Perfect Peace (28 page)

“Oh, just get out, Henrietta! I’m tired of everybody comin’ in here, actin’ like they concerned. I ain’t no fool.”

Henrietta turned. “Fine. I’ll go. But I get a feeling that, when we meet again, you gon’ be
way
more sorry than you is now. We might be dead, but we gon’ meet again. You believe that!”

“Oh, whatever!” Emma Jean mumbled as Henrietta left. “I ain’t scared o’ you!” And she really wasn’t. Not yet.

Three weeks later, Emma Jean was as close to her old self as she ever would be. She could only sit for a few minutes at a time, and lying on her back was out of the question. Gus relegated her to the floor again, and, like before, she reclined on her stomach without complaint. She never slept more than two or three hours a night, catnapping as often as she could during the day. That’s what she hated most—the fact that she wasn’t as functional as she’d once been. She felt old now. Her normally elegant, graceful stride had deteriorated to a slow, self-conscious gait, and she absolutely hated that, for comfort, she had to walk with a slight slump of frame.
But oh well
, she rationalized.
At least I’m alive.

During Emma Jean’s recovery, Paul began slopping hogs, chopping wood, and digging holes for fence posts. His once-soft hands became calloused and bruised, but he didn’t dare whine. He told Mister that he despised physical labor, and Mister advised him to keep his opinion to himself. Sweat drenched his brow daily and his back ached constantly, but he never said anything to Gus. What would have been the point? This was a man’s life, Gus had made him believe, so Paul had no choice but to live it.

He sneaked away one evening and met Eva Mae, who led him to a grassy expanse near the Jordan.

“Ain’t this pretty?” she said.

“Un-huh.”

“I come here a lot. By myself.”

“Your momma don’t care?”

“Naw, she don’t care. She don’t even know.”

Paul surveyed the endless sea of clovers. They looked like tiny green trees, he thought.

“I sit on that stump over there.” She pointed and led the way. The two shared the seat.

“I can hear the Jordan,” Paul said.

“I know. It sounds angry, huh? Like God crying or something.”

Paul watched a robin build a nest, one straw at a time, and wished he could help. It would take the bird a year to finish, wouldn’t it?

“I want a real husband one day,” Eva Mae said out of nowhere.

Paul continued studying the bird.

“A real handsome man who loves me. My momma talks about it all the time. She said if she could do it over again, she’d wait for one.”

“Don’t she think yo’ daddy’s handsome?”

“I don’t know. I guess so. A little bit. But I think she means
real
handsome, you know. Like the men in the Sears and Roebuck catalog.”

“Oh.”

“Like you gon’ be. When you grow up. I can tell. You gon’ be real handsome.”

“How you know?”

“’Cause you pretty now. I mean, I know you a boy and all, but you still pretty. At least to me.” Eva Mae smiled.

“You think so?”

“Un-huh.”

“Well, you pretty, too.”

Eva Mae shook her head. “No I ain’t.”

“Whatcha mean? Sure you are.”

“No I ain’t. And it’s okay.”

“I think you are.”

“No you don’t,” Eva Mae said. “You ain’t neva said it before.”

Paul couldn’t argue.

“And, anyway, my momma don’t say it, so I know it ain’t so. If you pretty, yo’ momma’s the first one to tell you. Didn’t Miss Emma Jean say you was pretty back when you was a girl?”

“Yep.”

“Well that’s how I know.”

Paul didn’t try to convince her otherwise.

“We can meet here whenever you want. Nobody ever comes here.”

“Okay. I like it.” Paul strolled and appraised the couple’s new home. When he returned to the stump, Eva Mae said, “I want a nice husband, too. A man who’ll bring me flowers and stuff.”

Paul reflected on Authorly’s teachings. “I don’t know about that. As long as he works, he oughta be fine. I wouldn’t worry about that otha stuff if I was you.”

“Why can’t he work
and
bring me flowers?”

“ ’Cause ain’t no colored man got no time fo’ dat. He gotta work. Besides, you can’t have everything.”

Eva Mae suddenly felt selfish.

“Do yo’ daddy bring yo’ momma flowers?”

“No.”

“Mine, neither. So why you think yo’ husband gon’ bring you flowers?”

“I don’t know. I jes’ thought it would be nice.”

Paul kissed Eva Mae gently on the cheek. “Don’t worry. When you get old enough to marry, a real nice man might come along and bring you all kinds of flowers and stuff. You never know. But if he don’t, you can still live with him. Just like our mommas do. And they don’t complain.”

Paul’s comments disturbed Eva Mae’s vision. Her mother had told her never to settle—she shuddered at women like herself who had—for anything other than a beautiful, kind man. And by beautiful, she explained carefully, she didn’t mean simply his face. “You want a romantic man,” Mrs. Free had said, “one who understands the importance of love and giving a woman pretty things. Stay away from dumb, country niggas.” The problem was that all the men Eva Mae knew were country and, in her estimation, only a few weren’t dumb.

She began to hum a melody Paul didn’t know. It always started this way, with Eva Mae offering a lyrical libation before the sensuality commenced. Paul didn’t know if she borrowed the melodies from the radio or composed them herself, but he loved her rough contralto, the way notes tumbled around in her throat as though struggling through some deep, dark cave before release. Instinctually, he closed his eyes and followed Eva Mae’s voice, imagining each note as a soap bubble he could never quite contain. Yet Paul’s joy was chasing them nonetheless, and as Eva Mae’s hum crescendoed, he felt better than he’d felt in months.

“I’m not so sure about this,” he said as Eva Mae took his hand and pulled him onto the soft bed of clovers.

She nodded, but continued humming.

“What if somebody catches us?”

“Nobody ever comes here. Remember? I told you that already.” She resumed the song precisely where she’d left off.

Paul looked around as Eva Mae hummed softly into his ear. The melody shifted, from alto to falsetto soprano, and Paul marveled at Eva Mae’s vocal range. When she parted his legs with her own, he shivered a bit. Although they had done this umpteen times, Paul never participated without apprehension, and Eva Mae always knew what to moan to ease him across the fragile divide. Unable to face her, while grateful for her desire to please him, Paul usually closed his eyes and thanked God for having a best friend.

Eva Mae kissed his lips, then kissed her way south until, unzipping his fly slowly, she retrieved the miniature phallus. When her mouth embraced it, Paul took over as songster, trying his best to hum the melody exactly as Eva Mae had done. Eva Mae’s sporadic “Ummmms” harmonized with Paul’s voice, leaving him assured that his notes were correct and that his body was sweet and pleasurable. Occasionally Eva Mae looked up and asked, “You okay?” and Paul’s vigorous nodding encouraged her to go on. His grunting validated her performance and made her glad that he was now a boy.

Eva Mae stopped. “We better go.”

Paul covered himself and said, “Yeah.”

They stood. “Come on.” She brushed off the back of his pants. “Yo’ folks gon’ be callin’ for you in a minute.”

Together they ran until, from a distance, Paul saw Gus staring from the porch. “I think I’m in trouble,” he told Eva Mae.

She squeezed his hand quickly and ran home. Paul couldn’t think of a lie to explain his whereabouts, so he hung his head as he approached and waited for Gus to speak.

“Where you been, boy?” Gus said, looking above Paul’s head.

“I . . . um . . . was out playin’ with Eva Mae.” He hoped the truth might save him.

Gus’s left hand struck Paul’s neck so hard he crumpled to the ground. “You don’t play wit’ no girls, boy! Boys play wit’ boys!”

Bartimaeus heard Paul’s scream and came running. “What is it?”

“This don’t concern you, son.”

“What happened, Paul?”

“I said, this don’t conern you!”

Paul’s wailing made Bartimaeus call, “Authorly! Momma!”

“I ain’t gon’ have no goddamn sissy in my house!” Gus kicked Paul repeatedly. “You gon’ be a man if you gon’ live here!”

The blows sounded to Bartimaeus like an ax falling on a block of wood. “Authorly! Hurry!”

Blood oozed from Paul’s nose by the time the family appeared. Woody grabbed one of Gus’s arms and Authorly took the other. “Stop it, Gus! Stop it!” Emma Jean shouted.

“What’d he do, Daddy?” Authorly asked.

Gus continued kicking him. “You gon’ be a boy! You gon’ be a boy! You gon’ be a boy!” His voice faded as they pulled him away. James Earl knelt next to Paul and wept with him.

Sol lifted Paul from the earth and took him to the barn. Bartimaeus and Mister followed.

Paul’s moan was deep and full of pain.

“What happened?” Bartimaeus asked.

“I don’t know,” Sol said. He sat Paul on a pile of hay. “Get some alcohol and a bandage,” he told Mister while he leaned Paul’s head back and held a handkerchief to his nose.

“Paul?” Bartimaeus said. “You okay?” All he heard was sniffing and huffing. Bartimaeus covered his mouth to keep from crying.

Sol returned with Woody.

“You’re gonna be all right,” Woody said, tending Paul’s wounds and bruises. “Daddy didn’t mean to do that. You know he didn’t. He’s not like that.” Paul’s wailing became audible again.

“Then he didn’t have no business doin’ it!” Sol said. “You don’t treat yo’ own child that way!”

“Why don’t you just shut up!” Woody said. “This whole thing’s been really hard on him.”

“On him? What about on Paul?”

“He’s a kid! Kids adjust easier than grown folks!”

“Oh my God!” Sol said, tossing his arms. “You don’t know what it’s been like for this boy! It’s harder on him than any of us!”

“Well, what would you do if somethin’ like this happened to your son? Huh? You gon’ be all happy and smilin’ ’bout havin a boy switchin’ around like a damn girl?”

“It ain’t his fault, Woody!”

“I know that! But so what? It’s still the truth! How a man s’pose to be at peace with a son like
that
?” He pointed at Paul.

Sol shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Bartimaeus said, “Let’s just take care o’ Paul for right now, okay?”

Woody pressed a bandage against the cut on Paul’s forearm. “There. You’ll be all right.”

Sol sighed. “What happened?”

Paul peered into Sol’s eyes and explained, “I-I w-was playin’ w-with”—he sniffled several times—“Eva Mae d-d-down by the river and w-w-w-when I come home, Daddy started b-b-beatin’ me.”

Bartimaeus felt his way to Paul’s right side. Sol sat on the left.

“Why is you still playin’ with girls!” Woody asked with disgust.

“ ’Cause won’t no boys play with him!” Sol answered. “You seen any ’round here lookin’ for Paul?”

“I guess not!” Woody said, and stormed away.

“Listen,” Sol said, “I know this ain’t been easy for you, but you gotta hang in there.” He wiped tears from his little brother’s face. “This ain’t yo’ fault. Daddy just don’t know how to handle it.”

Paul whimpered.

“Just stay away from Eva Mae. I know she’s your friend and she means well and all, but for right now, just leave her alone.”

Sol and Mister accompanied Paul to the living room where Gus sat stupefied. Bartimaeus lingered on the porch.

“What’s wrong with you?” Authorly asked.

Bartimaeus hesitated.

“What is it?”

“I knew,” he said, shaking his head.

“You knew what?”

“Oh no,” Woody murmured.

“About Paul. I knew before Momma said anything.” Authorly’s hot breath brushed his face.

“Then why didn’t you say somethin’!”

“ ’Cause I didn’t understand it. It didn’t make sense to me then.”

“How’d you know?” Woody asked.

Bartimaeus chuckled uncomfortably. “Paul made me feel it one day, and I hollered ’cause I couldn’t believe it. I promised myself I wouldn’t say nothin’.”

“Then this is yo’ fault, too!” Authorly said.

“I know, but I didn’t know what to do.”

“You could’ve at least told us,” Woody said. “Then we woulda knowed and maybe we coulda made this situation better.”

“You’re a liar!” Authorly shouted. He would’ve hit Bartimaeus had he not been blind.

“It just didn’t make sense, so I didn’t say nothin’.”

“That’s why you’re a liar!”

“Come on, man,” Woody said. “Ain’t no need in blamin’ him. He didn’t do it.”