Caleb's Wars (2 page)

Tomorrow was going to be a big day at church. Henry and Nathan weren't the only ones getting baptized in Hale's Pond. I was, too.

I
N FIFTEEN MINUTES
we came to Toad Hop, just north of Davisville, where we lived.

"So we goin' out this evenin'?" Nathan asked.

"That's the plan," I told him. "After midnight?"

"Count me in. What about you, big man?" he asked Henry. "You comin'?"

"I dunno. It mighty risky."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "Here we go again. How often you come with us by now—five times?"

"Six."

"And ain't you always had a good time?"

"Yeah."

"And has you ever come close to gettin' caught?"

"No...."

"Then why you think tonight be different? 'Sides, I got a surprise for y'all."

Now Henry was interested. "Tell us."

"Only that I found where Daddy keep his moonshine. How y'all like to sample some this evenin'?"

"Sure," I said right away. "Where was it?"

"Buried in the corner of the shed. Big ol' crockery jar. Ain't no way to see the level in it, so Daddy never miss any."

"What about it?" I asked Henry. "You coming?" I was hoping he'd say no. He was scared of his own shadow, and that took the fun out of it. Nathan was different. From the first time I invited him, he was ready for anything, even stuff that would have landed us in big trouble if we got caught.

But that was one reason I liked it. Going out meant action, adventure—both hard to come by in a place like Toad Hop. Being colored upped the stakes and made our little outings even more exciting. I'd been going out at night for two years now, since I was thirteen and my brother Randall invited me. Mostly we'd just messed around—smoked when we could lay our hands on some cigarettes, swam in Hale's Pond in hot weather, helped ourselves to ripe fruit when the season was right.

Other times we settled scores with white folks who had it coming. Like after Mr. George Prothero hit Uncle Johnny Taylor in the mouth because he claimed Uncle Johnny had sassed him. If Mr. George ever wondered who broke down a section of fence and let half his cows loose on the Augusta highway, he could have asked Randall and me about it. And like every other Negro in Toad Hop, we'd have told him, "We don't know nothin' 'bout dat, Mist' George, but we shore is sorry dat it done happen. Hope none o' yo' cows got hit."

Thinking of the old times made me miss my brother. The owners of the Dixie Belle Café needed a lesson in good manners. Randall wasn't around to help settle a score tonight, but if he were, he'd be all for it.

"Hey, Caleb, you all right?" Nathan's voice brought me back from my thoughts.

"Sure. I was just thinking about something else."

"Answer Caleb's question," Nathan told Henry. "You comin' with us or not?"

"I dunno. Drinkin's a sin."

"And smokin' ain't? That never stopped you," Nathan reminded him.

"Drinkin's different. Worse, Daddy say. And what about tomorrow?"

"What about it?"

"Gettin' baptized! Wouldn't be right to drink the night before we do it."

"Stay home, then."

"I don't want to."

"Then come on," I said. "Just make up your mind."

"All we gonna do is taste it," Nathan added. "Nobody gonna get drunk."

"I dunno."

"Look at it this way," Nathan began patiently. "Your daddy say baptism wash away our sins, right?"

"Yeah."

"So if drinkin'
is
a sin, then God gonna take care of it tomorrow mornin' when we go under the water."

"That's ignorant," I said.

"You got a better idea?"

"No—"

"Then shut up. You come if you want to," he told Henry. "Nobody gonna make you drink a drop, you don't want to."

"All right," Henry agreed. "I'm in."

"Okay. See you." He went on his way toward the church. Since his daddy was the preacher, they lived next door.

"There go one big baby," Nathan observed. "I hope he don't ever squeal on us. We be skinned alive if our daddies ever find out."

"We can keep Henry quiet."

"How?"

I had no idea. "Jeez, Nathan! Do I have to answer every one of your dumb questions? Besides, we won't ever have to shut him up."

"Why not?"

"'Cause we're not gonna get caught. That's what you told him."

"I hope you right."

"Trust me. I'll be under your window after twelve."

"Until then, my man."

He headed for home, and I thought that if Henry was a big baby, Nathan was a big pain in the ass.

***

Ma was waiting on the porch. "Where've you been?" she demanded. Then she noticed my shoes. "And what have you been doing—making mud pies?"

"Sorry, Ma. We had to walk in the street because there were lots of white folks on the sidewalks. The new café opened today."

"That still doesn't explain why you're late. If I don't get these crusts made, there won't
be
any of my pies at the dinner tomorrow. You eat in town?"

"No, ma'am." The booth in the Dixie Belle flashed in my mind.

"I kept something warm for you. Come in and I'll dish it up. But first take those screws to your father. He's already come looking for you three times."

"These came." I held up Randall's letter and the cardboard tube. Maybe Ma would forget she was annoyed with me.

"What a nice surprise! Hand me the bag and go get your father."

Pop was planing a board in his shop. As usual, his sleeves were rolled up, showing the thick muscles on his forearms. I was pretty big for my age, but Pop was a lot bigger—and a lot stronger. Only Randall had ever dared tangle with Pop, and Randall had always lost.

"'Bout time you home," Pop said without even looking up from his work. "Where the hell you been? Didn't I tell you I couldn't finish that cabinet without more screws?"

"We stayed to watch the prison trucks go by."

Pop put down his plane. "So they really here. Part of me didn't believe it could be true. But nobody best underestimate what that Lee Davis can make happen. What y'all see?"

So I explained, and then I told Pop to come on, Ma had a new letter from Randall. I ate warm beans and cornbread at the kitchen table while Ma read the precious letter.

"'Dear Pop, Ma, Caleb,

'I'm doing okay over here in Louisiana. Some of the boys from up north stay mad because of the way Negroes are treated down here, but I'm used to it."'

"Hm," Pop snorted. "Word is, Louisiana worse than Georgia, and that sayin' a mouthful."

"'One fellow from New Jersey says we should demand better treatment, since the country is making us give our lives fighting the Germans and the Japs."'

Ma put the letter in her lap. "I know Randall's right, but I pray he doesn't do anything foolish—get a reputation for complaining about things."

"It ain't him talkin'. Just sharin' what that guy from Jersey is sayin'. They treated our boys like shit in the last war, and you can bet nothin' changed. Negroes get drafted to go fight—and for what? I don't see no enemy armies in-vadin' Georgia. Why can't this country stay out o' other folks' messes? We got plenty problems need fixin' right here at home."

Now we were in for it. Pop would get going on his long list of what was wrong with the world, wrong with America, with Georgia, with Davisville, with white folks, with Negroes, and sooner or later, what was wrong with me. I didn't want to hear it. Especially not about the war. I was worn out with the war—tired and bored with all the bad news, tired of rationing food, tired of hearing about war bonds and President Roosevelt and Adolf Hitler.

"And how come Lee Davis boy ain't in uniform?" Pop grumbled. "Stewart Davis is every bit as fit as Randall, and he get a medical waiver! Looks like he gonna spend the war ridin' in that red roadster his daddy bought him while all the
poor
boys get theyselves killed."

"There must be a good reason," Ma replied.

"You right about that. Mr. Lee Davis
money
is the reason. He done
bought
his boy's ticket out of the service."

"We shouldn't judge when we don't know the facts."

"For God sake, Lucy!
Face
the facts."

"What else does Randall say?" I asked Ma. If we didn't distract Pop now, he'd never shut up.

"'Our training is going okay,"' Ma went on. "'I qualified as marksman yesterday. Pop, thanks for teaching me to shoot so good. The guys from the country are mostly all good shots because they been using guns all their lives. So I guess if I get into a battle, I will get me some Germans."'

"He could get hisself some right here in Davisville," Pop noted.

Ma ignored that. "'The weather is hot and rainy, but I'm keeping my feet dry, like you told me, Ma. There is plenty of chow at every meal. I lost three dollars gambling Friday night, which is why my check ain't as much as we agreed on. Don't put any money in my account. It's all for you."'

"Lost three dollars gambling!" Pop fumed. "That's three days' pay, case he forgot! I
told
that boy to watch out for card sharks and tricky dice men. Wouldn't surprise me if he was drinkin', too."

"Randall is a good boy," Ma said. "He's fighting to make the world a better place."

"Somebody oughta make
Davisville
a better place! I can't figure how havin' our boys die way over there is doin' one thing to help any Negro I know."

Ma closed her eyes for a moment, like she was tired.

"What else?" Pop asked.

"'The boys say we going to be sent overseas soon, but no one know for sure. If the officers know, they ain't talking. If we do get sent, I hope to have some leave first so I can see you. I hope you all are doing good there. Please keep writing. Your letters mean a lot to me. My love to everyone. Your son, Randall."'

Ma gave Randall's check to Pop, then got up. "You two go on, and let me work in peace," she told us. "I have these pies to make."

Pop told me to come with him to his shop. "Your ma's right worried about your brother," he said as we walked in. "I don't know how she gonna handle it once he go overseas."

"He's really going?"

He looked at me like I was stupid. "Unless Roosevelt and Churchill can pull a miracle out of they asses and whup Hitler today! What you think Randall bein' trained for—a church social?"

Ma came into the shop. "I forgot to open my package. Look what it is." She held up a small banner a little larger than a piece of notebook paper. A red border went all around the edges; inside that was a white rectangle, and in the middle of that was a blue star. "I'm a Blue Star Mother."

"What that, Lucy?"

"An organization of mothers with boys in the service. The blue star stands for Randall. We can put this in a window to let everyone know we have a soldier in the family." Ma touched the banner reverently.

"I saw something like that in town," I said.

"That would be at the Durdens'," Ma replied. "Their boy Blaine got killed in the Pacific. If you lose a son in the war, you display a gold star banner."

"I can get it hung up," Pop said. "Lemme see it."

Ma handed him the banner and went back to the house.

"Blue Star Mothers," Pop mused. "Wonder if they know that Private Randall Brown is a Negro."

"What's it matter, Pop?"

"Plenty! How much you wanna bet that the Blue Stars is segregated, just like the United States Army?"

"The army's not segregated. Randall's in it, and lots of other colored guys."

"Negroes." Correcting me, as usual. "Ain't I already explained to you how it works? Sure, they let our boys in—to dig they ditches, tote they shit from one place to another, and do KP. Where the Negro officers? And the real combat training?"

There was no use arguing with Pop, but I couldn't help myself. "Randall wrote that he was getting to shoot."

"Big deal! The only weapon he probably ever gonna get to
use
in the United States Army is a potato peeler!"

"At least then he'd be safe."

"You want to smart-mouth me again, Caleb?"

"I wasn't smart-mouthing you."

"You want to talk back to me, then?"

There was no way to win against Pop. "No, sir."

"At least Randall had the guts to enlist before they come and got him," Pop said.

"I'd enlist if I was old enough." I didn't mean it, but it felt like the kind of thing Pop would want to hear.

"Hmph. Don't know that I see
you
in the service. They's more to bein' a soldier than goin' around raisin' hell."

That stung. "Want me to find a piece of dowel to hang that banner on?" I asked. I didn't give a damn now about Ma's Blue Star Mothers or what Pop thought about the army and Randall. The only thing I wanted was for Randall to stay safe.

A
T MIDNIGHT
I met Henry and Nathan, and we headed for the creek. It was as black as ink once we got into the woods. Henry tripped on something and fell down. Nathan laughed.

"I don't see nothin' funny," Henry grumbled from the ground.

"Where's your hand?" I asked.

"Here."

"Where?"

"Right here! Can't you see?"

"No, he can't see," Nathan said. "Ain't you noticed it dark out here?"

My eyes had adjusted now, and I yanked him up.

"It help if you skin was lighter," Nathan remarked. "But you blacker than a skunk."

"At least they ain't no white granddaddies in
my
family," Henry retorted.

"Both of you, quit. I'm sick of your mess."

"And I'm sick o' you acting like my boss," Nathan snapped. "You ain't in charge o' me."

"Somebody oughta be."

We felt our way to the fishing log. Nathan brought out the cigarettes and we lit up. Then he reached inside his shirt and brought out a pint bottle. "Here she is, boys. Who want to go first?"

"I guess I will," Henry volunteered. "Just a taste."

"You playin' with fire," Nathan warned. "You really gon' commit a big, bad sin the night before you get baptized?"

"Give it." Henry unscrewed the lid and took a sip. He made a face and then swallowed.