Perfect Peace

by Daniel Black

  Chapter 9

  Gus pushed away from the tree and shuffled home. Trying to avoid another embarrassing encounter, he hid, like an escaped convict, behind nearby trees and high grass whenever he thought he heard someone coming. Had a psychiatrist observed him, he would’ve been bound and transported to the Arkansas State Mental Facility. As it was, he simply took two hours to walk what should’ve taken him thirty minutes.

  He thought to pick Emma Jean a bouquet of wildflowers along the way, but reconsidered when he remembered that vased flowers always die. Why did they always die? Why didn’t at least some of them survive? Can’t something stay pretty forever? Something? Then he figured out the answer and exhumed a handful of black-eyed Susans—dirty roots and all—and presented them to a stunned Emma Jean.

  “I got you some flowers,” he announced proudly, walking through the back door. The clock chimed four. “Now they’ll live forever.”

  Emma Jean snarled, “Sit down, man, and eat yo’ supper.” She tossed the plants out the back door.

  “They gon’ grow like that? You sho you ain’t gotta plant ’em first?”

  Emma Jean shook her head and watched the boys play with Perfect on the bare hardwood floor.

  “Is she ever gon’ talk?” Mister complained.

  “She ain’t old enough yet, fool! I told you that already,” Authorly said. “She jes’ six weeks. Most babies don’t talk ’til they at least two years old.”

  “Two years old!” Mister screamed.

  Sol chuckled. “It won’t be long, little brother. Just be patient. One day you’ll look up and Perfect’ll be walkin’ and talkin’ like everybody else.”

  “But I want her to talk now!”

  “You cain’t rush God, boy,” Authorly said. “Thangs happen whenever God say they happen, and not before.”

  “I’ma ask God to make Perfect talk tomorrow. I bet He’ll do it!”

  “Bet He won’t,” Sol teased.

  Authorly buried his face in Perfect’s stomach and blew forcefully. After she giggled, he scowled. “Whea! She done boo-booed, Momma.”

  “Why don’t chu change her then since you know everything,” Mister said.

  “No!” Emma Jean yelled.

  The boys flinched.

  “Y’all remember what I told you: boys ain’t got no business lookin’ at they sister naked. Never!” She retrieved Perfect from their midst. “It ain’t right. A girl gotta be tended to by her mother. Men ain’t got no business doin’ nothin’ like that.”

  The boys nodded agreeably as Gus continued eating. Emma Jean retreated to the bedroom, then returned Perfect to her brothers.

  “Is you gon’ have another baby, Momma?” Mister asked.

  “Hell, naw,” Gus mumbled before Emma Jean could speak. “She betta not.”

  “I doubt it, sweetie. I got boys and a girl now, so I don’t need no mo’ chillen.”

  “You got dat right! I love de chillen I got, but I shonuff got enough.”

  Knock, knock, knock, someone banged on the front door.

  “Come on in,” Gus yelled as though he were miles away.

  “How y’all doin’ today?” a boisterous voice returned.

  “Uncle Chester!” the boys screamed, and leapt upon him as he entered the house.

  “Goddamn!” Chester hollered in jest, hugging each nephew. “You niggas bigger’n me now! Last time I seed y’all, you wunnit nothin’ but li’l ole stumps. Shit, now I gotta look up to ya!” His wife and four children followed.

  “Hi, Aunt Margaret,” Mister slurred, begrudging the sloppy, wet kiss she always left on his cheek.

  “There’s my baby!” she moaned, and slobbered as he had predicted. “You almost too big to kiss now, boy.”

  His brothers muffled their laughter. They’d tease him about it later until Mister would feel compelled to fight one of them.

  “You chillen go play!” Chester instructed. “I ain’t neva seen chillen love to sit up in de house and look grown folks in de mouth. Y’all go ’head on now.”

  After their stampede, Margaret cackled, “Girl, you and Gus gon’ have a army afta while, ain’t cha? Let me see dis precious li’l girl.” She reached and Perfect yielded.

  “I guess she like you, Margie. She don’t go to most folks.”

  Margaret smiled and whispered, “All chillen like me. It’s des titties, girl. They like to put they head on ’em and jes’ relax.”

  “I like to do that, too!” Chester taunted.

  Gus looked away and Emma Jean hollered. The men stood, as though on cue, and walked out the front door.

  “Let’s see what all dese damn chillen doin’,” Chester grumbled lovingly.

  He and Gus scuffled to the porch and fell heavily into old, high-back wooden chairs. Gus studied the children in the yard, glad his childhood days were long gone.

  Chester was more nostalgic. “We gon’ look ’round and dem chillen be grown, Gus.”

  “Yep. That’ll be good.”

  “Funny how fast chillen grow up, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Me and Marg thought we’d betta come and see dat new li’l girl o’ yours.”

  “She’s in de house.”

  Chester bit his bottom lip. “I know she’s in de house, man! I was jes’ sayin’ . . . oh shit. Forget it.”

  Chester’s frustration always left Gus nervous. He would’ve introduced a new subject had he been able to think of one. Instead, he closed his mouth and waited for his big brother to continue.

  Reminding himself that Gus couldn’t help it, Chester smiled and said, “My niece is jes’ as cute as she can be. Looks jes’ like you, boy.”

  Gus lifted his head. “Folks been sayin’ that.”

  “Well, it’s de truf. She look kinda like a li’l boy, now that I think about it.”

  Gus frowned.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. She’s a cutie. I’m jes’ sayin’ she look so much like you dat she coulda passed for a li’l boy. That’s all.”

  “De boys is crazy ’bout her. I’m glad about that.”

  “Oh yeah! Boys always love dey sister. Dat’s why it’s good to have the boys first, so they can look after her. They’ll take care o’ her de rest o’ they lives. You mark my word.”

  “Hope so,” Gus moaned. “Hope so.”

  “But, now that I think about it, I thought you said you didn’t want no mo’ kids after Mister? I told you Emma Jean was gon’ come up pregnant again, didn’t I? Dis ain’t de last one, neither!” His hearty laughter vibrated across the front porch.

  “De hell it ain’t! I didn’t want this one, but I didn’t have nothin’ to do wit’ it.”

  “What chu mean, you didn’t have nothin’ to do wit’ it? If you didn’t, you need to be out kickin’ some nigga’s black ass right now!”

  Gus’s stoic expression never softened. “You know what I mean.”

  “Well, long as y’all keep doin’ de do, Emma Jean gon’ keep on poppin’ out babies. She ain’t gettin’ ’em by huself.”

  “I know.” Chester’s words reinforced Gus’s decision to sleep on the floor. “This one snuck up on me though. We ain’t havin’ no mo’—not if I can help it. Emma Jean don’t want no mo’ noway.”

  “Is that right? Well, y’all betta stop fuckin’ if you want this li’l girl to be de last! What’s her name, by the way?”

  “Perfect,” Gus sighed. “Dat’s what Emma Jean named her.”

  “Perfect? What kinda crazy-ass name is dat?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You didn’t have no say-so in de matter?”

  “Naw, I didn’t.”

  “Well, I’ll say! Perfect Peace. That’s a name for ya!”

  “Yes it is.”

  Chester howled. “It’s plenty folks with crazy names though. You ’member dat girl we used to call Sticks? De one who lived in dat old shack behind de church?”

  Gus couldn’t remember.

  “De one with fourteen brothers and sisters?�
�

  “Oh yeah. I remember her. What about her?”

  “Well, did you eva know her real name?”

  Gus searched his brain. “I guess I didn’t.”

  Chester hollered before he ever spoke it. “Man, that girl’s name is Busterlina!” His entire body shivered.

  Gus laughed wide enough to expose his rotten wisdom teeth. “What?”

  “Her daddy’s name was probably Buster and I guess they named her after him.”

  “Why didn’t they jes’ name one o’ de boys after him?”

  “ ’Cause when Sticks come ’long, it wunnit no boys yet. It wuz eight girls and I guess it looked like wunnit no boys comin’. Then, after Sticks, six come straight in a row.”

  “Busterlina,” Gus repeated in disbelief.

  “Ain’t that some shit?”

  “Yeah. But I guess it wasn’t so crazy to her momma.”

  Inside, Emma Jean and Margaret cut old clothes into quilt blocks. Perfect lay in the bassinet between them.

  “Well, you got yo’self a li’l girl now, Emma Jean. I guess you through havin’ babies.”

  “You better believe it, chile! After all these boys, I got me a daughter, so I don’t never intend to be pregnant again!”

  They cackled like adolescent girls in a schoolyard.

  “I know what chu mean, honey. I know I ain’t havin’ no mo’. I’d shoot myself befo’ I start that over again.”

  They nodded.

  “What’s her name?”

  Emma Jean didn’t hesitate. “Perfect. I named her what she is.”

  “What? Did you say ‘Perfect’?” Margaret burbled in shock.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. I ain’t neva heard o’ nobody named Perfect before.”

  “Well, I think it’s pretty.”

  “Well, it sure is something. That’s for sure!”

  Emma Jean chewed the inside of her bottom lip. She dared not sass Margaret as she had done Mamie, for Margaret was known for being a bigger fool than Emma Jean.

  “Gus like dat name?” Margaret risked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

  She treaded further out on the limb. “Well, I know some real pretty girl names. Like Angel or Crystal or Stella . . .”

  “Stella? Dat sound like a ole woman’s name. That ain’t no pretty name for a li’l baby girl.”

  “Well, it depends on how you hold yo’ mouth when you say it. If you say”—she protruded her lips like one preparing for a kiss—“ ‘Stella,’ it do sound like you callin’ a old woman, but if you say”—she glanced heavenward, dreamily—“‘Stella,’ it got a nice ring to it.” Margaret nodded, agreeing with herself.

  “Oh well, it don’t matter anyway.” Emma Jean shrugged. “She got de name she s’pose to have and dat’s what folks gon’ call her.”

  “Fine wit’ me! All I know is, she sho look like Gustavus Peace. Lawd have mercy, she look jes’ like dat man!”

  Emma Jean contemplated telling Margaret everything. A co-bearer of the truth would be nice, she thought, and that way, if anything ever happened to her, someone else could complete what she had begun. Margaret was about the best friend she had, if she had any, and surely she would understand. If she didn’t, she would keep the secret anyway, Emma Jean assumed, for anyone with a past like Margaret’s was morally obliged to keep her mouth closed.

  But Emma Jean couldn’t tell it. Every time she tried, her lips clung together like magnets. In her mind, the confession began something like Margaret, you a woman jes’ like me and I know you understand stuff a woman gotta do. And since I didn’t have no daughters, I had to make one . . . but that was far too abrupt. She needed a smoother segue if the thing were going to make sense, and having never been a person of tact, she feared she’d confuse Margaret before she made an ally of her. Now she was glad Mae Helen had taught her to keep her business to herself.

  “You can have Izella’s old clothes if you want ’em. Perfect’ll grow into ’em in no time.”

  Emma Jean frowned. “No thank you.”

  “Oh, they ain’t no rags! Don’t get me wrong! No, no. I bought good clothes for my baby girl. Some of ’em I made, but most of ’em I bought straight out de sto’!”

  Still, Emma Jean said, “I thank ya right de same, but my Perfect gon’ have her own brand-new thangs.”

  “Suit yo’self,” Margaret said, and changed the subject before she told Emma Jean off. The women giggled until the old clock chimed eight times. Chester hollered, “Let’s go, woman.”

  “You boys wash yo’ hands and feet and get ready for bed,” Gus instructed as the boys charged into the living room.

  Chester and Margaret said good night, loaded their children onto the wagon, and made their way to the other side of the Jordan.

  Emma Jean placed her sewing things in a brown paper bag and returned it to the corner, next to the upright radio Gracie had given them as a wedding gift. Emma Jean then lifted Perfect from the trough-shaped crib and met Gus in the bedroom.

  “Maybe we could call her somethin’ else,” Gus said, unable to shake Chester’s ridiculing of Perfect’s name. “You know . . . a nickname or somethin’.” He disrobed with his back to Emma Jean.

  “She already got a name!” Emma Jean screamed. “And it’s the name I like.”

  “Okay, okay. But folks say it’s mighty strange.” He unrolled the pallet. “They laughin’ at it.”

  “So what! Most folks ain’t got no sense noway.”

  Gus reclined. “Maybe we could call her something else,” he repeated quickly, and rolled over.

  “We ain’t gon’ call her nothin’ but what I named her. Other folks can kiss my behind if they don’t like it. That includes you.”

  Gus rose, blew out the coal oil lamp, and resettled onto the floor. “I guess it don’t make no difference.”

  Perfect lay peacefully where Gus once had. He resolved to drop the matter and shoulder the ridicule, while Emma Jean decided to slap anyone who mentioned the name issue again.

  Slightly beyond midnight, Perfect whimpered irritably and Emma Jean shifted to feed her. Gnawing ravenously, Perfect suckled as though this meal were her last. Gus, who usually slept like a hibernating bear—and snored like one, too!—was awakened by the sound of Perfect’s lips smacking on Emma Jean’s nipple, and, for a brief moment, he wished the lips were his own. However, as he recalled the connection between sucking Emma Jean’s breasts and her subsequent pregnancies, his erection subsided and he returned to sleep. Emma Jean, on the other hand, battled insomnia most nights as she stared into the dark, imagining what her life might have been like under different circumstances. But that night, with Perfect nestled against her bosom, she couldn’t have been happier. “Hush li’l baby, don’t say a word,” she sang softly, stroking Perfect’s hair, “Momma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird. If that mocking bird don’t sing, Momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.” Each time Perfect paused to breathe, Emma Jean kissed the crown of her head. Remembering only a few lines of the standard lullaby, Emma Jean composed verses of her own: “Sweet little Perfect, you’re real fine, Emma Jean’s baby, yes, you’re mine. And if these folks don’t love you right, I’m gonna love you with all my might,” and so on until Perfect stopped sucking and drifted back to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  Christmas of 1944 was bitter cold. A raging fire warmed the boys in the living room while, in the master bedroom, Emma Jean shivered under a sheet and three heavy quilts. Gus was equally bound, lying on the frigid hardwood floor, but he felt content, especially since his actions guaranteed the end of little Peaces. Perfect lay in the other room, similarly burdened with layers of covering, longing to join her brothers and partake in the living room’s limited, precious heat, but the last thing she wanted on Christmas morning was another of Emma Jean’s spankings. She had been told, countless times, not to leave her room in the mornings until she heard her mother’s voice. The boys might not be decent, Emma Jean had explained, and a girl ain’t got
no business seein’ a boy’s business. The first time Perfect disobeyed, Emma Jean whipped her with a thin sapling from the old peach tree in the front yard, and the last time, she left welts crisscrossing down Perfect’s thick legs. Perfect finally understood that what Emma Jean Peace said, she meant. And, anyway, it was Christmas morning and Perfect didn’t want anything to come between her and her presents.

  Overnight, a storm had dumped two inches of snow in Swamp Creek, and residents declared the first blizzard of the season. Perfect rolled from beneath the quilts and tiptoed to the window. She loved snow. She loved watching it fall from the sky slowly, softly, gracefully, blanketing everything in pure white. She loved its silence, too, how it descended without making a sound and covered things gently. She loved its unmarred beauty, and its tendency to hide things normally unattractive. Like the old, rusted wagon. Emma Jean had begged Gus to get rid of the thing, especially after they got another one, but Gus insisted he could fix it and make a profit. He never did. Now, covered in snow, it looked like a miniature mountain. Birds stood atop the mound, jerking their heads in every direction as though excited about their view of the world. Perfect wanted to grab her coat and join them, but she hadn’t yet heard Emma Jean’s voice. It was probably too cold outside anyway, she thought. And she hated being cold.

  “Y’all gon’ sleep the day away?” Emma Jean bellowed, stepping into the living room at 5:45. “It’s Christmas morning! Children s’pose to get up and be glad about it!”

  Perfect bolted from her room with two plaits sticking up like devil’s horns. She was stout now, like Emma Jean had been as a child, and her behind was beginning to take shape. By all standards, she was a pretty girl, with mildly slanted eyes and a smooth, cocoa brown complexion. Emma Jean had seen to it that nothing tarnished Perfect’s face. No scratches, no mosquito bites, no natural blemishes. Only her beaming smile jumped out at others, forcing them to smile in return. Even when her hair was a mess, as Emma Jean complained incessantly, it never hid her pretty brown eyes. She had Gus’s wide, flat nose, which normally wouldn’t have been attractive on a child, but her extra-long eyelashes and high cheekbones gave the nose context and made Swamp Creek women call her a “pretty li’l thang.” Her brothers knew she’d be a knockout one day, and that made them proud. “Good mornin’, Momma, good mornin’ everybody!” she called.