she refilled his
cup. What had he, just a common man, done to deserve such royal treatment?

"It's
not every day I come across such hospitality," he said. "God bless
you both."

Homer
grabbed a biscuit and slathered it with butter and jelly. He bit off half of it
before the juice could run down his hand, eyeing Daniel the while.

"Well,
the meal ain't free."

"'Course
not," Daniel said. "I done said I'd earn it."

"Yes,
you will."

Homer
winked at his wife, but she pretended not to notice. He stuffed a pipe with
tobacco from a pouch, got it going and blew a smoke ring in the air.

Just
like Clay Huff,
Daniel thought.
Damn
his greedy hide.

"I
need help in the fields," Homer said. "Our boys left home a few years
ago. When they're around, they don't mind helping their old man. I hired two
farmhands a month ago, big strong boys—lazy louts, I should've said. They
worked one day and quit the next. Last I heard, they headed up to Springfield.
I don't expect they'll be back this way, so I'm short-handed with harvest
coming up."

"What—spuds?"

"Yes.
Early potatoes did good this year. Wish I'd planted more, come to think of it.
You ever dig potatoes?"

Daniel
nodded and chewed. Nodded and swallowed. Shoveled food in his mouth as fast as
he could without looking like a pig. His stomach was a bottomless pit. But it
was probably shriveled up and would cramp tomorrow, or at the very least
produce enough gas to fuel Homer's tractor.

"Yes,
sir, I've dug potatoes many a time. If my back don't give out, I can dig some
more."

His
muscles were weak and stringy, his back already stiff and hunched from carrying
the pack, the tools, the banjo. But by golly he'd dig if it killed him.

Homer
chuckled. "There's too many for hand digging. I've got machinery. Can you
operate a potato harvester?" He didn't wait for Daniel to reply, but went
right on talking.

"There's
only a few acres, but I want to get some new potatoes out to market over in
Springfield. I also need to turn under another field. I can't do both at
once." The pipe had gone out; he laid it on the table. "I'm not
getting any younger. No sir. I'd need to grow another head and more arms and
legs to get everything done myself." He looked at his wife as she removed
the dishes from the table and stacked them on the counter by the sink. "My
good woman can't tolerate the heat, so she ain't no use."

Elta
looked downright stricken as she scraped food scraps into a slop bucket and put
on a teakettle of water to heat for dishes. Daniel suspected she might be
having a hot flash, and what a torment it must be in summer heat and humidity.

He
thought of LaDaisy and the way she heated the dishwater, not to mention water
for washing clothes and the kids' baths once a week. He was overcome with
homesickness.

"I'll
give you room and board." Homer stood and looked down at his guest.
"You'll bunk in the extra bedroom upstairs. I'll see you get fed good and
some time off. When you're done, I'll pay you a few dollars to help you on your
way."

"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."