Caleb's Wars (21 page)

"Voncille, this ain't none o' your business," Aunt Lou said. "Just don't you say another word."

"Shut up, old lady! I'll say what I want." Voncille advanced on me. "I promised myself I'd never waste another word on
you,
but as a patriotic, self-respecting American, I can't keep quiet."

Instantly I was fighting mad. "Say it, then."

"With pleasure. What in the name of God is wrong with you, boy? The Krauts blow your brother all to pieces, take him prisoner, and you're in here
lovin
on one of 'em? Ain't you got an ounce of pride? Or maybe you'd like this pretty boy here to do more to you than just hug your neck."

"You hush your dirty mouth!" Aunt Lou shouted. "You make me sick, talkin' like that!"

"Lou's right," Uncle Hiram put in. "We all done had enough o' yo' white-trash mouth."

Then Sondra Davis elbowed her way through the swinging door. "You all at it again?" she asked. "I swear to God, I'm ready to fire every last one of you and find some decent help."

"You don't have to fire
me,
" I said. "I'm done." Since my first day, that woman—and Voncille, too—had been pushing me toward some invisible line. They'd wanted to force me to cross it, find some excuse to fire me. But I had stepped over the line on my own, and I felt like I'd just won a race at the Olympics. I was more than ready to get away from the Dixie Belle and go home.

"I quit, too," Aunt Lou announced.

"Count me in," Uncle Hiram added.

I didn't wait to see what would happen next. "See you around," I told Andreas. "You're the only white person who ever tried to be my friend." He probably didn't understand what I said, but that was okay.

But Voncille understood. "How nice for you both," she sneered as I headed for the back door.

"Caleb!" Andreas called after me.

I didn't turn back. I had to get home to my father. When I got there and told him everything, he would put his strong arms around me and say it was all going to b e okay.

***

But the next week was terrible. Pop was right—not knowing about Randall was much worse than getting bad news. I helped the folks all I could, and the ladies kept bringing food. Each evening Ma lit a candle in the window where her Blue Star Mother banner was hanging.

Then at last we heard. A soldier from the camp drove out in a jeep and delivered the message: Randall was alive. He'd been captured and taken by the Germans to the camp called Stalag 17-B near Krems, Austria. A mortar shell had blown off his left hand and blinded his left eye, but he was not in danger of dying from those injuries. That was all Colonel Ross had been able to find out.

Ma took it real hard. She'd made herself keep going until now, but the strain made her sick. She went to bed and stayed there, with the curtains closed, for two days.

All that time I kept seeing Randall with half his face gone. He'd been blinded in one eye—did that mean the whole eye had been blown out of its socket? Was it just an empty hole oozing yellow pus? Was his skin all burned off, and did he look like Frankenstein's monster? When he came home, would I be able to look at him and not feel sick?

And what about losing his hand? That was even worse than losing his eye. All Randall's dreams for after the war were dead now. So many jobs were impossible if you had to try to do them with one hand. He'd have to come back and live in Toad Hop with us, but he'd hate it. Maybe right this minute he was wishing he'd been killed. The second I thought that, I tried to erase it from my mind.

When I went into Pop's shop the second day, I found him sitting at the workbench, staring at his left hand.

He didn't bother to look up. "What that brother o' yours gon' do now? Nobody ever heard of a one-handed carpenter! All his plans—goin' to Atlanta, workin' up there in his friend's business..."

"You would have let him go?"

Pop sighed. "Course I would. Even back then, when he was home and fightin' with me about his future, I knew I couldn't stop him. Now I realize I should of encouraged him. Randall was right. There ain't no future 'round here. You got to get out, too, Caleb, when you can."

"I'll stay here and work with you, Pop. Help take care of Randall, if he needs me."

"It ain't fair!" he cried. "A workin' man need his hands—
both
hands!"

"We'll help him," I said, trying to find some way to make things better. "Randall is tough. He won't let this stop him."

Pop looked at me. "He better be tough, son. Tough enough to make it in that camp without a doctor, or even food, for all we know. Tough enough to keep livin' so he can come home—and then fight a war all over again, against
this
goddamn place! The Nazis that run Davisville won't give an
able-bodied
Negro a fair chance, let alone a black man with only..."

He couldn't finish.

You healed Uncle Hiram, I told God silently. And Miss Evelyn. Why didn't you...

I was afraid to finish my question, but it was there even if I didn't give it words: Why didn't you answer my prayers and keep Randall from getting hurt at all? I tried to tell myself that if I hadn't prayed, Randall might have been killed. Getting hurt and captured was bad, but it was better than getting killed. Maybe I hadn't prayed hard enough, or often enough, or correctly enough. That's why I hadn't gotten everything I wanted. But that made prayer into some kind of contest between me and God, one I could never win.

Later I had another thought. When Randall came home, if he asked me, would I have the guts to pray for him, ask God to grow him a new hand? A new eye? Brother Johnson loved to preach on the text that said "With God, all things are possible." Could that include an injured man getting new body parts? That
did
sound like something right out of
Frankenstein.

I prayed, Please bring Randall home. If you do—I mean,
when
you do—I'll pray for him. I'll do anything. Just let him come home.

W
HEN I GOT UP
the third morning, I found Ma cooking breakfast. She apologized for going all to pieces and asked if I wanted my eggs scrambled or fried over easy. Then, while I was eating, Pop came in and said we needed to do something to take our minds off our worries. He proposed we go into Davisville together, do some shopping, mail the letters we'd all written to Randall care of the Red Cross, and have dinner at Uncle Billy's Barbecue. Ma agreed. I asked if Nathan and Henry could go along, and Pop said it would be okay.

In town my friends and I drifted and bought ourselves Coca-Colas. Soon it was getting on toward noon, and we had to meet the folks. Uncle Billy's was a couple blocks from Main Street, and as we headed there, we found ourselves at the Dixie Belle.

I hadn't been by the restaurant since the day I quit. It looked the same. There was the big window where we'd stood the day it opened. The place was pretty full, but the booth on the other side of the glass was empty. Nothing looked as shiny and new as it had that first day.

I wondered about the new cooks. The food couldn't be near as good as when Aunt Lou and Uncle Hiram were there. And what about Andreas? Was he still washing dishes? Maybe he'd been beaten up in the camp again. That made me think of Randall and wonder how he was being treated.

"We gotta go," Nathan said. "My stomach says so."

"Mine, too," Henry agreed. "Come on."

But then something inside the Dixie Belle caught my eye. I looked, and looked again to make sure. "Hey. In there."

They put their faces up to the glass. The glare made it hard to see inside, so I put my hands on either side of my face to block the sunlight. "Am I seeing right?"

"I see white folks eatin' dinner," Nathan answered. "That ain't news."

"Yeah, but look all the way to the back."

He did. "Oh." Then, "Well, what you expect?"

"What?" Henry asked.

"All the way back, dummy. Along the wall. At the long table," Nathan told him.

I couldn't stop staring. At the back of the dining room, crowded around a couple of tables, were German prisoners, enjoying their dinners. Among them sat Andreas, talking and laughing just like all the rest.

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.

"What'sa matter?" Nathan asked. "Davis can feed anybody he wants."

"One of those guys is Andreas."

Nathan's eyes got wide. "Your buddy? The one that got you fired for huggin' him?"

"That wasn't the reason! And I didn't get fired. I quit, remember?"

"Okay. So why you all upset now? You don't even work here anymore. Good riddance, I say."

How could I make Nathan and Henry understand? Somewhere thousands of miles away, Randall was in a prison camp, one hand blown off and one eye gone. If he was still alive, he sure as hell wasn't eating a fried chicken dinner in a German restaurant with the local folks.

I looked at Andreas again. Seeing him there made me want to crash through the window and get my hands around his neck. I felt betrayed.

"Let's go," Nathan said. "Let the crackers enjoy theirselves."

"You said it," Henry added. "Come on, Caleb."

They were right. There was nothing I could do. Lee Davis owned the Dixie Belle, and he was free to serve anyone he wanted—and refuse service, too. That didn't help my feelings, though. I recognized those feelings: the same ones that made me throw a punch at Nathan the other night. That made me piss all over the crates of collards and potatoes. That made me slash Stewart Davis's tires. Ma's words rang in my head: "What's wrong with you? With
all
you men?"

I pulled myself away from the window and followed Nathan and Henry around the corner. I had to stop, though, because I was shaking so bad.

The door to the restaurant was right ahead of us. A young couple went in, then two pretty white girls. They noticed us, and I realized we were standing so close to the door that we were halfway blocking it.

"Caleb, you all right?" Henry asked. "You look sick."

"I'm fine. Come on."

We started down the sidewalk, but I stopped again. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. But there was nothing I could do about it. Besides, my folks were waiting. Best just forget it.

No.
Not this time. Not ever again, no matter what might happen. What should I do? I prayed silently.

God didn't answer, and suddenly I understood that I already knew what to do. All I needed now was the courage to do it.

I turned around and headed back to the Dixie Belle.

"Hey, Caleb! What are you doin'?" Nathan scurried after me, Henry right behind him.

I got to the door of the café. "What is it?" Nathan asked.

"I'm going in there and ask to be served. You guys can come with me if you want."

Nathan looked at me like I'd just grown horns. "Don't be crazy, man! You can't go in there. They'll—"

"They'll do what?"

"I dunno. Throw you out. Hurt you. Come on, Caleb. Your folks are waitin'."

"If you won't come with me, you and Henry go to Uncle Billy's and tell them I'll be there after a while, but not to order me any food. I'm eating in the Dixie Belle."

Henry yanked on my sleeve. "No, you ain't! Just forget it. You go in there, it gonna be trouble—worse trouble than anything you ever been in before."

"I don't care. I've had enough. Haven't you?"

"Sure I have," Nathan said. "You're right. Course you are. But this ain't the way to do things. You
know
that. We gotta be patient. Wait for the right time. And this ain't it."

"You're wrong. This
is
the right time. Remember why we threw those rocks at the prisoners and fought the Hill boys? You said you were sick of being treated like dirt. I am, too. Here's our chance to fight back—in a different way."

"I want to, man! Really, I do. But—"

"It ain't too late!" Henry pleaded. "You don't got to do this!"

I understood the fear in their eyes, because it was in me, too. "It's okay," I told them. "I understand. Next time, all right?"

Nathan nodded. "Be careful."

"I'll see you at Uncle Billy's."

He squeezed my shoulder and hurried away, pulling Henry behind him.

Alone, I pushed the door open and made myself walk through it. My heart was jumping around inside my chest.

The room was noisy, full of happy voices, clattering dishes, and music on the jukebox. The prisoners at the big table seemed to be having a fine time, judging from their laughter. Delicious, familiar smells came from the kitchen.

Right in front of me was an empty table. I sat down and waited. Then I felt eyes on me, and people at the next table got quiet. I studied the menu and waited some more.

Betty Jean appeared. "Caleb, what are you doin'? Get out of here."

"I'd like a fried chicken dinner with collards, yams, cornbread, and a cup of coffee."

"You can't eat in here!" she whispered fiercely. "Go on, 'fore there's trouble."

"A chicken dinner, please."

"Caleb!"

Here came Voncille. "What in the hell are you doin'?" she demanded. "You got some nerve comin' around here. Now git! You know we don't serve colored. You want yourself somethin' to eat, go on over to Uncle Billy's."

"I don't want barbecue. I'm going to eat here."

"We don't serve
niggers.
"

The word jangled in my head, and I had to steady myself. "I don't want any trouble. I'm hungry, and I have money. Please bring me a chicken dinner."

Lee Davis burst through the kitchen door.

"Mr. Lee, I tried to tell him, but—"

"It's all right, Voncille. You run along and take care o' your customers. I'll handle this."

I glanced around. Everyone in the room, including the German prisoners, was staring in our direction.

"Folks, y'all go back to your meals. We got ourselves a little misunderstanding here. This boy'll be gone in just a minute."

People started talking again. I knew they were talking about me.

"Caleb, what are you doin' in here?" Lee Davis began, kind of friendly. "I'm surprised. You know we got good places in town for colored folks to enjoy a meal with their own kind. We got nice places for white folks, too, and the Dixie Belle is one of 'em. Your people and mine don't eat together—everybody knows that. So you just run along and I'll forget all about this."