Perfect Peace (42 page)

“Hi,” she whispered through the screen.

Her hair was freshly pressed and pulled back into a ponytail. She might be the prettiest girl in Swamp Creek, Paul thought.

“Hey there.”

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No, I guess not.” He rubbed his head nervously. “I just thought I’d come by and see if maybe, um, you might like to go to the dance with me.” He prepared himself for rejection.

“Okay,” she said, smiling, “but you’ll have to ask my daddy. You wanna come in?”

“Um, sure.”

Paul followed her to the family room. “Good evening, Mr. Frank,” he said, and nodded. “Miss Julia.”

The couple looked up, but offered no greeting. Dressed as though expecting serious company, they eyed each other, then Frank Cunningham stood. “What can we do for you, boy?” He never extended his monstrous hand. That’s how Paul knew something was wrong. He wanted to leave, but there was no turning back now.

“I, um, came by to see if, um, maybe y’all might let Christina go to the school dance with me.”

Julia looked away.

“I ain’t got nothin’ ’gainst you, son, but I cain’t lie to ya. I done heard lot o’ stuff ’bout you that don’t make me very comfortable.”

“He’s real nice, Daddy.”

“I ain’t talkin’ to you right now, honey. This between me and this boy here.”

Paul wished Authorly was there. Or Sol. “Well, sir, um, I don’t really know what to tell you.”

“Well, tell me this first: is you really a boy?”

“Frank!” Julia snapped.

“I’m gon’ ask what I need to ask. If my daughter leave here on a date, I want it to be with a
boy
!”

Paul’s eyes watered, but he maintained composure. “I am a boy, Mr. Frank. I always been one, and I’m always gon’ be one.”

“Well, that’s good.” Frank resumed his seat. “At least that’s a start. Sit down.”

Paul and Christina sat in chairs opposite her parents on the sofa. Julia almost smiled at Paul, but thought it better to remain neutral.

“I ain’t one to pay much attention to rumors,” Frank said, “but all this talk ’bout you bein’ a sissy—”

“Frank Cunningham, stop it! You ain’t got no right judgin’ this boy befo’ you talk to him.”

“Well, hell, I’m tryin’ to talk to him now, but you keep interruptin’ me!”

“You ain’t
talkin’
to him, babe. You sayin’ what you heard about him. Talkin’ to him mean he get to talk back.”

Paul liked Miss Julia. She was even prettier than Christina.

Frank sighed. “I’m sorry, son. I don’t mean to be rude. I just wanna know whoever my daughter leave my house with.”

“Yessir. I understand. You can ask me whatever you want.” He hoped the man didn’t ask to see him naked.

“He’s a good boy, Daddy. He’s real nice.”

“It’s okay,” Paul said to Christina. “It’s really okay.”

Julia gave Frank the eye.

“What kinda boy is you?”

“Frank . . .”

“I’m just askin’ him what he do!”

“I go to school, sir, and I work in the field with Daddy when I get home. I work real hard and my grades is pretty good. You know my folks.”

“I do. I likes ole Gus.”

“Well, he’ll tell you ’bout me if you ask him.”

“I ain’t talkin’ to him. I’m talkin’ to you. A young man’s gotta speak for hisself.”

“Yessir.” Sweat trickled down Paul’s back.

“What’s yo’ intentions wit’ my daughter?”

“I don’t really have no intentions, sir. I just wanna take her to the dance, if that’s all right with you and Miss Julia.”

Julia nodded.

“Do you know anything about a lady?”

Paul smirked.
Are you kidding?
“Yessir, I do. My momma taught me real good.”

“You know to keep your hands off a young lady, right?”

“Yessir.”

“And you know to have her home by a decent hour?”

“Yessir.”

“And you know that girls don’t kiss on the first date?”

“Frank . . .”

“Would you let me handle this, woman, please?”

“Don’t pay him no mind, son.”

“He better pay me some mind! Shit. I ain’t playin’!”

Christina intervened. “I’d like to go with him, Daddy. If it’s okay with you and Momma.”

“I know you would, baby, but a man don’t give his daughter away easily.”

“I ain’t takin’ her away, sir. We just wanna go to the dance together. That’s all. I’ll treat her real good, and I’ll be real mannerable.”

“He’s a fine boy, Frank. Let ’em go.”

Frank hesitated. “All right. Y’all can go. But you better have my daughter back in this house before eleven o’clock. You hear me?”

“Oh yessir! We’ll be back.”

Christina beamed. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“We’d love if you’d stay for dinner,” Julia said after hugging Paul.

“Thank you, ma’am, but Momma’s expecting me, and I still got my chores to do.”

“Then we’ll see you in a few weeks.”

Christina walked Paul to the door and onto the porch.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Oh sure. I think the dance’ll be fun.”

“I mean, thanks for asking me.”

Was he feeling the tingling sensation? “You welcome. And thank
you
for going with me.”

Paul looked up and saw Frank staring from the living room. He turned back to Christina. “I’ll see you at school. Bye.”

Christina waved sweetly.

At home, Paul relayed the event to Emma Jean, who exploded with fury. “Who does that nigga think he is? He don’t have no right questionin’ you like that!” The old burn scars itched as though she were on fire again. “Wait ’til I see him Sunday!”

Gus laughed. “You did good, boy.”

“It’s fine, Momma. He said we can go.”

“He better had! I cain’t stand them damn Cunninghams. They always thinkin’ they better than somebody else. He need to buy his momma a new wig so she can stop wearin’ that old matted thang on first Sunday ’cause—”

“Emma Jean, please.”

“I ain’t mad at him, Momma. Everything’s fine.”

Emma Jean gasped suddenly.

“What is it?” Gus asked.

This was the moment she’d been waiting for since Paul’s transformation. She saw it clearly.

“We gotta find you somethin’ to wear.”

“I’ll just wear one o’ Woody’s preachin’ suits, I guess.”

“Oh no you ain’t! You ain’t wearin’ none o’ them tired things so Mamie can talk about you and this family the rest of her livin’ days!”

“I ain’t got nothin’ else to wear.”

“I know, but we’ll find you somethin’. Trust me. You gon’ be the handsomest young man at the dance. I”—she tapped her chest—“am gon’ guarantee that!”

Emma Jean spent the next several days thumbing Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalogs for the perfect suit. Her plan was to replicate it on the old sewing machine, since Gus would have died had she mentioned purchasing it outright. She had waited years for the opportunity to redeem herself, and finally it had come.

“That’s it!” she shouted one Friday afternoon. “Oh wow. It’s gorgeous.” What she liked most was that the suit was modeled by a black man. She had never seen a Negro model in a magazine before. He was light enough to pass for white, but he was still black. On top of that, the suit was beautiful. It was a three-piece, navy blue, pin-striped Stanley Becker. She could see her neighbors, in her mind, gawking in awe and envy, and that’s precisely what she wanted. For Paul’s sake. Whatever they’d said about him, they’d feel bad when they saw him draped in princely attire. At six foot one, he was the ideal height for a suit, and even Mamie would have to admit that Paul had evolved into one of Swamp Creek’s gems. Somewhere between fifteen and sixteen, his brows had thickened as his chest broadened, and the field labor had worked the last vestiges of baby fat from his waistline. Whiskers sprouted from his chin like newly planted blades of grass after a rain, and whenever Authorly cut Paul’s hair and shaped his burgeoning mustache, Miss Mamie declared, “Ump! That ole sissified boy done turned into a handsome young man after all! Face just as smooth and clear! Cain’t even tell that somebody beat him to a pulp last year. Well praise de Lawd!”

Emma Jean studied the image of the suit, trying hard to note every detail. She wasn’t a seamstress—in fact, she’d never made anything—but she
believed
she could. If anyone could do it, she could. Right? She’d certainly need to take her time because, more than ever, she wanted a flawless product. That would let folks know that she was Emma Jean Peace, and she didn’t half-do anything.

It took her hours to cut out newspaper pieces that she hoped to use as a pattern for her masterpiece. How she’d afford the cloth was another dilemma. She couldn’t very well use the money in the coffer, for then the family would starve the next six months, and without Authorly, Sol, and James Earl, harvest hands had become scarce. But she’d get it somehow. Paul deserved the best, and she intended for him to have it. She had watched him mope around for years, unsure of himself, surrendering to immeasurable ridicule while trying, though failing, to please everybody. Now, he’d be back on top again. Yes, she’d find the money. If she had to pick cotton again, which she swore she’d never do, she’d do it, she told herself.

The suit didn’t appear difficult to make, except for the jacket lapels and buttons. She was a little nervous about the shoulders, too, believing correctly that to be off an inch or two in the cutting would mean disaster for the final garment. And how in the world did one get a zipper in the exact middle of those pants? Emma Jean sighed. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, she thought. Then again, she had no other choice. Paul wasn’t going to the dance looking like a pauper, and she definitely couldn’t afford to purchase the suit. It would work, she told herself. It had to.

A week later, Emma Jean was laundering white folks’ clothes. Gus asked her why she needed extra money, and she told him not to worry about it. He’d see. And he’d be proud. She would do it just long enough to purchase the material and other necessary items, since she feared any day now she’d explode and curse out one of those white bitches. “They act like my hands was made for scrubbin’ they dirty draws!” she complained to Gus.

“Then why you doin’ it?”

Unwilling to expose her scheme, she said, “I’m doin’ it for us. For the sake of this family.”

The day the material arrived, Emma Jean was as giddy as Perfect on her eighth birthday morning. She ripped the brown butcher paper open and clutched the cloth to her bosom. “Oh yes! It’s gonna be so beautiful! I know it is!” The boys marveled at her excitement, wondering what Emma Jean was up to. She immediately cleared the table and unfolded the cloth. Her humming dulled their curiosity, and allowed Emma Jean to work without interruption.

After hours of cutting, she discovered that her patterns simply weren’t correct. The pieces weren’t even complementary. She proceeded though, trusting that somehow the project would magically come together. More than anything, she was glad not to have to wash white folks’ clothes anymore. Thinking about the generations of Negro women who had done it before her—and done it a lifetime—made her honor those who obviously had more enduring power than she had. But that was for another day, she thought. For now, she had to figure out a way to save her dying garment.

Gus rose at 2:30
A.M.
after rolling over and feeling nothing but the cold sheet beside him. “You comin’ to bed, woman?”

“In a little while. I gotta finish this. Ain’t much time left.”

“Time for what?’

“Just go on back to bed, man. You’ll know soon enough.”

By 5:30, Emma Jean sat at the table exhausted and disgusted. There was no way the pieces she had cut out were going to congeal into anything fashionable. She could see that now. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that she didn’t know what to do.

“I don’t smell no coffee,” Gus said, emerging from the bedroom.

“ ’Cause ain’t none!” Emma Jean screeched.

“What’s wrong with you, woman? Why you hollerin’ early in the mornin’?”

Emma Jean huffed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“But you didn’t answer my question. What’s wrong?”

The boys began to stir.

“I just gotta figure something out. That’s all.”

She paced from the kitchen to the living room and back until she knew what she had to do. God was laughing out loud, she told herself. He always gets the last word. She thought He’d forgiven her, but maybe forgiveness doesn’t mean you don’t pay, she considered. Yes, God was cracking up. He intended to watch every second of the only option available to Emma Jean to salvage Paul’s suit. So she bound the pieces and the extra material in a large paper bag, swallowed practically all of her pride, and said, “I’ll see y’all later. I gotta handle something.”

“We ain’t gon’ eat?” Gus asked.