Caleb's Wars (18 page)

"Thank you! I've always liked your family, Caleb. Mr. Davis and I think so highly of Frank and Lucy, and of course we're so proud that Randall is serving our country."

Which is what
your
sorry son ought to be doing, I thought. But I said, "Thank you, Miz Katie. You want me to pray for Miz Evelyn now?"

"Yes, I do. But there's one thing I need to ask you first. Please don't mention to anyone that you've been here, especially not to Mr. Davis. He doesn't ... uh, believe in this kind of thing. Knowing you were here would only upset him. You understand."

I stood before the old woman in the wheelchair. She was sound asleep, wheezing softly with each breath. Then it came to me: there might still be a way out. "When I prayed for Uncle Hiram, I put my hands on his."

Someone like me never, ever touched someone like Miss Evelyn. With luck Miss Katie would be mindful of that and send me on my way.

Her answer disappointed me. "Under the circumstances, it will be all right." She spread the white handkerchief on the old lady's shoulder. "There, now. Go ahead."

I couldn't wait to tell Nathan about this. He wouldn't believe me.

The woman's shoulder was all bones. I touched the handkerchief as lightly as I could. Get it over with, I ordered myself. Then you can get out of here.

"Go on," Miss Katie urged.

There was no going back. "Dear God, I asks you to reach down and heal Miz Evelyn. Lord, please give her back her right mind." My hand began to get warm, and I pulled it away.

"Something wrong?" Miss Katie asked.

"Uh, no, ma'am."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing." No matter how I felt about it, this was no joke. It was time to get serious. I
had
to go on. I put my hand on the handkerchief again. "Pour down yo' healin' power into every part o' her. Clear her mind, so that Miss Evelyn ain't—"

She jolted awake so fast that I pulled my hand back again. She raised her head and peered at me with small, dark eyes. "Who are
you?
" she cried.

"Mother Davis, it's all right." Miss Katie tried to move between me and the woman in the wheelchair.

"What's this nigger doing in here?"

"Shhh, now. It's only Caleb. Caleb Brown. You know his daddy, Frank, and his mother, Lucy. Lucy used to do our laundry, remember?"

"Get this nigger boy away from me! I don't know him. He doesn't belong here. Mama, come quick! Mama, I need you!"

"I'm sorry," Miss Katie told me. "This is how she is, so much of the time. She doesn't know what she's saying. Wait in the hall, and I'll get her calmed down."

I didn't need another invitation. Aunt Minnie met me coming out the door. "Go on in the kitchen," she whispered. "Wait there."

"Mama! Mama!" Miss Evelyn wailed. "I want to go home! Please, come take me home!"

I glanced behind me to see Aunt Minnie kneeling in front of her, murmuring soft words. Miss Katie was on the sofa, her hands over her face.

I headed for the kitchen, mad as hell. I had agreed to pray, and look what happened. The crazy old woman was pitiful, but saying those things to me...

I turned a corner and ran into Stewart Davis. Right away I smelled the liquor on him.

"What's goin' on? Hey, you're the dishwasher boy from the restaurant! What in Christ's name are
you
doin' here?"

"Your mama asked me here. She'll explain. I got to go now."

He moved to block my way. "I asked what you're doing in my house. And what's all that noise in the parlor?"

"Your grandma is upset. Your mama and Aunt Minnie are with her."

"What'd you do to her?"

"Nothing!"

He backed me against the wall. "You still ain't told me why you're in
my
house. Answer me!"

I was shaking.

And I was afraid.

"I ain't doin' nothing wrong. Miss Katie asked me to come."

"What for? She already got more of your kind working around here than we need."

The smell of booze on his breath was making me sick. He was so drunk that I knew I could take him, and for a second I thought about doing just that. "Please, Mr. Stewart. Just ask Miss Katie. She can explain."

"Don't try that on me. You got no good reason to be here. Now empty your pockets."

"Why? I don't got nothin' of yours."

"Your pockets!"

"No, sir! I ain't no thief, and your mama done invited me here." Now I wasn't afraid. I was spitting mad.

"A thief and a
liar
is what you are." Then he went for me. I dodged his fist, but he threw himself against me and we both went down. He grabbed at me, and I tried to twist away. And when he tried to choke me, I punched him right in the face.

I heard a door thrown open and the sound of someone running toward us. "What's going on here?" Miss Katie cried.

"I caught this nigger stealing from us!" Stewart shouted.

"Stop it! Both of you, stop it right now!"

I let go of him, and he fell on his back, panting.

"He was stealing, Mama!"

"I wasn't! I left the parlor like you asked me, Miss Katie, and Aunt Minnie told me to go to the kitchen and wait. Mr. Stewart run into me and wanted to know what I'm doin' here. I told him to ask you, but..."

Miss Katie looked at us sprawled on the floor, and sighed. "Run along, Caleb. I'm sorry."

"He's a thief! Make him empty his pockets."

"No, Stewart. I asked him here."

He pushed himself up and tried to stand but had to sit down again. "
Asked
him here? Why?"

"We'll discuss it later."

I got to my feet.

"Thank you for coming," Miss Katie told me. "I appreciate it. Please remember your promise."

"Yes, ma'am".

***

The long walk home gave me time to think things over. Agreeing to pray had been a mistake. That was certain. God hadn't asked me to do it: Miss Katie had. She was to blame for asking me in the first place. I
had
to do what she wanted. She was white.

At least she hadn't believed Stewart. I hated him so bad, it made my guts ache. Was I in trouble for what had happened? I remembered how it felt when my fist slammed into his face, and that made me glad. Then fear came over me so bad that I had to sit down under a tree.

I imagined all the things that could happen. Stewart would tell his daddy. Or he'd come looking for me with some of his friends. One morning, when I was walking to the Dixie Belle...

I made myself get up and head home. Everything's all right, I told myself. The bastard was so drunk, he won't even remember what happened. And Miss Katie doesn't want anyone to know why you were there. You only hit Stewart because you had to.

That wasn't quite true. I'd
wanted
to, and it felt great. I remembered that my hand had started to get warm as I prayed. What did that mean? And if things hadn't gone so wrong, what might God have been able to do?

N
OTHING MORE CAME
of my fight with Stewart. I'd "gotten away with it"—at least that's how Nathan put it, and he said I was one lucky guy. Despite my promise, I'd told him the story. The Davises had treated me like dirt, and I wanted someone to take my side, soothe my hurt pride. Nathan did that, but of course he messed with me first, tried to scare me with talk about the Klan. I told him to shut up.

When Aunt Lou asked me why Miss Katie had wanted me at The Cedars, I lied and said it was to help move some heavy furniture so the maids could polish the floors.

Ma had told me that God would most likely speak to me again, but God did things in his own good time. Deep down I believed he wasn't finished with me, but in the meantime I couldn't relax.

Pop let the thing about God and me drop, never asked me about it. He stayed busy with his work—spent long days out and around, building and repairing things for folks, then often headed to his workshop after supper to do detail work that took his special tools. Ma said he did it to keep from worrying about Randall. She kept busy, too, but most everything she did was bound to make her think of Randall, like rolling bandages for the Red Cross and writing letters of sympathy to the families of Negro soldiers who'd gotten killed overseas, names she'd gotten from the Gold Star Mothers. She encouraged me to read the Bible, pray, and listen. But apart from that she was off in her own thoughts, as Pop was in his.

Nathan, Henry, and I took to going out almost every night, just to give ourselves something to do. But even that got old, with so few choices that weren't risky, illegal, or sinful—or all three. My days were cluttered with piles of dirty dishes and my nights with half-smoked cigarette butts. The summer dragged on; I was restless, bored, and ready for something to happen.

***

A couple weeks after my visit to The Cedars, Ma read out loud to Pop and me a short article under "Social News" in the
Davisville Herald.
"'We are happy to report that Mrs. Evelyn Davis, who had been in poor health until recently, has enjoyed a dramatic recovery.'"

I sat up in my chair so fast that Pop looked at me. "You all right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I just needed to stretch."

Ma went on. "'Miss Evelyn, as her many friends call her, has gone to visit her daughter, Laura, and son-in-law, Lester, at their summer home on Tybee Island. When she returns to Davisville, Miss Evelyn will once again be living in her own place, rather than at The Cedars with her son Lee and his wife, Katie. We caught up with Miss Evelyn at a bridge party, and she told our reporter that she regards her complete recovery as nothing short of a miracle and "a new lease on life," and is grateful to Dr. Horace Gilliken for his excellent and attentive care.'" Ma put the paper down. "It's unheard of for someone as senile as she was to recover her mind. It does sound like a miracle."

"That ol' lady's brain
was
all to jelly, from what I hear," Pop said, uninterested.

I got up. "Caleb, what's wrong?" Ma asked. "You look strange."

"Nothing. It just feels hot in here. I'm going out for some air."

Even though God hadn't invited me to The Cedars and asked me to pray for the pitiful old lady who lived there, he'd answered my prayer. I knew I should feel glad for what God had done for Miss Evelyn. Not long ago Ma had asked me to read that place in the Bible about his servant bringing the prisoners out of the prison. Now I was thinking of what that meant in a different way. If you didn't have your right mind, and if you had to sit in a wheelchair all the time, you were in a kind of prison. Maybe that's what it had been like for Miss Evelyn. And now—well, she was having a visit to Tybee Island. Somehow I'd helped her get free.

As I got undressed for bed, I thought about telling Ma. But I realized I wasn't going to. It was past time to start finding answers for myself.

I looked in the mirror above Randall's dresser. The face staring back at me was familiar, but it had some new short whiskers on its upper lip and chin. And the eyes were different somehow. They weren't the eyes of a kid anymore. I rolled up my sleeves and flexed my biceps, and they weren't the muscles of a kid, either. I realized I really was a man now. Still just a young man, like the folks had said on the day I got baptized, but not a boy anymore.

***

The telegram arrived two afternoons later. Ma wouldn't open it, so I ran to the shop to get Pop.

He fumbled with the thin envelope, but his big hands didn't want to work. At last he managed to get it open.

"Randall's dead," Ma whispered.

"No, he ain't. He ain't dead!"

"What, then?"

Pop's voice trembled. "'Regret to inform you PFC Randall Brown injured Monte Altuzzo, Italy. Taken prisoner, presumed en route to German POW camp. More information, contact Fifth Army and Red Cross. Sincere regrets, U.S. War Department.'" Pop crumpled the paper. "Taken prisoner."

"Frank! Oh, Lord, no!"

Pop pulled her into his arms.

"He's injured!" Ma cried. "A prisoner!"

"But he ain't dead," Pop declared. "He ain't dead!"

Ma reached out an arm, grabbed me, and held me close.

"He ain't dead," Pop said again. "He
ain't.
I know it."

Finally Ma let go of me. "What do we do, Frank?"

"We got to know just what's goin' on. I'm goin' to find Mr. Lee. He can take me to the camp. That Colonel Ross can help us."

"I'm coming with you," I said.

"Go hitch Sweetie while I get the word out. Lucy, you can't stay here all alone. You got to have some folks to keep you company till we back."

"Let Randall not be dead," I prayed over and over while I tied Sweetie to the wagon. "Please, God. I'll do anything you want. Anything. Just let him not be dead. Please, please let him be okay."

As I pulled the wagon around to the front of the house, Pop and Miss Suzy came hurrying into the yard. "You and Caleb run along now," she told Pop. "Lucy be in good hands till y'all get back."

Pop thanked her and told Sweetie to get going.

The drive to The Cedars seemed to take forever. Pop hardly said a word, but his face told it all. Anger and fear. My feelings mirrored his. Randall had been captured by the Germans. He was hurt—maybe so bad, he'd die. And if his injuries didn't kill him, he might be put to death in the prison camp. We might never see Randall again. We might never know what had happened to him. At that moment I hated the Germans with all my heart.

"Randall is gonna be okay," I told Pop, trying to sound like I believed myself.

"He ain't dead" is all Pop would say. "I feel it. He ain't dead."

At The Cedars, Lee Davis seemed genuinely upset when he heard our bad news. "Randall's a mighty good boy," he said. "Never caused any trouble. You and Lucy did a good job raisin' him, Frank. This shouldn't of happened. I'm sorry it did."

"Thank you, sir. I 'preciate that."

Pop didn't wait for Davis to ask what we needed. "Mr. Lee, telegram say for us to contact the army or the Red Cross for more information. You know Colonel Ross over at the camp. Would you please see if he might help us find out what happen to Randall?"

"Course I will, Frank. We can go right now. I'll have Byron get the car, and y'all can ride with me."