Face the Winter Naked (8 page)

"Find
you a LaDaisy cow to cuddle."

The
place Daniel Tomelin liked to sleep was right next to LaDaisy. Sadness poured
over him now as he recalled a night of love-making that left him exhausted and
his poor wife unsatisfied when he fizzled out too soon. When she tried to
console him, he'd rolled over in deep embarrassment and lay awake the rest of
the night.

"Don't
worry about it," she said. "I'll survive." When she leaned over
and kissed his cheek, he felt worse than ever. "You were tired and
distracted. Next time will be better."

Except
he'd run out on her before there could be a next time.

The
train lurched, throwing him back against the wall. He shook his head and looked
to see if the old man was still in one piece as the train moved a little way
then stopped again. After a few minutes, it began rolling.

George
thrust the banjo toward Daniel. "Here, play me a concert."

"Oh,
now, I don't—"

"You
practically said you liked banjos better'n mandolins."

"So
I did, but—"

His
eyes still on George's face, Daniel plinked a note. He plunked another, and
strummed a chord to get the feel of the instrument. Then, suddenly, he struck
up with "Oh, Susannah," strumming and finger-picking and hammering-on
till he thought his heart would split wide open.

Each
note echoed in the boxcar and in his mind. He wanted to make the tune last
forever, to drive all his problems away. The world revolved around him. He felt
the presence of an awestruck audience, as if his music had hypnotized
everybody, as if Mother Earth had stopped spinning and time had ceased.

Then,
feeling his strength had somehow drained from his body, he slowly switched to a
conclusion, saying good-bye to this golden moment of passion as the tune ended.
The instrument grew silent, but the notes echoed in his soul. With a tremendous
effort to get back to the real world, he put a smile on his face and gave the
banjo back to George as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, when
in fact something had.

George
caressed the banjo and nodded. "That was mighty fine, Daniel. You must've
been born picking a banjo."

"I'm
rusty."

"You
put yourself down," George said. "Fact is, you got a mighty nice
pickin' style, and that's the almighty God's truth."  

"Oh,
well, guess I'll get myself a banjo someday, danged if I won't."

"What
happened to your finger?" George asked. "I never noticed it
before."

"Oh,
this?" Daniel held his hand up. "Well, let's see. One day I hit my
finger with a hammer. It swelled up so bad I couldn't get my wedding ring off,
so I took me a butcher knife and—"

"Hold
on," George said. "You ain't going to tell me you chopped off your
finger, are ya?"

"Nope.
I took the butcher knife and hacked me off a chunk of homemade bread and a hunk
of ham leftover from Sunday's dinner, and made myself a sandwich."

George
eyed the finger stub again and grinned.

"Damn,
if you ain't the biggest liar I ever met."

The
day wore on, the setting sun preceding them through the countryside.

"Comin'
in somewhere," George said.

Daniel
looked outside and saw lights reflecting on water as the train crawled along
the tracks.

"Yep,
but don't jump off here or you'll drown.... We're crossing the Mississippi.
Next stop, St. Louis."

A
few minutes later, the freight left the river behind and moved south along the
wharf with great determination.

"Get
your stuff," Daniel said. "We're coming to a switchyard. Be ready to
jump when we slow down—watch your step, so you don't break your neck."

The
freight groaned and came almost to a complete stop. Inch by inch, it moved
among the many rails around them. Boxcars, gondolas, oil tankers, and cattle
cars sat idle on the sidings.

Covering
his naked head again, Daniel then eased George over the side of the car,
stretching to help him reach the ground. The train shuddered and moved a
little.
Easy does it.

When
he was safely down, George laid the banjo on the ground a few feet away from
the tracks. "Hand me down your pack, Daniel. You can't jump with all that
stuff."

When
his bundle and the few tools were on the ground beside the banjo, Daniel
himself slipped over the side of the car. The long, shrill whistle blasted as
he scrambled away from the great wheels.

He
stood in the growing twilight, taking stock of his surroundings. The dusty
freight had buried its snoot directly in the freight yard up ahead, its tail
snaking out for a half-mile or so behind. They were still a good distance from
the city proper.

He'd
been to St. Louis only once—before the Depression, when he and LaDaisy got
married.
I'm sorry you got stuck with a nobody, LaDaisy. You deserve better.

From
where he stood, Daniel couldn't tell how much had changed. October of 1923 had
been a year of prosperity. Along with the boom of factories, coal smoke
darkened the skies above the smokestacks. But night had concealed the blight of
smoke, dirt, and grit, and viewed from the deck of a paddlewheel riverboat, the
reflections of city lights had bounced on the surface of the Mississippi River.

Most
of the smoky atmosphere had vanished when the factories closed down one after
the other. Some were barely operating now, according to news reports, working
skeleton crews for long hours at slaves' wages. It was a vicious circle.
Employers couldn't afford to pay people to work, and even if they could
manufacture their products, few people had money to buy.

George
was asking for a dismal existence. What would he do? Where would he go?

After
they parted, Daniel Tomelin would hightail it down the road looking for odd
jobs. A few more coins to fatten his purse, then he too could go home.

He
turned to George. "Maybe you should of rode further. You might get dizzy
trying to find your way out of this freight yard."

"Nah.
I know these tracks, Daniel." He sighed. "Now I've come to the end of
the line and there ain't no more tracks. It's hard to hop a freight when you
got rheumy-tiz. I almost pulled you under the train last time you helped me
up."

"I
didn't notice." Daniel retrieved his tools and stowed them away in his
overalls. "You'll be all right where you're going?"

"Got
some friends in St. Louie. They'll help me get myself together again."

Daniel
hesitated, then stuck out his hand—a fine-boned hand with slender fingers and
knobby knuckles already showing signs of hard work.

"Take
care, George." He stepped away as George turned to go. The old man's gait
was unsteady. He stopped walking, then took a few more steps.
He'll never
make it.

George
walked a little farther, then turned around.

"Well—"

Daniel
went over and stood before him. "Well what?"

George
slipped out of the banjo strap and handed the instrument to Daniel.

"What?
You want me to tune it or something? Got a busted string?" He examined the
five strings and found them all intact.

"Take
her, Daniel."

"Say
what? Hey, no, wait a minute. You can't—"

"She's
yours if you want her."

"Aw,
now you can't just give away a part of yourself. This banjo's like one of your
arms, or a leg. Why, it's like if I gave my cap away, I'd feel downright
naked."

George's
blue eyes bubbled.

"Go
on, make me proud. I've no more use for a banjo. This ol' tramp's been down so
long, he can't even sing a happy song no more. The old fingers is bent and
stiff." He reached out and touched the instrument. "Sure, she's been
a good friend. But there's things I need more'n any banjo, so you best take
her, unless you don't like her."

"Well,
I sure do like her."

"A
banjo's good company when you're alone at night under the stars. When you're
miles away from any other living soul with no one to talk to. Daniel Tomelin's
further away than he wants to admit."

Daniel
could not speak as the old man turned and walked away; there was nothing more
to say, and he understood more than he wanted George to know.

The
banjo man glanced over his shoulder once, and Daniel whisked his cap off his
head and waved it through the air. The lone figure grew faint in the looming
dusk, stepping carefully over ties and rails, heading north into the city.

Daniel
watched a moment longer, then retrieved his bundle, adjusted his burdens—the
beloved banjo slung over one shoulder—and began walking south, hoping to find a
cool pond or stream so he could rid his aching body of a week's accumulation of
grit and grime.

He
was too proud to call at the kitchens of rich people looking like a bum.

After
leaving George, he wandered through the countryside, climbing barbed wire
fences, crossing grassy meadows, walking dusty roads, which were nothing more
than cow paths. Up and down and over the summer-blooming Missouri countryside
and rolling hills he went, stumbling over rocks and gullies and ravines.
Scrubby vegetation along the road offered only a few wild strawberries. He
would have given his right arm for a big steak or a plateful of cold fried
'taters and onions.

A
few automobiles passed him during the long sweltering afternoon, kicking clouds
of dust and grit in his eyes and making him cuss. Only one man stopped to offer
a ride or inquire about his destination, an old farmer in a mule-drawn wagon
full of old lumber.

"Going
far?" he asked.

"Far
enough." Daniel climbed up next to him on the wooden seat.

"I'll
take you a couple miles." The man tugged the reins and shouted at the
mules. "Giddup, Annie, you bag o' bones. Hey there, Ben, git movin'."

Daniel
nodded, staring straight ahead up the winding dirt road over the broad backs of
the animals. It was good to sit, good to smell the leather harnesses and sweaty
mules as they shook their heads and snorted hot air from their wide nostrils.
The plodders pulled in unison, their tails switching flies.

After
a few minutes of silence, the driver spoke. Out of the blue, he turned to
politics, the last thing in the world his passenger wanted to discuss.

"Waaaall,"
he drawled, adjusting his battered straw hat to shade his eyes, "if'n you
got a lick of sense, you'll vote for Mr. Roos'velt come November. Old Hoover,
he never done us poor farmers no good, no how."

"That
right?" Daniel watched the mules' long ears twitch, as though they were
listening, and wondered if they were Democrats or Republicans. He chuckled
silently, thinking they might be spies for the government. He removed his cap
and glanced sideways at the driver. "Not being a farmer, I wouldn't know
if it's true or not."

"Don't
you read the papers and listen to the radio?"

"Nope.
Can't afford them luxuries. Sometimes I pick up news at the barbershop."
He stopped as the other man turned and eyeballed Daniel's head, and Daniel
quickly put the cap back on.

"Mr.
Roos'velt's a good ol' boy," the man said, nodding.

After
a few miles, the team hauled up at the side of the road.

"Sorry
I can't take you no further," the driver said as Daniel retrieved his
supplies and climbed down. "Big family, too, or I'd ask you to stay and
eat."

"This
is good enough—you saved my feet a few blisters." He tipped his cap as the
team turned toward an old unpainted house set back from the road. "Much
obliged, mister."

He
squinted at the sun and started walking again.

The
longer he trod, the heavier his load seemed to grow. He rested several times at
the edge of a woods, removing his shoes and inspecting his tired, sweaty feet.
New blisters had split open and burned the backs of his heels. Calluses smarted
on the soles of his feet. The cardboard insoles inside his shoes were falling
apart. His stockings were in terrible shape, their front ends sliced to shreds
by his long toenails.

He
missed his rusty old Ford pickup, still parked in the side yard back home.
Sure, it had to still be there, because LaDaisy had never learned to drive. It
was probably still sitting there with an empty gas tank.

Daniel
soaked his bones in the pond, enjoying the squishy mud at the bottom and
feeling like a kid again. And when he was done, he stretched out on the bank so
the warm night air could lick his skin dry.

Frogs
croaked and crickets sang. A rain-dipper moon sagged low on the horizon, a pale
crescent of light rocking on its bottom. In the afternoon, there'd been a
mackerel sky streaked with mares' tails—according to old-timers, the
combination meant a storm was brewing. Water splashed nearby as a frog sprang
into the pond. The buzz of night insects eased his mind as he gazed at the
stars, noting how the constellations seemed to come partway down to meet him.
The faint whistle of a train carried through the clear night air, bringing to
his sleepy mind the events of the past few days.