Face the Winter Naked (27 page)

"Did
you count all the cars?" Daniel asked Chris as the caboose vanished far
ahead.

"Nope.
Bet there's a hundred."

"Well,
c'mon. I don't know if anything's open at this hour, but let's find a place to
eat."

"I
don't have any money."

"Didn't
think you had any. Anyhow, you ain't going to pick any pockets up here, unless
you want me to lay a strap on you—at the very least—or go to jail, at the
most."

He
mentally calculated the coins in his purse. By feeding two people, they'd soon
be gone. But it couldn't be helped. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't
feed a hungry boy. If Chris got any skinnier, even the banjo-strings wouldn't
hold his pants up.

"Boy,
I'm thirsty," Chris said, "Got any water?"

They
stopped walking and Daniel pulled his canteen from the gunnysack.

"Go
easy till we find a place to fill it up again."

Stopping
under a street lamp, he pulled the scrap of paper with the employment address
out of his pocket. He could barely make it out in the dim light:
1908 Main.
Two-story yellow brick next to Monroe Hotel
.

He
looked up at the street sign as Chris unzipped his pants and peed in the
gutter. 15th Street. He'd often passed that way going to the West Bottoms or
driving someone to the train depot.

He
thought of Union Station, where he'd climbed aboard a troop train with a group
of young men called to duty. South of the station, the Liberty Memorial rose
majestically for 217 feet, its tower inscribed:
In honor of those who
served in the world war in defense of liberty and our country.
The names of Kansas City's war dead engraved on
bronze tablets in the Memory Hall
were burned into his heart.

"Holy
smoke, Chris, we got a long way to go. How the heck did we get way over
here?"

"What's
wrong? Are we in Colorado or something?"

Daniel
laughed. "Nope, still in Missouri. But we're too far east. We should've
stayed on the train a little longer. But the closer we'd come to the rail
yards, the more chance of getting caught." He stuck the paper back in his
pocket.

"What
would they do if they caught us?"

"What
do you think?"

"Put
us in jail?"

"Prob'ly,"
Daniel said. "And throw away the key. I've got me enough worries without
going to jail. First time in over a year, I see a chance to find a good job. I
ain't going to blow it." He stretched his arms and shoulders and picked up
his sack again. "It took me long enough, but I finally realized there
ain't no better place than home."

"I
never had much of one anyway." There wasn't the slightest hint of whining
in the boy's voice. "Maybe I'll get a job, too."

"Well,
come on, then," Daniel said. "We got some walking to do. If we're
lucky, we might find a cheap restaurant open so we can fire up our
engines." He looked at the boy in the morning light as it crept across the
sky, glad to see what he looked like again after traveling in darkness
together. "Think you can do it? My feet hurt, but we don't have a
choice." He took stock of their surroundings. "You carry ol' Betsy
and I'll lug this here gunnysack and all these tools in my pockets."

"Hey,
Daniel, I got an idea."

Daniel
stopped walking and turned to the boy, who stood waving the banjo in the air.

"What
are you talking about? And stop swinging that around before you crack
somebody's head open."

"It's
this, Daniel, this here banjo. Can you play it?"

Daniel
thought for a minute, staring at the instrument.

"Well,
I use to could. But as you see, it ain't got but only one string left."

"Yeah,"
Chris said. "But see, if you put more strings on it you can play it on the
street. I saw people do that."

"Now
wait just a darn minute."

Chris's
thoughts raced out of control.

"And
you know what?"

Daniel
watched him in amazement. "No, what?"

"I
don't know why I didn't think of this before. But if you play it uptown on the
sidewalk, people will stop and listen—and they'll throw money at us."

"Right,
like an organ grinder and a monkey with a tin cup. You got any more bright
ideas? Besides, you'd have to be the monkey, 'cause I can't hop, climb, or
swing by my tail no more."

He
took the instrument and examined it. Plucked the string. Closed one eye and
peered at Chris with the other. "What would we do for strings? There's
only one on this here banjo, and the two holding up your pants are
useless."

Chris
nodded enthusiastically. "We might have five strings right here." He
fished in his pocket, brought out a handful of strings and handed them to
Daniel. "See if there's enough."

"What
th' hell? Where'd you get these?"

"I
was hanging around the freight yard last night and noticed a broken banjo
someone put in the garbage. I took off the strings and other pieces you might
need."

"You
just
knew
we were going to meet up again, right?"

Chris
grinned, and Daniel started laughing hysterically.

"You're
a sneaky little boy, ain't you? Had it all planned out." Tears ran down
his face and he couldn't stop laughing. He wiped his eyes and examined the
strings. "If I have enough, I'll use the old string to repair this loose
armrest."

"Hey,
don't use the good strings for that," Chris said. "Take the broken
ones. I don't care if my underwear falls off. Here, I'll take 'em off right now
so you can get the strings."

He
tugged on his pants, but Daniel stopped him.

"Hold
your horses. You're not taking your pants off in the middle of the city. Bad
enough you had to wet in the street."

"It
was dark."

"Well
it ain't that dark anymore, so you're not doing it." He paused. "Ok,
I'll stick the strings in the gunnysack. When it gets light, I'll see how to
repair that banjo. But maybe they ain't good, either. A broken banjo's often
got broken strings. Then what?"

"Then
we're screwed till we find some."

Daniel
got down in Chris's face. "Look here, kid, if you're coming home with me,
you'd better clean up the street talk."

"Oh,
gee whiz, Daniel. Screwed ain't dirty. Lots of people screw things."

Daniel
looked at him from the corner of his eyes. "You got a smart mouth, you
know that? Humph." He nudged the boy along. "Come on, let's get
moving."

The
pair made good time on foot. By the time the sky turned pink in the east, they
were lucky to catch a ride to 15th and Main on the bed of a produce truck bound
for City Market on 5th Street. The driver pulled the truck to the curb, got
out, and let down the tailgate.

"Thank
ya, kindly," Daniel said. "The ride saved us some blisters, corns,
and cussin'."

The
farmer sized him up and also gave Chris the once-over.

"Where
y'all coming from?"

"Springfield,"
Daniel said. "I heard there might be work up here."

"I
wouldn't bet on it."

Daniel
shrugged and pulled his gunnysack off the truck bed as Chris jumped to the
ground.

"It's
just about the last thing in the world I can count on."

"For
the boy's sake, I wish you luck." The man turned to Chris. "Your dad
taking good care of you? When's the last time you ate?"

"My—?"
Chris hunched his shoulders up to his ears. "Who knows? Can't remember
when I ate last." He turned to Daniel. "Hey
Dad
, did I eat
yesterday?"

Daniel
grinned. "Yeah, I think so,
Son
."

The
farmer climbed on the truck bed and gathered some pears and apples from a
bushel basket, a loaf of homemade bread, and a pie in a tin plate. He got down
and handed the crusty loaf to Chris.

"Wow,
thanks!" Chris sniffed the bread with a satisfied sigh as Daniel accepted
the fruit.

"Put
'em in your poke, mister. Here's a fresh blueberry pie, too."

Daniel
hesitated, his mouth watering. "Well, now I—"

The
man pushed the pie at him. "Go on, take it. The wife would want you to
have it, though she might wish for her pie plate back. Besides, with business
slow, I doubt I'll even sell half the stuff I got here. For pennies, I might
add."

He
got back in his truck before Daniel could protest, and left them standing by
the side of the road as he drove up Main toward the market.

Daniel
remembered City Market well, for he'd often brought homegrown tomatoes,
peppers, onions, and green beans to sell. Sometimes the price was right;
sometimes not. Sometimes it barely covered the rent. It was either pay the rent
or the doctor bills, and with him out of work he couldn't do both. His gut jolted
as he realized how close he was to home.

"I
think our luck's about to change," he said to Chris.

Clutching
the loaf of bread to his chest like a gold brick, Chris stood with his nose in
the air like a hound with a treed possum. At the sound of Daniel's voice, he
turned.

"What?"

"Something
wrong?"

"No."
Chris shook his head. "I just never been to a big city before. Look at all
this stuff."

Chris
stared at the buildings and streetcar tracks like he was in Wonderland, and
Daniel's heart warmed.

LaDaisy's
gonna love him.

He
shouldered the gunnysack. "We'd best be moving on. We can stand here
gawking all day, but I got things to do. Let's find us a place to eat these
goodies. I need to fill up my water jug, too. There's a drugstore across the
street. Maybe they'll spare some water and let us use the toilet."

Chris
held the loaf in one arm, the banjo in the other. He waited outside the
drugstore while Daniel went in and returned a few minutes later with the water.

"They
said we can use the toilet but leave it clean. I just washed my hands for now
so I can eat." He looked sternly at Chris. "Run along inside and
clean your own hands."

A
few minutes later they found a secluded spot next to a building and sat down to
feast on the bread. Daniel bowed his head.

"Thank
you, Lord, for this blessing of food. Amen." He broke the loaf completely
in half.

"Amen,"
Chris echoed.

A
newsboy came along the sidewalk, glanced at the pair, then tossed a folded
Kansas
City Times
in the doorway of the building. Daniel retrieved the newspaper
and sat down to read. The headlines were not good: the economy was getting
worse. A large inside spread was all about the upcoming November election, with
a lot of political stuff about Mr. Hoover and Mr. Roosevelt.

He
liked what he read about the wealthy presidential candidate. Both Franklin and
his wife, Eleanor, looked like decent folks. They understood the common man's
grief in the Depression. He thought the country couldn't do any worse by
electing FDR. The man had some good ideas.

He
opened the classified section and searched the few job listings. There was
nothing he could do, mostly office work or back-breaking work at the
stockyards. A small jazz band advertised for a piano player, another for a
singer, specifically a white one. Daniel could neither sing nor play a piano.
He remembered the area: a few blocks away lay the segregated district, where
young black men hung out on street corners. At night, lively jazz and soul
music poured out of the bars and pool halls. Black men could sing—boy could
they ever sing, or jig or toot a trumpet.

When
he'd finished reading, he refolded the paper and tossed it back in the doorway,
then leaned back against the building and closed his eyes, feeling good about
being so near home.

"You
have to go to school," he said.

Chris
shook his head. "Nope. Not going to school."

"It's
the law. You don't have any say."

"But—"

"No
buts. What kind of man would I be if I didn't send you to school?"
Never
mind the kind who'd leave his family to struggle while he traipsed all over the
country.

"I
ain't going."

"We'll
see. Soon as we get settled somewhere and buy you some decent rags, I'll go to
the courthouse and get temporary custody of you. If what you say about your
family's true, it shouldn't be too hard."

"You
don't own me."

"That's
right, I don't. But you're underage. You need a guardian. I don't intend to go
to jail for kidnapping."

"I'm
my own guardian."

"That's
what you think." Daniel mussed the boy's hair. "I want to do the
right thing for once in my life, and you getting an education is the right
thing."

"Gee
whiz!"