Perfect Peace (29 page)

“But he knew! And when Momma told us, he acted like he didn’t. At least he didn’t say nothin’. I’m sick o’ this shit!”

“I’m sorry, Authorly. You right. I didn’t mean to lie though. I just thought it was Momma or Daddy’s place to tell it. If anybody said anything at all.”

“You might be blind, but you ain’t stupid! That’s yo’ little brother, too!”

“I know, I know! But what was I s’pose to do?”

“You was s’pose to tell me! I coulda done somethin’ to make this a little easier.”

“Like what?”

“Hell, I don’t know, but I woulda thought o’ somethin’.”

“It’s too late now,” Woody said.

“Yeah, it is, all because
somebody
didn’t think enough of the rest of this family to tell the truth.”

“I’m sorry, y’all. I’m real sorry. I never thought it would come to this.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t’ve if you had been man enough to tell the truth!” Authorly stormed into the house.

“You know how he is,” Woody said. “He’ll be all right.”

Bartimaeus nodded. Authorly wasn’t the brother he was worried about.

Gus said nothing the remainder of the evening. On his way to bed, he paused in the center of the living room, and, without looking at Paul, said, “Sorry,” and proceeded into the bedroom, closing the door softly.

Emma Jean was already on the floor. Gus slung his overalls across the foot-post and reclined.

“Gus, you didn’t have to do the boy like that. He’s doin’ the best he can.”

Gus grunted.

“I know this is all my fault.”

“It sho is.”

“But don’t take it out on the boy. He’s just as sweet as he can be.”

“Yeah,” Gus murmured. “That’s the problem.”

Emma Jean waited. “You had every right to beat me. I cain’t argue with that. But you didn’t have no right to beat him. He gon’ change with time. It ain’t gon’ happen overnight.”

“I know that.”

“Then what chu beatin’ him for?”

Gus couldn’t explain it. “I ain’t been right since all this happened. I shoulda gone to the river.”

“Well, I ain’t in that, but ain’t no need in you makin’ that boy pay for what I done. Just give him time.”

“He was playin’ with that little Free girl, and I done told him about that.”

“Gus, he been knowin’ her all his life. She ain’t gon’ disappear just ’cause he’s a boy now.”

“I don’t need her to disappear. I need him to find some boys to play wit’.”

“Ain’t none! His own brothers don’t wanna fool with him, so what make you think some other boys gon’ play with him?”

“I don’t know.”

Gus reclined heavily and studied the ceiling. He couldn’t figure out what was happening to him. He hated violence—always had—and now he was its perpetrator?

“And why would you kick the boy like he some stray dog or somethin’? Kick me if you want to, but yo’ own son?”

Emma Jean heard the sheets rustle, but Gus never responded.

“It’s been a couple of months now, and you and Authorly don’t do nothin’ but torture the child. I know he gotta grow up to be a man, but that don’t mean y’all gotta treat him like he ain’t worth nothin’.” She thought of herself at his age, facedown in the chicken coop. “Don’t no child deserve that, Gus.”

He asked God to forgive him.

“You ain’t said two words to the boy since all this happened. I know it’s hard, baby, and I ain’t neva been mo’ sorry about nothin’ in my life, but it’s done now. You might not be smart, but you ain’t neva been mean, and ain’t no need in startin’ now. He cain’t help who he is. Or what he is. He gon’ always be different, but he’s still our child.”

Gus rose, slid into his overalls, and went to the living room. In the dark,
he stood over Paul, lying on the cot between Mister and Sol, and almost reached to touch him. However, fearing the overflow of his heart, he stood there, like a ghost, unable to love the son he had adored as a daughter. Paul had heard his footsteps and now lay still, afraid that the slightest movement might rekindle Gus’s fury and provoke him to beat him again. His father’s presence was heavier than the quilt, and all Paul could do was pray the old man would go away.

Gus turned and ran into the front yard. Most of his tears were restrained, but a few broke free, running hard and fast down his scaly, razor-bumped cheeks. He wanted to love the boy, but his heart wouldn’t allow it. Whenever he thought of Paul, he thought of the daughter he used to kiss on the lips, and the memory made him nauseous.

Peeking from behind the living room curtain, Paul watched Gus flail his arms wildly in the moonlight as though fighting someone he couldn’t see. Paul couldn’t discern what Gus was saying, but he heard snippets of “but why me?” and “how am I supposed to . . .” as Gus struck the air angrily.
He must be fighting God,
Paul thought. Who else could it be? God was the only one Who could’ve stopped this, and since He didn’t, Gus was probably angry with Him, Paul concluded. He looked like he was giving God a piece of his mind and God was trying not to hear it.

With each swing, Gus stumbled, failing to make contact. Most of his expletives, which Paul heard as grunts and shrieks, were unintelligible, but Paul knew the battle was about him. At times he found himself rooting for Gus, wanting to believe that human flesh could actually overpower the spirit, and other times he hoped God would win and show Gus, finally, how to love him again. Either way, Paul knew for sure that a man couldn’t fight God and come out unscathed.

“I ain’t gon’ let go ’til You explain this to me!” Paul heard Gus shout to the heavens. He could hardly make out his father’s form in the dark. “You gon’ tell me somethin’ right now!”

The sight frightened Paul, so he retracted from the window and resumed his place between his brothers. He didn’t know exactly what Gus had asked for, but he believed his life would be easier if God granted it, so he mumbled, “Fix Daddy’s heart, God. Please.”

A half hour later, Gus returned, panting, dragging a disjointed hip, and hobbled to the master bedroom. He would never walk fully upright again. The hip was frozen, refusing to shift or swivel, causing Gus to lean slightly in
compensation for its stubbornness. Whenever people asked what happened, he said, “Me and God had it out.” Only Sugar Baby knew the full story.

Emma Jean stirred when Gus reentered. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“I ain’t upset,” Gus said, sliding out of his overalls again. “You can come back to bed if you want to.”

Emma Jean didn’t hesitate. She rose, folded the battered quilt, laid it at the foot of the bed, and thanked God her days on that cold floor were over. She believed erroneously that Gus had searched his heart and found the strength to forgive her. Actually he felt guilty that he couldn’t love an innocent—and effeminate—son, so much so that he would kick the shit out of him. So how could he punish Emma Jean? He couldn’t even promise that, given a similar circumstance, he wouldn’t beat the boy again, so he had no choice, he felt, but to welcome Emma Jean back to her original resting place. Of course the devil in hell couldn’t make him touch her—sometimes erections came when he thought of other women, but when Emma Jean crossed his mind, he immediately went limp—so Gus resolved to try to be kind, at least until the rains came again.

“I think he oughta go to school,” Emma Jean said softly. “He ain’t no good at field work. You said so yourself. Education’s ’bout the only chance he gon’ have to make somethin’ outta hisself.”

Gus frowned in the dark, rubbing his sore hip. “I can’t send but one to school. I need all the help I can get in the field. We gotta eat.”

Authorly’s and Woody’s education had ended after the eighth grade. They didn’t complain. In fact, Authorly was glad. He never understood its utility anyway, especially since he knew he’d live out the entirety of his days farming in Swamp Creek. Woody simply hated homework, so he offered no resistance. James Earl’s going would have been a colossal waste of time, his parents agreed, so he never missed what he never had. Mister wasn’t moved by knowledge one way or the other, although Miss Erma said he was smart, so Emma Jean didn’t mind him going to the field. It was King Solomon who’d have a fit when they told him he had to quit.

“What you gon’ tell that boy?” Gus asked. “Seem like he oughta go to school if anybody go. He de smart one.”

“Paul’s smart, too. And, anyway, Sol know how to work. He’ll be more help in the field than Paul ever will be.”

Gus paused. “All right. But you gon’ tell him. He gon’ be mad, too.”

“I know.” Emma Jean sighed. “Ump, ump, ump. But it’s for the best. He’ll understand. One day.”

Gus rose before dawn the next morning and said, “Mister, you and Paul go down to Morrison’s and get a bag o’ feed for the cows. Don’t let it take you boys all day.”

This was what Paul had dreaded—the insensitive eyes of his neighbors, scrutinizing him, whispering, and asking him things he couldn’t possibly know. But to disobey Gus would’ve been worse, so he grabbed his hat and followed Mister down the road. Along the way, Paul convinced himself that it was no big deal anymore, since everyone knew, but he had horribly underestimated the fears and curiosity of those who didn’t understand.

From a distance, a group of old men, sitting on a worn church pew in front of the store, looked up as the boys approached.

“That’s him right there,” Stump murmured. Though he was born James Edwards Jr., folks called him Stump because at five foot three he stopped growing vertically and started growing horizontally. In his younger years, people called him stout. Now, after seventy-odd years, they called him big as a house. An unlit pipe protruded from the right corner of his mouth. “He don’t look like no boy to me. You ever seen a boy twist like that?”

Charles Simmons, chairman of the trustee board at St. Matthew, shook his head sadly. He’d had a son
like that
, he remembered. Thirty years ago. Before he sent him away forever. “That chile ain’t gon’ never be right. You mark my word.”

The other men agreed.

When Mister and Paul were within earshot, the men quieted. Paul felt their eyes on him like one feels a cold draft in the dark. They nodded cordially as
the boys passed, and Paul tried to smile, hoping the gesture might soften their critique. The moment they thought he’d disappeared, they continued:

“That boy is sweet as sugar! Shit! I don’t know what Gus gon’ do with him,” Stump said.

Paul was standing just inside the screen door, listening.

“I don’t know, either, but I’m glad it ain’t me. I couldn’t have nothin’ like that in my house.” Charles spit tobacco into the road. “Gus need to send that child off somewhere.”

“What good would that do?”

“A whole lot! Least folk ’round here wouldn’t have to look at him every day.”

“Well, maybe Gus is tougher than we thought. But I’m like you—I couldn’t take it.” His face grimaced as if he’d suddenly smelled something dead. “I can take a whole lot o’ things, but I can’t stand no punk. And that boy gon’ be a punk the rest o’ his life. That’s for sure. Ain’t nothin’ else he
can
be.”

“Well, not necessarily,” Charles teased. “He might get some pussy one day. That’ll straighten him out!”

The men hollered.

“Sheeeeeeit! You must be crazy, man. Pussy is good shonuff, but it ain’t magical.”

“The hell it ain’t! First time I got a piece, it left me cross-eyed for a week.”

The men howled as they slapped each other’s palms.

“Yeah, I guess you right.” Stump chuckled. “Been so long since I had some, I guess I done forgot what it’s like.”

“No siree!” Charles said. “If you done forgot what it’s like, then you ain’t neva had none! Pussy’s kinda like God—it’s too good to forget!”

“But what woman you know gon’ open her legs for a ole sissified boy like
that
?”

“You never know! Some women is desperate.”

“They ain’t that damn desperate! If a woman give that boy some pussy, it’s ’cause she like pussy herself!”

Charles collapsed across the other men as they screamed with laughter. Then he lifted a limp wrist and said, in a high falsetto, “But, Stump, I think you’s mighty cute.”

“Don’t start no shit wit’ me, Charles Simmons! You know I don’t play like that! Hell, I believes in God.”

The men cackled gleefully as Paul tried not to cry.

“I think it’s a damn shame what that woman did,” Stump said. “If it was me, I woulda beat that bitch ’til they had to call the law on me! Then I woulda set her crazy ass on fire, too!”

“You think Gus set her on fire?”

“I don’t know, but I sho woulda! When I got through with her, she woulda been runnin’ up and down the road hollerin’ like she was in hell.”

Paul covered his mouth as the men snickered.

“I sho hope don’t no man mess with that boy,” Charles said. “You know you can’t put nothin’ past Negroes these days.”

Paul walked away. He’d heard enough. The men’s laughter lingered like smoke. He kept looking back over his shoulder, wondering how in the world they could be so mean. He wanted to cry, but he wanted more not to, so he browsed the shelves and tried to forget what he’d heard. He knew the men and they knew him. That’s what really hurt. Some of them were church officials, and others had visited the Peace home on several occasions. It just didn’t make sense to Paul that those who had once smiled at him, who had taught him Sunday school and prayed until they wept, were now making fun of him. And they had absolutely no shame about it.