Caleb's Wars (9 page)

"I don't know, but he says it's important."

"From the army? I pray nothing's wrong."

Now I felt bad. I hadn't meant to scare her.

"What's all this?" Pop asked.

"Nothing bad. Just come on."

Ma let out a little scream when she saw Randall, and then she had her arms around his neck. "You should have told us you were coming tonight," she exclaimed. "We only got your letter today."

"I wanted to surprise you. When they gave us leave so quick, I decided to come on."

"How you get here?" Pop asked.

"Train to Augusta, then down to Waynesboro, then hitched a ride with a white guy taking a load of furniture to Savannah."

"That was kind of him," Ma said.

"He was all right. Said he was glad to help a fellow in uniform."

"Of course he was. Oh, let me look at you, son. My goodness, you're handsome! And haven't you put on some weight?"

"Twelve pounds."

"You do look good," Pop agreed. "Come in the house and your ma'll fix you somethin' to eat. How long you gonna be home?"

Ten days.

"Caleb, get your brother's duffle bag." Pop didn't even look at me.

"I still wish I'd known you were coming," Ma was saying. "I could have fried up a chicken. Well, tomorrow..."

They went inside, and there I was, alone. It was great having Randall home, but for the next ten days, the world would center on him. I was the second son, left to tote my big brother's bag.

Ma heated up what was left of supper, fried some fatback and eggs, and opened a jar of peaches she'd put up in the summer. It was the last one, and she'd been saving it for a special occasion.

Randall went at it like he was starving, and they watched him like they'd never seen anyone eat before. Ma chattered about the Toad Hop news, and Pop put in his ten cents' worth about crops, the weather, and his latest jobs. Randall let them talk.

Ma bustled about, refilling his plate. "Don't they feed you?" she asked. "You want some more eggs?"

"They gotta be feedin' the boy
somethin',
Lucy. Look at how much he done filled out."

"Basic training," Randall explained. "All the bread and potatoes you can eat, and ten thousand pushups."

"They treat you all right?" Pop asked. "You Negroes?"

Randall hesitated. "About what I expected. A few of the officers are okay, but most of 'em are dedicated racists. We made up a joke about 'em. Want to hear it?"

"If it ain't indecent."

"What do you get when you put a redneck in an officer's uniform?...A guy in the best suit of clothes he ever owned!"

Pop laughed. Ma looked doubtful.

Pop got serious again. "If they ain't treatin' you right, you oughta say somethin'."

"Aw, Pop, you know better than that. Who we gonna complain to—General Patton?"

"So ain't nothin' changed. They grab up all the Negroes they can lay they hands on and send 'em to fight and die. And all the time, they treat 'em like shit."

Only a day or so ago, Pop had been complaining that Negro soldiers
wouldn't
get a chance to fight.

"Country asks our boys to put they lives on the line, but won't treat 'em like citizens."

"It's mostly all right," Randall said. "They work us hard, but we can see the white boys getting their share, too. And I made me some solid friends, guys I know I can count on, no matter what."

"All Negroes, I bet."

Randall laughed. "Who else? They ain't any white boys in our company."

"Welcome to the Jim Crow Army!" Pop exclaimed.

"Let's talk about something else," Ma suggested.

"Sorry, Ma. I'll be all right. Nothin' can happen to me. I can count on my buddies, too."

We chatted some more. Randall didn't ask me about what I was doing, and I was glad. He didn't have a chance, really, not while Pop was drilling him with more questions about his training.

Finally Randall said he was beat and had to hit the bed. He hadn't slept in thirty-six hours.

"Your bed's all made up," Ma said. "Caleb, get your brother a towel."

"Let me help with the dishes first," Randall offered.

"Not on your life! Caleb can help me. It's early yet."

I sure didn't feel like doing any more dishes. I wanted to talk to my brother, just the two of us, but that would have to wait.

When I went to the bedroom at ten, I expected Randall to be asleep, but he was awake, lying on top of his covers, arms crossed behind his head. He'd undressed down to his underwear.

"Hey, man. I thought you'd be long gone," I said.

"Shhh. Close the door."

I did, then sat on my bed. "What's wrong?"

"Can't settle down. I need sleep bad, but my brain won't give me any peace."

"You scared of going over there?" The second I said that, I wished I hadn't.

But he wasn't bothered. "Damn right I'm scared! All the guys are. Even the ones who won't admit it."

"I'd be shaking. There's a lot of killing. Real bad stuff, from what the papers say." I wished I hadn't said that, either.

"That's only part of it. I'm worried we're gonna get over there and mess up."

"Mess up? How?"

"Not be good soldiers. Get so scared we can't fight. Turn yellow and run like little boys. That's just what some of the big shots think we'll do, anyway."

"Your officers? They wouldn't think that."

Randall turned toward me. "Like hell! Some of the generals don't even want us to have guns. They think all we're good for is diggin' ditches and loadin' freight. We been treated like dirt the whole time."

"You said some of the officers are okay."

"A couple, but they don't make up for the rest. There's a bunch of stuff I could of said, but I don't want to get Pop all riled up, or worry Ma."

"How do they treat you bad?"

"Every way they can! Like a drill sergeant callin' us a 'bunch of dumb niggers' when we had trouble on an obstacle course. Or being harassed by white policemen in Louisiana every time we left camp to go into town. And the white MPs takin' their side!"

Randall got quiet. I waited.

"The worst was somethin' I overheard at Huachuca, over in Arizona. I was doin' some cleanup in an office and some officers was in the next room, talkin'. 'I don't care how you dress 'em up,' this one guy says. 'A coon's a coon, even in uniform. You can't trust 'em any further than you can kick 'em.' I almost went AWOL that night, but figured it wasn't worth doin' time in the stockade."

I wished I could tell Randall not to go back. But they'd track him down and put him in prison.

"What were y'all fightin' about when I got here?"

I told him, ending with my day at the Dixie Belle. As I hoped he would, he took my side. He was especially mad about Pop whipping me. "He always been way too free with that damn strap. Somebody should of told him years ago it never done any good."

"You got it a lot more than me."

"Don't I know it! Didn't stop me from doin' anything, though—just made me better at keepin' things a secret."

"He won't ever whip me again," I vowed. "I'll leave first."

"I wouldn't blame you. Hey, you been goin' out any?"

"Some. I was thinking of going out tonight, maybe see Nathan."

"You'll have to climb over me to do it."

"I know."

"If you do, watch where you put your feet." He was laughing.

I promised I'd be careful. Then I told him about the last time we went out, and about sneaking some of Mr. Artie's 'shine, and about what Nathan and me did at the Dixie Belle. He laughed hard at that and said he was glad we'd done it. "And you ain't ever gotten caught yet," he added. "Somebody taught you real good."

"Maybe we can go out together while you're home. The two of us, just like we used to."

"Sure. I'd like that. What else you been into lately, besides fightin' with the old man and gettin' an honest job?"

Here was my chance to tell my brother the most important thing. Now was as good a time as any. "I got baptized last Sunday, and something strange happened that day. I wanted to write it to you, but you wouldn't have gotten my letter anyway."

He was quiet, like he was waiting for me to continue. I told him about the voice, and what it had said, and how I figured it was God. I kept waiting for him to say something, even to laugh at me, but there was only his slow, soft breathing. My brother had fallen asleep while I was still talking.

C
ALEB, TIME TO GET UP.
You don't want to be late."

I opened my eyes and there was Ma, standing over my bed. "Be quiet so you don't wake your brother."

Randall lay facing the wall, the covers pulled over his head.

"I got you a clean shirt in the kitchen. Come on, now."

When my feet were on the floor, I realized my back ached. Go to work again? No, thanks. But I had to. My plans to go out and see Nathan hadn't happened, either. I was just too beat.

Ma had clean socks for me as well as a shirt and a bandanna for my head. She put a paper bag and some money in my hand. "A little breakfast. You can eat while you walk. If you get a minute later on, buy yourself some rubber gloves."

"Gee, thanks, Ma."

"Mothers do what they can."

Pop was nowhere around. Still in bed, most likely.

I munched a cold biscuit with bacon on my way. Uncle Hiram would have the coffee ready, strong and hot. Good thing. I needed it.

When I came to the woods, I stopped, just like I had the day before. And listened. This morning even the birds were silent.

I felt shy about talking out loud, but no one was around, and I had nothing to lose. "God, I'm here. It's Caleb. You have anything to say to me?"

Nothing.

"That's okay," I told him. "I can wait. When you're ready, you'll talk to me. But how can I serve you until I know what you want me to do?"

I went on my way feeling better than I had in a few days.

My second day at the Dixie Belle was easier in some ways, harder in others. It wasn't all new and strange, but my back hurt and I didn't want to be there. And Voncille didn't let up. She told Sondra Davis, right in front of me, "I sure hope you can find some help that can work faster than this boy." What made some white folks think all Negroes were deaf?

At dinnertime Mr. Davis and Stewart barged into the kitchen again. Mr. Davis tried to sweet-talk Aunt Lou, but she repeated how he had better get her that second cook. He promised, then went into the dining room to eat.

Stewart poked his nose into things and got in the way. Just before they came in, Aunt Lou had taken a big metal pan of peach cobbler out of the oven and set it on the work table to cool. He asked for some, but she told him she was too busy, that he was in her way and to wait a minute, so he decided to help himself. He picked up the pan, which was still burning hot, shouted, and dropped it on the edge of the table. From there, it smashed to the floor. Hot syrup splattered everywhere, including on Aunt Lou's legs.

What a prize jackass, I thought.

Stewart understood my expression exactly. "What the hell are you lookin' at? Can't you see there's a mess to clean up? Get over here and take care of it. And in the future, keep your damn eyes where they belong, if you want to keep your job."

What I wanted was to put my fist in his face.

He gave me a dirty look and stalked out, leaving Uncle Hiram to get Aunt Lou calmed down and me to scrape up the sticky mess from the floor. Twenty minutes later, Mr. Davis came in and listened while Aunt Lou told him just what she thought about his son's behavior and how she was one step closer to walking out for good. She'd saved her pennies and was ready to retire anyway.

It surprised me to hear Mr. Davis apologize for Stewart. From my place at the sink, I saw him put some bills in Aunt Lou's apron pocket. He said he'd "handle" everything and vowed his son would apologize, too.

***

I came into the yard that afternoon and found Randall on the porch. He asked about my day, so I told him about Voncille, and he said what did I expect from an ignorant white-trash woman? When I mentioned Stewart Davis's name, though, he got mad. "Draft-dodging son of a bitch! He was up at Gordon same day as I was, for our physicals. He's every bit as healthy as me, but he got to come right on back home to daddy, while I got a ticket to Germany."

Ma came to the door. "Caleb, honey, I want to hear all about your day, but there's so much to do. Please take care of your outside chores, and then you can tell me everything while we work in the kitchen." More chores were the last thing I felt like doing.

When the wood was chopped, the chickens fed, and Sweetie's stall mucked out, I reported for kitchen duty. Two pies sat on the warmer, and the room smelled of simmering greens. For the next hour, I worked as hard as I had at the Dixie Belle. I didn't make ten cents, but no one would grudge me my supper.

While we ate, Randall kept us laughing with stories about the crazy GIs he'd met and the messes they'd gotten themselves into. But when he'd enjoyed his third piece of pecan pie and finished his fourth cup of coffee, Randall got serious.

"When I was at Huachuca, I met this guy from Atlanta, name of Sonny Jones. Looks like we're shippin' out together. Good guy—someone I can trust."

"In the army, all you can count on is your buddies," Pop said. "I learned that real fast."

"Anyway, like I said, Sonny's from Atlanta, where his daddy owns a business—contracting. Just a few workers, mostly family."

"What kind of contracting?" Pop asked.

"Carpentry. Rough framing, some finishing work—for Negro customers, mostly, but they're doin' some jobs for white folks, too."

"Good for them. Always glad to hear about Negroes who own they own businesses."

"It's the future."

"Let's hope so."

Randall looked steadily at Pop. "When the war is over, after we're back, I'm gonna move to Atlanta and work for Sonny's family's company. I told him I'm a trained carpenter, and he says they'll be needin' good men, 'cause Atlanta is gonna grow real fast once soldiers come home and get jobs and start new families. Sonny checked with his dad, and he already wrote back with the job offer. I can start as soon as we get home."