Charleston, SC—November 6, 1963
Caleb’s teacher paced across the front of the
classroom, leaning on his cane, his white hair gleaming in the afternoon
sunlight. “Now can anyone name a hero from the War of Northern Aggression?” He
paused and focused on Hal in the front row. Hal had just started in their class
on Monday, coming all the way down from New York. “That would be the Civil War
for those of us who might not understand… given their unfortunate origins.”
“Oooohh!” Hal’s hand shot up. He talked funny, fast
and with a strange high accent. He liked to try to answer all the questions,
and sometimes he stared at Caleb too much, but he never seemed mean about it,
only curious. At least his eyes didn’t slide away as if Caleb’s skin was
covered in rancid oil, and that made for a welcome change.




