Perfect Peace

by Daniel Black

  “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.”

  “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.”