Perfect Peace (15 page)

“Really, Momma?”

“Really. And remember what I said: take good care of her. Most little Negro girls in Swamp Creek ain’t never had no baby doll, and they sho ain’t had no new one.”

“I love you, Momma!” Perfect embraced Emma Jean’s waist tightly. “You the best momma in the whole wide world!”

Emma Jean kissed Perfect’s head. “You welcome, sweetie. Ain’t nothin’ too good for my baby girl. Now run on and play and let me get breakfast ready.”

The boys were putting on coats in preparation for morning chores.

“Put somethin’ on y’all heads!” Emma Jean hollered. “I don’t want nobody barkin’ ’round here tonight.”

Perfect went to her room to get dressed. She sat the doll upon her bed and smiled.

“Since you my baby now, I guess I’ll have to give you a name.”

The doll held a constant grin, as though frozen in merriment. Perfect contemplated names as she removed her housecoat and slipped into one of her good Sunday dresses. “Let’s see,” she murmured, mocking her mother’s verbal drama. “I don’t know a lotta names, but there’s gotta be one . . .” She lay in the middle of the bed, facing the doll. “How ’bout . . . um . . . Josey?” Perfect quickly frowned. The doll didn’t like it. “Okay. Well, what about . . . Ella?” The doll didn’t like that one, either. Perfect laid her down, then rolled onto her back, thinking aloud. “Corine’s pretty, but it’s for old ladies, huh? Yeah, I know. Margaret’s okay, too, but I don’t really like it. Not really.” Then it hit her. “Olivia! That’s what I’ll call you.” The doll seemed to like it. “That’s the woman’s name on the radio show. She sounds really pretty. And white. Just like you.”

Perfect ran to Gus, who was filling his pipe. “Guess what, Daddy?”

“What is it, honey?”

“Guess what her name is?” Perfect extended the doll to Gus.

He chuckled. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I ain’t neva named no girl before.”

“It’s Olivia!” She bounced on her toes. “She likes that name, and so do I!”

“All right, then Olivia it is.” Gus handed the doll back.

“But I wanna ask you somethin’, Daddy.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think Olivia’s a pretty name?”

“Well, I guess so. Sounds all right to me.”

Perfect scowled. “But do you think it’s pretty?”

Gus scooped Perfect and sat her on his lap. “It’s a mighty pretty name, honey.” He tickled her until she screamed for mercy.

“Then I have another question, Daddy.”

Gus’s patience was thinning. “Yes?”

“Can we put her name in the Bible?”

“I don’t think so, baby. De Bible is for real. It ain’t nothin’ to play with.”

“But Olivia
is
real. I mean, I know she ain’t livin’ and stuff, but she’s a real baby doll, and now she got a real name.”

Gus hesitated. “Tell you what. Let’s put her name on your wall. Then, she can see it every day.”

“Okay!”

The two entered Perfect’s room and Gus retrieved his pocketknife. “Where you wanna put it?”

“Um . . .” Perfect surveyed each wall, then pointed to an area just above the bedpost. “Let’s put it there, Daddy. That way, she’ll see it every morning when she wakes up!”

“All right.”

Gus moved the bed and would’ve commenced carving except that he couldn’t spell “Olivia.” “Emma Jean!”

“What is it?”

“Come give me a hand.”

Emma Jean suggested that she do the carving since she was the speller, but Gus wouldn’t hear of it. “Perfect asked
me,
so I’m gon’ do it. Just tell me the letters. I cain’t spell too good, but I ain’t no dummy, neither.”

Choosing not to embarrass him in front of Perfect, she relented. “Ooooooo, llllllll, iiiiiiiii, vvvvvvvvvvv, iiiiiiiiiiiii, aaaaaaaaaaa,” holding each letter’s sound long enough for Gus to remember its shape, until, finally, he had it carved into the wall.

“There,” Gus said. “Now she’ll never forget.”

“Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, Momma.” Emma Jean smiled and returned to the kitchen. Gus went to check on the boys.

Perfect leapt upon the bed with Olivia in her arms. “There’s your name right there.” She stood on the pillows—defying another of Emma Jean’s rules—and rubbed her small fingers across Gus’s carving. “Olivia,” she sighed as though the name were divine. “You’re my best friend now, so we have to tell each other everything, okay?” She lowered herself to the edge of the bed. “And I guess I need to do somethin’ with that head o’ yours.” The words didn’t make sense, since Olivia’s hair was straight, but Emma Jean’s example of motherhood was all Perfect knew. She got a brush from the top drawer of the small, two-drawer dresser and sat Olivia between her chunky thighs. As she stroked Olivia’s golden hair, she said, “I cain’t have you walkin’ ’round here lookin’ like you crazy. Folks gon’ think I ain’t raisin’ you right.” Olivia’s head jerked with each stroke of the brush. “Be still, girl! This is for yo’ own good. Don’t you wanna be pretty?” Olivia appeared to comply. “Then sit still so I can finish.”

Perfect rubbed the doll’s hair with envy. She wished her hair was like that: soft, silky, easy to brush. Maybe then Emma Jean wouldn’t make her cry when she did her hair. It was always an ordeal, as Emma Jean pulled and tugged Perfect’s hair like one shucking summer corn, then drove the comb into her scalp with the same force as Gus driving the plow. Eventually, Perfect’s hair was divided into four quadrants of bushy, chocolate brown Negro hair, as Emma Jean called it. She resisted words like “kinky” and “nappy,” having promised herself as a child never to speak such negativity to her own daughter, but now she understood that the words carried some truth. Perfect’s hair was so thick that, as soon as she untangled one portion, it retangled as Emma Jean untangled another. Usually, she simply plaited it as a tangled mass, grateful that it coiled enough to look neat. Perfect hated the nightly ritual. As soon as the sun descended, Emma Jean would call, “Perfect! Come on here!” and the child’s head would began to ache and she’d weep in anticipation of the pain. But it had to be done. Perfect understood that. She liked how, at the end of the ritual, Gus and the boys smiled at her. Sometimes they took turns touching her heavily greased hair like one might touch the fur of a rare beast. Emma Jean warned them not to mess it up, but she didn’t discourage the admiration. That was proof that her little girl was beautiful and that’s what Emma Jean had always wanted.

“Now!” Perfect said, turning Olivia to face her. “You just as pretty as you can be.” She kissed the doll’s rosy cheeks. “Let’s see if breakfast is ready.”

Perfect bounced off the bed and skipped to the kitchen with Olivia dangling by one arm. She smelled a combination of biscuits and bacon, so she knew they’d eat soon.

“Look at how you carryin’ her, Perfect!” Emma Jean scolded. “I told you to take care of her!”

“I am takin’ care of her!” Perfect pouted. “What’d I do?”

“You swingin’ her by the arm. That ain’t no way to care for no baby. Babies is delicate and gotta be handled real gentle. You’ll pull her arm off that way.”

“Oh,” Perfect said, lifting Olivia to her bosom.

“I woulda done anything for a doll like that when I was a little girl,” Emma Jean said, retrieving biscuits from the oven.

“Grandma didn’t never buy you one?” Perfect asked, and took a seat at the table.

“Chile, no! Momma wunnit spendin’ no money on no baby doll. Not for me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, let’s just say we didn’t get along too good.”

“Why not?”

Emma Jean placed bacon and homemade jelly on the table. “ ’Cause I wunnit as pretty as you.” She tried to smile.

“But I bet you was pretty though.”

Emma Jean thought of all the Christmases she and Pearlie and Gracie had dashed to the tree, only to find small paper bags of apples, oranges, and peppermint. One year, a large box rested beneath the tree and the girls spent days trying to guess what it was. There was no name on it, so they couldn’t figure out whom it belonged to. Christmas morning, Mae Helen told them, “It’s for all o’ y’all. Open it together.” Emma Jean waited as her sisters ripped open the wrapping.

“Momma!” Pearlie shouted. “A baby doll!” She rocked it like it was real.

“Share it with your sister,” Mae Helen said. “And let Emma Jean see it, too.”

Pearlie passed the tall stiff doll to Gracie, then, seconds later, asked for it back. “It ain’t yours!” Gracie said. “Momma told us to share!”

“That’s right! And that’s what I mean. I’ll take it back if y’all don’t know how to act.”

Gracie returned the doll to Pearlie. “You gotta give it back in a minute. Momma said so.” They drifted into the bedroom.

“You can play with it, too,” Mae Helen told Emma Jean. “Just don’t hog it from your sisters.”

“It’s okay, Momma. They can have it.”

“What chu mean, ‘they can have it’?” She mocked Emma Jean’s pitiable voice. “You don’t like it? You think you too good for a baby doll?”

“Oh, no ma’am. I like it. I like it a lot. It’s just that I don’t wanna fight over it.”

“You ain’t gotta fight over nothin’. I bought the damn thing and I’ll take it back if y’all don’t know how to share.”

Emma Jean knew Mae Helen had really bought the doll for Gracie and Pearlie. They had asked for it. Emma Jean hadn’t asked for anything, trying desperately to save herself the disappointment. They’d never share with her anyway, she knew, and Mae Helen would absolutely never deny them for Emma Jean’s sake. “Suit yo’self,” Mae Helen said, and went to join Gracie and Pearlie in the bedroom. Sitting alone, Emma Jean ate the apple from her fruit bag, then ate Gracie’s and Pearlie’s, too.

“Do you think Olivia’s a pretty name, Momma?” Perfect asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“I sure do.”

“Wanna know where I got it from?”

“Yep.”

Perfect squirmed with excitement. “I heard it on the radio.” She bounced Olivia on her lap. “Remember that show that comes on on Saturday nights? The one that Daddy likes?”

Emma Jean couldn’t recall.

“You know, Momma! The one with the man and woman who always be fussin’.”

“Oh yeah!”

“Well, Olivia’s the woman’s name.”

“Shonuff?”

“Yes, ma’am. And I kinda picture her with hair like this. I really like the name. It sounds so pretty.”

“Your name’s pretty, too. Why didn’t you name her Perfect?”

Perfect shrugged. “ ’Cause then there’d be two perfect little girls and that wouldn’t be good.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause it’s better if it’s only one. Then nobody’s confused about who’s
really
Perfect.”

Emma Jean howled. “Girl, you a mess! I don’t know what I’m gon’ do with you.” She called the boys in for breakfast.

When Mister saw the doll again, his envy resurfaced. “She’s ugly anyway,” he whispered nastily into Perfect’s ear.

“You shut up!” Perfect muttered.

“Ugly, ugly, ugly,” Mister mouthed.

“Momma! Mister said Olivia’s ugly.”

“All right now,” Gus said. “Be quiet ’til Authorly says the blessing.”

Authorly sat at the foot of the table, opposite Gus, as though he were the other provider. “Lord, we thank You for this food and for lettin’ us see another Christmas mornin’. Help us to be grateful for what we have and not to wish for what other people have. Amen.”

“Amen,” others said, and began to eat.

“Who’s Olivia anyway?” Authorly asked, piling biscuits on his plate.

“This is Olivia,” Perfect said, holding up the doll. “And she’s pretty!”

Mister shook his head.

“Yes, she is!” Perfect cried. “Ain’t she, Momma?”

“Of course she’s pretty, honey. Don’t pay Mister no mind.” Emma Jean gave Mister a stern glance.

He wanted to yank the doll from Perfect’s lap and rip it apart, one limb at a time. Of course Gus would’ve killed him. That’s the only reason he didn’t do it. He hated the stiff, stationary smile she wore and the thin, yellow hair that looked like corn silk. The more he thought of Olivia, the more enraged he became. Why did Perfect always get everything? None of her clothes were hand-me-downs like his were. Obviously Emma Jean loved Perfect more than she loved the boys, Mister concluded. That was the only explanation he could conceive. But why was she special just because she was a girl? What was so special about girls? Weren’t boys special, too? At least some of them?

“Eat yo’ breakfast befo’ you git in trouble,” Authorly murmured. He had watched Mister stare at Olivia. “Don’t worry about that ole doll. We’ll play outside in the snow after we eat.”

Mister obeyed, grateful that at least someone understood. He still hated Olivia though, and he began constructing ways to destroy her.

“How come I cain’t play with Mister and the other boys?” Perfect whined from the yard.

“ ’Cause you a lady,” Emma Jean said, stomping each word into the front porch. “And ladies ain’t got no business rollin’ ’round in de dirt wit’ no boys. A lady is s’pose to stay clean and pretty.”