Caleb's Wars by David L. Dudley Page A

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