by Daniel Black
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.”
Chapter 19
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.
“Hi, baby,” Miss Mamie said, interrupting Paul’s thoughts. When he turned, she saw the tears in his eyes. “Aw, come here!” She pressed Paul’s head into the center of her bosom.
Paul liked the sweetness of her perfume and the warm, comforting feeling of her flesh. It reminded him of how he used to lie on Emma Jean as she read to him. Back when he was somebody else.
“You gon’ be all right, baby,” she said, pushing Paul away from her. “You just stick with the Lord. He gon’ bring you through. He do it every time!”
Paul wanted to ask how soon the Lord was going to do it, but he didn’t.
“You still jes’ as cute as you can be.” She pinched his cheeks. “It’s jes’ kinda hard for folks, you know, to think of you as a boy. It’ll probably take a little time, but afterwhile everything’ll be okay. At least I guess it will. I certainly hope so.” She smiled. “How’s yo’ momma?”
“Fine.”
“Well, that’s good. You be sho to tell her hello for me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t you worry none ’bout what folks say. You jes’ go ’head on and walk with the Lord. He’ll bring you through.” She swung the screen door open and walked away with an armload of groceries.
Paul wasn’t exactly clear what she was talking about. Was God on His way to save him from something?
“Let’s go,” Mister called behind him.
Paul followed and entered the lion’s den once more.
“You boys take care,” Stump said.
Mister mumbled, “Yessir,” while pulling Paul along.
“By the way,” Charles Simmons asked, “is you a boy now for real?”
Paul’s tears returned.
“Don’t say that to that boy!” Stump admonished. “That ain’t none o’
yo’ business. You’ll mess around and hurt his feelings.”
“Just come on,” Mister said. “Don’t pay them no mind.”
Paul wished Gus would send him away like Charles Simmons had suggested. He didn’t know where he’d go or whom he’d live with, but there had to be a place, somewhere in the world, where people loved him. Or at least liked him. He would’ve gone without Gus’s permission if he’d had the money. He didn’t need but a little. Now that he knew how to work, he convinced himself that someone would pay him for his labor. Someone in a faraway place. Not anyone near Swamp Creek. They knew too much about him. He wanted a place where all he’d ever been was a boy so no one could tease him about having been anything else. They’d look at his soft demeanor and sensitive ways, Paul thought, and think that was the way he’d always been, and no one would think twice about it. In Swamp Creek, his only friend was Eva Mae and since she was a girl, he wasn’t supposed to play with her anymore. But since no boys wanted to play with him, he started hoping that what Miss Mamie said would come true. Soon.
Chapter 20
On Authorly’s twentieth birthday—August 23, 1949—he announced at supper, “I’m gettin’ married Sat’dey. Y’all comin’, ain’t cha?”
Gus was relieved. He didn’t care that the boy had no other life aspirations; he was simply glad he wouldn’t have to feed him anymore. Whenever Emma Jean fried chicken, she fried one for him and one for everyone else. He did his fair share of work, Gus admitted, but any child who consumed half of a man’s entire fall harvest needed his own place.
“But you ain’t got no girlfriend!” Mister said. “Ain’t you s’pose to have a girlfriend before you marry somebody?”
“You don’t know what I got! And, anyway, I do got a girlfriend and that’s why I need to get out on my own.”
Gus agreed. He didn’t want to hurt the boy’s feelings with expressions of jubilation, so he said, “You do what you thank you oughta do, son. You’ll be fine. I done taught you how to work, so you ain’t neva gon’ starve. Not you!”
The others laughed.
“What about me?” James Earl asked softly.
Authorly said, “You comin’ wid me.”
Everyone frowned except Emma Jean. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “That way he’ll have somethin’ to do.”
“You can live with me,” he explained. “It’ll be like us sharing a wife. Well, you can’t have her, if you know what I mean, but she’ll love both of us. She won’t mind. I done already asked her.”
Emma Jean touched Authorly’s shoulder in gratitude. Of course she loved her firstborn, but what was she to do with him? All he wanted in life was Authorly’s approval, so it made sense to Emma Jean for him to stay with Authorly forever.
“I won’t get in the way,” James Earl promised. “And I’ll do whatever you say.”
“You’re fine, little brother. Don’t worry. We gon’ be just fine.”
Emma Jean hated to see Authorly go. He had been her measure of manhood around the house—the one she prayed the younger ones would emulate—and she made him promise to stop by often and talk to his younger brothers. Unlike Gus, she would miss his enormous appetite and his protective presence. In her mind, Authorly had been her man and, in some ways, she felt as if she were losing a spouse. But she couldn’t stop him. She didn’t even try.
Paul had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was glad Authorly was leaving because another summer of his tyrannical teachings was more than Paul’s sensitive spirit could bear. He especially hated maneuvering the worms onto the fishing hook. Each time he screamed, Authorly punched his arm, until he learned to keep his fears to himself. Then, he was beaten again when it took him too long to take the flapping fish off the hook. He would’ve shot Authorly, on several occasions, had he known how to use the gun, and he convinced himself that he wouldn’t have regretted it for a moment. On the other hand, the cow milking, wood gathering, and general farm labor weren’t so bad. Actually, he was beginning to get used to it, and he had no one to thank but Authorly. Paul was forced to admit that, although he had hated Authorly at first, the transition into boyhood would’ve been impossible without him. Now Woody and Sol would have to finish the job since Gus was obviously uninvested in anything concerning Paul.
“You and Eula Faye gon’ be so happy!” Emma Jean said, smacking on a square piece of corn bread.
Authorly smiled. “Yeah, I know. Her daddy is grinnin’ from ear to ear.”
Authorly had stopped Eula Faye at Morrison’s a year earlier. He had been watching her rotund behind since he was fifteen, but had never gathered the nerve to speak. Not until she switched past him, and his left hand accidentally brushed her bottom. He knew then she’d be his wife.
“I’m mighty sorry, ma’am,” Authorly said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t mean to touch you that way.”
Eula Faye beamed. “Well, you did, and I guess I forgive you, Mr. Authorly Peace.” Reaching for a five-pound bag of sugar, she added, “And you can come keep company with me if you want to.”
Authorly hollered. “Yippee! I do want to. I do!”
He carried her groceries home, and by the time they arrived, she was his girlfriend. She loved a thick black man, she said, especially one with battered overalls, ’cause that meant he loved to work.
“I got that from my daddy. I ain’t neva seen him sleep past five, and even if he sick, he do somethin’ ’round de house.” Eula Faye laughed. Her father had told her that, if she prayed, God would send her a good black man one day. She didn’t know it would be within a week. “I likes you, Mr. Authorly Peace.”
“I likes you, too, Miss Eula Faye Cullins.”
They stood in front of her folks’ house and talked—well, Authorly talked—for the next three hours, and when he left, Eula Faye told her mother, “I’ma marry that man ’fo de month’s out.”
Authorly decided not to tell anyone about Eula Faye, afraid that if she changed her mind, he would be too embarrassed to recover. But the Friday he asked her to marry him and she said yes, he was the most confident young man in all of Conway County.
“When you wants to marry me, Mr. Authorly Peace?” she teased.
“Um . . . how ’bout a year from Saturday? That’ll give me time to make some money,” he said casually, and smiled.
Eula Faye leapt into his arms, kissed his forehead, and said, “Fine with me. I’ll be waitin’.”
Authorly hesitated.
“What is it?”
“It’s about my brother. James Earl.”
“What about him?”
“Well, I been takin’ care o’ him all his life. He kinda slow and I was wonderin’ if you wouldn’t mind him comin’ to stay with us. He works real hard and he ain’t no bother.”
“Okay,” Eula Faye said. Authorly’s desperation suggested that if she was going to have the Peace she wanted, she’d have to take the Peace she didn’t. “I guess I can live with that. Two men ’round the house oughta be better’n one anyway.”
Mr. Buddy Cullins sobered up for the only wedding he’d ever attend, and he told Authorly that he and Eula Faye should have as many children as the Good Lord would allow. They obeyed, halting their reproduction only during the year of the tragedy. Twenty years later, Eula Faye awakened one morning in a battle with menopause she couldn’t hope to win. “Oh well,” she sighed. “The Lord said be fruitful and multiply, and I done done that. Ten children oughta satisfy Him.”
During the wedding ceremony, Eula Faye almost ran away when she looked up and saw both Authorly and James Earl marching toward her in matching suits. Folks turned their heads and covered their mouths. James Earl marched alongside Authorly as though he were the bride, and Eula Faye prayed she wasn’t making the mistake of her life. Her fears were relieved once the three moved in together, and she discovered that James Earl was a better companion than Authorly. James Earl loved to listen to her rant and rave about arbitrary people or things, and his favorite pastime was rubbing her tired,
aching feet. Authorly, on the other hand, loved to be listened to, and after twenty minutes of his self-absorbed babbling, she simply tuned him out and focused her attention on her second husband. He—not Authorly—made her feel special and important. James Earl was the daytime man, the one who accompanied her to the store or listened to the radio shows with her, and Authorly took the night shift, exciting her flesh and talking until the sound of his voice lulled her to sleep.
At the wedding, Paul wondered if he would ever marry. He didn’t have a girlfriend and didn’t want one, but he liked the idea of having a family. Emma Jean used to tell him, in his former life, “I can’t wait ’til your weddin’ day, honey. It’s gon’ be so wonderful. You gon’ marry the man of your dreams and you gon’ be the most beautiful bride anyone’s ever seen! Oh, it’s gonna be so great!”
Back then, Emma Jean’s joyful anticipation made Paul laugh. Now, she never mentioned marriage anymore, and Paul understood clearly that, if he did marry, he wouldn’t be the beautiful one, and that was the only reason he had wanted a wedding in the first place. Eula Faye looked pretty in her rose red dress, Paul noted, but Authorly looked like he did every day. If that was all the man was supposed to get out of the deal, then Paul decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.
Gus patted Authorly’s back and wished him well. Ten months later, the children started coming. They called both Authorly and James Earl Daddy. They weren’t confused. Eula Faye explained that since two men took care of them, both men deserved equal honor, so the children acted accordingly. Whenever folks asked Nicodemus, the oldest boy, “Who’s yo’ daddy?” he would say, “Authorly and James Earl Peace.” “But which one is yo’ daddy?” “Both of them!” he’d say, nodding. The fact that some resembled James Earl made others believe that he had fathered a few, but had they mentioned this to him, he would have stumbled away in tears.
Normal Jean was the second child. Doc Baker told Eula Faye that something was wrong during her pregnancy and that more than likely the child would be abnormal in some way. Refusing to believe him, Eula Faye started calling the baby Normal in hopes of countering Doc’s prophecy. It didn’t work. Her Down syndrome, however, didn’t make Eula Faye change the child’s name. It just made people use it more enthusiastically.