Perfect Peace (11 page)

James Earl wiped his eyes.

“Good. Let’s just leave it alone.”

They entered the house.

“Breakfast is ready!” Mister screamed.

Authorly and James Earl washed their hands in the kitchen basin and sat at the table.

“Come on, Woody,” Authorly called. “You can finish cleaning that thing after we eat. Daddy! Bartimaeus! Y’all come on!”

The menfolk joined hands and Authorly prayed, “Dear Lawd, we thank You fu dis day and fu blessin’ us wid a li’l baby sister. We thank You for de rain”—he peeked at Gus—“that waters the crops and helps . . . other thangs grow, and we thank You for Momma and ask that she get better real soon, and we thank You for dis food and for a roof over our heads. Amen.”

“Amen,” the others murmured.

Mimicking their mother, Mister and Sol set plates before Gus and their brothers, hopeful the food was satisfactory.

“I ain’t neva seen no black biscuits before,” Woody teased. “This must be a new recipe.” His shoulders jerked.

“Everything’s fine,” Authorly said. “We ’preciate you boys’ effort.”

He sound just like Daddy
, Mister thought.

Authorly glanced around the table, insisting that everyone clean his plate. Then Gus said, “Sol, you and Mister handle the dishes and Authorly, you and James Earl go see ’bout de crops. Me and Bartimaeus gon’ see ’bout de cows and fix de fence. Woody, you finish the stove.”

Everyone obeyed. It would be another day before Emma Jean resurrected, and Gus wanted things in order so she’d have nothing to fuss about.

Outside, Authorly told James Earl about his love for Eula Faye Cullins.

“She’s real pretty. And black. Just like I like ’em. You know Eula Faye, right?”

James Earl shook his head.

“Yes you do. Mr. Buddy’s oldest girl? The one with the real big booty?”

James Earl looked away.

“Well, anyway, you’ll like her. She got a pretty smile, and she’s sweet as pie. I’m gonna marry her one day, I think.”

“Okay.”

They surveyed the crops as Authorly droned on. James Earl appeared unmoved, but of course that never stopped Authorly. After an hour or so, he said, “I want you to be in the wedding, okay?”

James Earl smirked. “Okay.”

Then they returned to the house. Yes, he’d like Eula Faye, Authorly decided—as much as he’d like anybody—and they’d be happy together. All three of them.

Inside, Sol sang “All of My Help Comes from the Lord” as he and Mister tidied the kitchen. Woody paused occasionally, letting his brother’s high tenor voice ease his frustration with the cruddy woodstove.

“I like that song,” Mister said. “Sing it again.”

Sol began, “All of my heeeeelp,” and Mister hummed along as best he could. The last of the dishes was dried subconsciously as both brothers found themselves entangled in spiritual jubilation. Each time Sol crooned, “Whenever I need Him! He’s riiiiiiiiight by my siiiiiide,” Mister’s head swayed, and he put plates where pots should have been. Then he wiped the table in a circular, rhythmic motion while Sol swept the floor. Neither knew that Woody shared their ecstasy, weeping inside the old woodstove. Covered with a thin layer of powdery black soot, his face looked warrior marked from the streaks his tears left behind. He wanted Sol to stop singing and he wanted him to go on forever. When Authorly and James Earl entered, followed by Gus and Bartimaeus, they all succumbed to the moment instantly, distracting themselves by straightening up the living area, which Sol and Mister had already straightened. All five boys moved like electronic objects, refusing to be totally overwhelmed by Sol’s gift, while entrapped in its healing power. When his voice faded, they collapsed simultaneously as though having been suspended in midair.

Emma Jean had also been entranced. Perfect lay snuggled between her mother’s breast and the bed when Sol began, so Emma Jean closed her eyes and welcomed the soothing melody. Having gotten the daughter she begged God for, she now forgave Him for taking His sweet time in the sending, and asked if they could even be friends. She never hated Him, she said. She just didn’t understand His ways. But now, after having a daughter—or, rather, making one—she understood that, sometimes, God expects people to work with what they get. That’s how she thought of it. She apologized to God for waiting on Him to give her everything she wanted instead of meeting Him halfway. Now she understood the adage, “If you take one step, He’ll take two.” She smiled at their reunion.

With Sol belting from the living room, supported by his brothers’ humming, Emma Jean and Perfect relaxed amid the quartet performance. Carrying
the lead, Sol improvised slightly before and after the beat, Billie Holiday style, doing half-step runs only Daryl Coley would ever emulate. Bartimaeus and Gus, with their off-key humming, gave the melody a gospel pathos both hypnotic and healing. Emma Jean’s only sorrow was that she would probably never hear the melody again—not in its exact replica. With the boys getting older, she thought, who knew what tomorrow would bring? Sol sang constantly, but usually he sang alone. Emma Jean tried to record the melody in her memory, yet, once it ended, she couldn’t remember how it went.

At the end of the day, Gus and the boys sat in the living room, listening to the
Amos ’n’ Andy
radio show.

“What does she look like?” Bartimaeus asked Authorly.

“She jes’ look like a baby, I guess. Kinda brown like Daddy.” He wanted Bartimaeus to be quiet until the show ended.

“What does brown mean?”

Authorly tried to contain his frustration. “Look, she got black, curly hair and brown eyes. I don’t know nothin’ else to say. She jes’ look like a li’l baby girl,” he huffed.

Bartimaeus got the hint. He stared into nothingness and tried to imagine what “brown” looked like. Then he eased into Emma Jean’s bedroom.

“Momma?” he whispered, holding on to the door.

Emma Jean looked up. “Hi, baby. You all right? I heard you went with yo’ daddy yesterday.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s good, that’s good.”

“Momma?”

“What is it, baby?”

Bartimaeus felt for the bed. “Can I hold her? I won’t drop her. I promise.”

“Well, she’s sleepin’ right now. Maybe a little later.”

“Can I hold her now, Momma?” he asked sincerely. “I won’t wake her up.”

Emma Jean relented. “All right.” She lifted Perfect from her left side.

Bartimaeus extended his arms with great expectation. The weight of the child made him giggle. Gently, he moved his forefinger across her forehead, eyelids, nose, mouth, and chin. “She’s beautiful,” he said, counting her toes and fingers. “I can tell. A baby sister. Wow.”

“That’s right!” Emma Jean affirmed.

“She’s got my nose,” Bartimaeus said.

Only then did Emma Jean realize that Perfect, Bartimaeus, and Gus shared
identical wide, flat noses. Perfect’s was tiny, but its shape was unmistakable. “I guess she does.”

As Bartimaeus rocked her, he imagined that, one day, boys would seek Perfect to accompany them to a picture show or on a picnic, and she would deny most of them the privilege. But a really handsome fellow might come along whom Perfect would not deny, and hopefully he’d love her even with her difference.

“You’d better let me have her now. She’s startin’ to squirm.”

Bartimaeus passed her back and stood. “I know she’s pretty, Momma. Jes’ like you.”

“Ha!” Emma Jean retorted. “Ain’t nobody ever told me that!”

“Daddy don’t tell you you pretty?”

Emma Jean almost said,
Hell no
, but instead said, “You’d better get you some rest, son. You and yo’ brothers oughta be real tired from all that work today. Go ’head now.”

Bartimaeus shuffled back to the living room. Something about Perfect felt eerie, but he couldn’t discern what it was. He would find out soon enough.

Six weeks later, Emma Jean introduced Perfect to the St. Matthew No. 3 Baptist Church congregation. Yellow ribbons adorned the child’s greasy black hair, and only Gus and the boys knew that Perfect’s exquisite white lace dress had been fashioned from the one good tablecloth the family owned.

When Emma Jean entered, the crowd gasped. Some covered their mouths, others stared in stark incredulity. It wasn’t the floral peach dress that sent them over the edge, or even the rhythmed two-step with which she walked, but rather the bouquet of flowers sitting atop her hat. She had picked them herself, she later bragged, and stuffed the stems into the hat wherever they’d fit. Most people stifled their screams and waited to see if Emma Jean could prance down the aisle without the flowers tumbling in every direction. The assortment contained at least ten different species, with a rose hanging low enough to shield the crescent-like scar. She tried to brush it aside, so as not to miss the faces of her neighbors as they gawked, but the rose kept brushing the scar irritably until she yanked it from her head and tossed it aside. One woman laughed until she collapsed. Another raised her index finger and exited, screaming, “I can’t take this! I just can’t take Emma Jean Peace!” With sky blue eye shadow, maroon lipstick, and enough foundation to lighten her complexion four shades, Emma Jean smiled at her neighbors, who then snickered and shook their heads at the most ostentatious presentation they had ever seen. Authorly whispered, “Go ’head, Momma!” then laughed with the rest of the crowd. Emma Jean’s strut resembled a first Sunday Black Baptist gospel choir march, complete with the step-hesitation, step-hesitation rhythm. As she approached each row of pews, people marveled in absolute disbelief. “How
y’all doin’?” she mouthed along the way. No one responded. They knew her question was rhetorical, and, in fact, understood the greeting simply as Emma Jean’s way of securing attention. Gus’s inability to watch her strut intensified the joy of the audience, causing many to whisper, “How in the world does he live with that woman?” Emma Jean strolled gracelessly until she reached the front pew, which was already packed. “Excuse me,” she said repeatedly to the entire row until someone felt compelled to relinquish their space. “Thank you,” she then murmured, and reclined. Others were too shocked to scold her and a few clapped vigorously for an award-winning performance. What Emma Jean didn’t know was that a bee circled above the flowers, outlining a perfect halo, and various members dared one another to swat it. After she sat, the congregation fanned as though on fire, and Gus coiled in his seat in the back of the church. He had endured all the drama he could handle in a day.

Before the sermon, Reverend Lindsey said, “I wanna take this time to celebrate the newest member of the Peace family. A girl this time—thank God!”

The congregation laughed heartily.

“And I wanna ask the proud parents if they would bring that pretty little girl on up here and let’s dedicate her to the Lord.”

Gus’s head began to swim. The only thing he despised worse than crowds was being the center of them.

Authorly whispered, “You can do it, Daddy. Go ’head.”

Gus nodded and rose like one approaching the Judgment Seat of God. Emma Jean, on the other hand, leapt instantly. Her bouquet-hat wobbled as if it might fall, and most hoped it would. She pranced toward the pulpit, shaking her head as though the cheap hat were priceless. With Perfect bundled in her right arm, she waved her left hand like a beauty pageant contestant. Congregants yelped without shame.

Mamie Cunningham leaned forward and asked another woman, “Do she think that peach dress go with that tired, ugly hat?”

The woman shrugged and shook her head.

“And what mother in her right mind would
ever
put that many bright yellow ribbons on a black baby?”

The woman screeched.

“After all dem boys,” the preacher teased, “this girl must be an answer to prayer.”

He reached for Perfect, but Emma Jean murmured, “I better hold her, Reverend. She can get cranky with strangers.”

Reverend Lindsey frowned. “Well, all right,” he said, and stood between Gus and Emma Jean as though he didn’t belong there. “What’s her name?”

Gus squeezed his eyes shut.

“Perfect!” Emma Jean shouted.

“Excuse me? I’m sure she’s perfect, but what’s her name?”

“Why, I just said it, Reverend. Perfect. Her name’s Perfect!”

The crowd muttered its confusion. Miss Mamie cackled and whispered into her comrade’s ear, “Didn’t I tell you that bitch was crazy?”

Reverend Lindsey looked at Gus, who looked more disturbed than the audience. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” he said.

Emma Jean became incensed. “Is something wrong, Pastor?” She studied his frown, then examined the faces of her neighbors.

“Um . . . no, I guess not,” Reverend Lindsey stammered. “It’s just that I’ve never heard of anyone named Perfect, so it seems a little strange, I must admit. I mean, nobody’s truly perfect but the Good Lawd, so—”

“Well, somebody is now. My baby girl. And that’s her name.” Emma Jean’s eyes pierced Reverend Lindsey’s.

“I see,” he said, and paused. “Perfect. Perfect . . . Peace.”

“That’s right!” Emma Jean declared.

“I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” Gus repeated, embarrassed. “By the time I seed her, Emma Jean had done already named her.”