Perfect Peace

by Daniel Black

  “I’m gonna find one,” he told Eva Mae, resuming the search. “I’m gonna find me a four-leaf clover, and I’m gonna find it today.”

  His determination was contagious.

  “It’s probably just some dumb old story grown people tell kids. You know what I mean?” Eva Mae resumed the search.

  Paul didn’t care. His hope was far greater than his doubt. He wanted a guaranteed love, and he was willing to search the world over for proof that he’d have it.

  “Ah, come on,” Eva Mae huffed. “I know you’re here.” Her face was only centimeters from the grass. “Just let me find you. I’ll take care of you. I promise. Come on, four-leaf clover. You’re in here somewhere. I know you are. You have to be. There’s got to be at least one of you. At least one.” Moments later, she reclined in the grass and said, “Just forget about it. I don’t even care anymore.”

  Paul wasn’t so easily discouraged. “Where are you, Mr. Clover?” he murmured. “I have to find you. I have to. Come on, now. Don’t hide from me. I need you.” He was now thirty yards from where Eva Mae lay basking in the late afternoon sun. Behind herself, she left a trail of discarded foliage as though knowingly blazing a path others would have to tread. For the next hour or so, Paul ignored the retreating sun, determined to find tangible evidence that, against what Gus believed, he really was perfect, and someone, somewhere, someday would fall in love with him.

  “Here’s one!” he shouted at dusk. “Oh my God! I found it! Here it is! And it’s bigger than the other ones.” Paul cupped his hands around it, but didn’t pick it. “Come look, Eva Mae!”

  Casually, she strolled to where he was kneeling. “Let me see,” she mumbled, and knelt.

  “Here it is!”

  “I see it! You ain’t gotta yell,” Eva Mae screamed back.

  Paul lowered his voice, though only slightly. “Ain’t this great? I found a four-leaf clover!” He clapped like a toddler. “This means someone’s gonna love me forever, right?”

  “That’s what they say. I don’t know how true it is though.”

  Eva Mae’s skepticism didn’t dampen Paul’s spirit.

  “We’d better be gettin’ home. It’s late,” she said.

  Paul looked around and sighed. “Yeah, it is.” He plucked the clover from the earth, shoved it in his pocket, and began to run.

  “See ya,” Eva Mae yelled, sprinting in the opposite direction.

  Just as Paul arrived home, the sun vanished. Gus met him on the road.

  “Where you been, boy?” he said, shifting his weight to his good hip.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just forgot what time it was.”

  “That ain’t what I asked you.”

  Paul hesitated.

  Gus thought to slap him, but instead said, “Get in that barn and get yo’ chores done.” Then he hobbled away.

  Paul thanked a sovereign God. As he carried the cows their portion of hay, then slopped the hogs, he dreamed of the love that was now promised. After returning the slop bucket to its resting place, he waltzed across the barn floor, lost in the arms of an imaginary lover. Twisting and twirling to the silent music, Paul envisioned someone bowing before him, declaring their everlasting love. That’s what the clover promised, right? Then, all those mean people in Swamp Creek would have to take back all the ugly things they’d said about him because he’d be lovable and desirable like any other handsome young man.

  Suddenly, he conceived an idea. There was no one present, so there would be no harm done. He’d just do it for a moment. Just to remember or, maybe, foresee what his future beheld. Paul glanced around to ensure that he was alone, then extracted old garments of Emma Jean’s from the bag in the loft. It was a silly idea, he knew, since he was a boy now, but it couldn’t hurt anything. He simply needed a reminder that he was still special. And beautiful.

  He slipped the floral-print summer dress over his head and let it fall across his shoulders. It was too big, of course. Emma Jean was a good fourteen on any day, and Paul was barely a four. But it didn’t matter. This was all make-believe. It didn’t have to be perfect, he thought. It was just a moment. He excavated an old, wrinkled hat from the bag and sat it atop his narrow head. Then he slid his feet into a dusty pair of black heels, which fit better than any of the other items. He laughed at himself. He felt a freedom he had almost forgotten. Returning to the dance floor, he performed a solo waltz, as if a crowd of viewers were watching and applauding. The dress swayed and ballooned with each turn until Paul found himself lost in a mythical world. His steps were constrained and awkward, limited by stilettos he had never worn, but his imagination dwarfed his reality. He was the precious one, at least momentarily, the one whom others admired and desired. He was Perfect Peace again—the child his mother had waited for.

  When the barn door flew open, Paul gasped, “Oh!”

  Gus stared in bewilderment. “What the hell?” he whispered, closing the barn door behind himself.

  Paul tried to make light of the moment. “I was just . . . um . . . Just . . . playing.”

  Gus shuffled toward him in slow motion.

  “It ain’t no big deal, Daddy. I was just thinkin’ about . . .” He stepped out of the shoes and removed the hat. “It was just a joke—”

  Slap!

  “A joke? Just a joke? You call this”—he pointed to each item—“a damn joke?”

  Paul tried to remove the dress, but his trembling hands couldn’t get it over his head. Gus began ripping it from the boy’s shivering frame.

  “You ain’t no punk, boy! I done taught you better! Boys don’t wear no woman’s clothes!” With each word, Gus ripped the dress until it lay in shreds across the barn floor. Paul covered his naked chest with his arms and prayed Gus wouldn’t kill him.

  “Is you just determined to be a sissy the rest o’ yo’ life? Huh!”

  “No, sir,” Paul mumbled, lying upon mounds of loose hay.

  “Then why you keep doin’ this stuff?” Gus slapped him again.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t mean—”

  “You didn’t mean what?” Gus screamed, huffing with rage.

  Paul sniffled, but didn’t answer.

  “Answer me, boy!”

  “I wasn’t tryin’ to be no girl. I was just thinkin’ about . . . um . . . different stuff.” He almost mentioned the clover and its promise, but he knew it wouldn’t make sense to Gus.

  “I done told you I ain’t gon’ have no son like that in my house!”

  “Yessir.”

  Gus grabbed the shoes and slung them against the wall. “Awwwwwww! You gon’ be a man, boy! If I have to kill you first, you gon’ be a man!”

  Paul whimpered, “Yessir.”

  Gus’s nostrils flared and deflated as Paul awaited his fate.

  “Get up off that floor. Now!”

  Paul rose, quivering. Gus snatched his arm forcefully. “I better not ever catch you doin’ nothin’ like this again! Do you hear me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You ain’t no faggot, boy! You ain’t!”

  Paul nodded.

  “I done taught you how to be a man, me and your brothers, so ain’t no excuse for this shit!”

  Paul continued nodding.

  “I’ll break yo’ neck if I ever catch you doin’ somethin’ like this again. Do you understand me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I said, do you understand me, boy!”

  “Yessir!”

  Gus pushed Paul away from him. “Now clean up this crap and get in the house. And I don’t wanna hear nothin’ more about it.” Gus hobbled away heavily.

  Paul gathered the shredded dress, shoes, and hat and returned the bag to the loft. He couldn’t figure out why Gus hadn’t beaten him. That’s what he deserved, didn’t he? Unaware of the contract Gus had signed with God that night in the yard, Paul gave thanks that he hadn’t met his end. He saw the rage in Gus’s eyes. Maybe the unmerited grace was God’s way of assuring Paul’s life, he considered, so the myth of the clover
might be fulfilled.

  By thirteen, Paul’s masculine aura, especially in front of men, was beginning to take shape. His walk had transformed from a sway to a swagger, and his voice had lost its soprano edge. The farm labor was defining his shoulders and arms, and he’d learned not to gawk at Johnny Ray as though desiring to consume him. The tingling sensation still came any time Johnny Ray was around, but he’d learned to conceal it. Even women noted the evolution, remarking that Paul was finally developing into a “handsome ole country boy.” The only problem was that he couldn’t make himself like girls the way men said he should. At least not yet. But he wasn’t through trying.

  In the spring of 1954, Paul contracted a fever that threatened to kill him. Covered in sweat from head to toe, he lay semiconscious for nearly a week. Doc Harris came by every evening with a different potion, hoping that something medicinal would break the spell, but nothing helped. Gus watched from a distance until Bartimaeus said, “Help him, Daddy.”

  “I ain’t no doctor, son,” Gus slurred.

  “I know, but there’s gotta be somethin’ you can do. It’s just gotta be.”

  Gus recalled the fever of 1912. He’d only been a boy, but he remembered how people were dying faster than the undertaker could bury them. His mother, Momma Lucy, died from the fever and Gus never forget how helpless he felt, watching her sweat and drift away. Chester Sr. tried everything, from boiling roots to prayer, but nothing broke the spell. Gus sat next to her bed the day she expired, and wept far into the night. He never forgave himself for not trying to save her.

  “I don’t know nothin’ to do, son,” he said, and collapsed onto the sofa.

  Bartimaeus felt his way behind him. “Well, folks say Miss Liza Redfield could heal people. I know she dead now, but maybe some of her folks remember somethin’. It’s worth a try, Daddy.”

  Gus didn’t hesitate. “Tell yo’ momma I’ll be back.”

  When Gus returned, he told Woody to boil a pot. Then, from the chest pocket of his overalls he retrieved something that looked like dirt and poured it from his palm into the steaming water.

  “What’s that?” Emma Jean asked. “Smell like you cookin’ chicken shit.”

  “Just be quiet, woman. I’m tryin’ to save my son.”

  He scooped a ladle of the concoction, poured it into a bowl, and went to Paul.

  “I need you to sip this, boy,” he said as tears streaked his cheeks. “It’s hot, but you gotta take it.”

  Paul shook his head and mumbled, “I ain’t hungry, Daddy.”

  “Don’t make no difference. You gotta get some o’ this in you. It’ll break the fever.”

  Paul turned away.

  “Do what Daddy say, Paul,” Bartimaeus encouraged. “You cain’t die. You cain’t.”

  Woody supported Paul’s head as he struggled to sit up. Gus spoon-fed the broth into Paul’s mouth.

  “It’s too hot,” Paul complained.

  “I know it’s hot, but you gotta drink it like this. It’s the only way it’s gon’ work.”

  Emma Jean massaged his forehead and promised God she’d serve Him forever if He’d spare her baby. She had some nerve, she knew, asking God for a favor after what she’d done, but she had nowhere else to turn. The fire had left her shamefaced and brutally aware that she had no friends in Swamp Creek. Even Gracie had cursed her and stopped coming around once she learned the truth about Paul. So Emma Jean sneaked into the master bedroom and, in a moment she’d live to regret, ransomed her life in exchange for Paul’s. “Do whatever You wanna do with me, Lord,” she said. “Just let my baby live. If somebody’s gotta die, let it be me.” She returned to the living room to see what God decided.

  Gus was pouring spoonfuls of the rancid drink into the small opening of Paul’s mouth. “Just two more sips, son, and I think it’ll be enough.”

  Paul wanted to vomit, but didn’t have the strength. Gus set the cup aside and waited with Emma Jean to see if their efforts would prove fruitful.

  At some point during the night, Gus thought about the prospect of burying his baby boy and he couldn’t hold his heart any longer. For the first time, he looked beyond what others thought and saw Paul for what he was. Gus also feared that, if the boy died, he’d have to answer to God for having treated him so badly, so Gus took Paul’s limp hand and said, “Don’t die, boy. Please.” He had the same feeling he had the night his mother died. Maybe this was his chance to do something different, he thought. Then his mother’s spirit wouldn’t trouble him anymore.

  Emma Jean stirred in a nearby chair, unable to sleep.

  “When you was a baby, I used to sit you on my lap and let you play with my beard. I liked the way you giggled. You was such a pretty baby.”

  Paul opened his eyes, but didn’t move. The room was pitch-black.

  “Then yo’ momma messed everything up. I never did hate you though. I really didn’t. I just couldn’t believe you was no boy. You was s’pose to be my baby girl and that’s how I saw you, so when I saw yo’ thang, I almost lost it.” He shook his head. “I ain’t neva heard o’ nobody experiencin’ nothin’ like that. I couldn’t believe what yo’ momma had done done to you.”

  Emma Jean wanted to explain again, but she didn’t.

  “My daddy taught me that ain’t nothin’ worse than a sissified man, and I didn’t want you to be one. I still don’t. I guess I been too embarrassed to talk to you directly. Folks’ whisperin’ made me nervous. You know how I am.”

  Gus scratched the top of his bald head. If Paul died, at least he had said what he needed to.

  “I guess this ain’t been easy for you, either, huh? I know the kids pro’bly tease you at school and stuff.” He paused. “And I’m sorry for beatin’ you the way I did that day. When I saw you comin’ down the road, you was twistin’ like a girl, and I got so mad I couldn’t see straight. But I didn’t mean to kick you. I even told God I didn’t and God told me to tell you, but I never did. I was too ’shamed, I guess. Now you layin’ here, and I might not never get a chance to tell you to yo’ face. But at least I’m tellin’ yo’ spirit.”

  Gus leaned back for a long while, then leaned forward again. “After Momma died, I couldn’t seem to stop cryin’. Daddy and Chester poked fun at me and said I was gon’ be a sissy when I grew up. I told them I wasn’t. They said I was weak and didn’t have no backbone ’cause ain’t no boy s’pose to cry all the time. But I couldn’t help it. I loved my momma and she loved me, and when she died, I felt like I was in the world all by myself. That’s a bad feelin’, son—to feel like you all by yo’self. I guess you know what that feels like though, huh?”

  Do I! Paul wanted to say.

  “And I ain’t been no help. I knowed this wasn’t yo’ fault from the start, but I been makin’ you pay like it was. I’m sho sorry, boy. I promise to do better if you’ll just get well.”

  When Gus woke at five, Paul was sitting up staring at him. Gus almost burst into tears.

  “I didn’t die, Daddy. I’m alive. And I’m strong.”

  Gus patted Paul’s head and smiled. “I guess you is, boy. Kinda like yo’ old man.”

  Gus swiveled, grimacing from the pain in his hip, and shouted, “Hallelujah!” as though celebrating Jesus’ resurrection from the tomb. Emma Jean raised her hands, as high as she could, and thanked God for answering her prayer.

  Then the rains came. Assisted by a homemade walking cane, Gus hobbled toward the Jordan when the first droplets fell, so once again Bartimaeus had to find his own way. The tone of Gus’s wailing was lighter than usual, almost falsetto, and people knew that something must have been different. What they didn’t know was that, instead of releasing hurt, he was giving praise to a God Who had spared his baby boy. Had they listened closely, they would have discerned phrases like “thank Ya” and “I love Ya” muddled in the midst of dissonant belting, but since no one other than Sugar Baby understood the full purpose of the annual cleansings, most were simply glad when they came and when they ended.

  Havin
g found his way for years now, Bartimaeus didn’t even need to touch the barbed-wire fence along the way. He could tell, by the sound of the river, how close he was, and when his father’s voice sent chills across his body, he knew to turn right with outstretched hands until Gus paused his lamentation and said simply, “Come.” Then he waded into the moving water until the pat on his head confirmed that he needn’t go any farther. Without preamble, he lent his voice and, together, father and son extracted from the universe the healing—or, rather, now, the thanksgiving—necessary for their souls’ redemption. With Gus screeching alto, the river took the tenor part, and, for the sake of balanced harmony, Bartimaeus cried the soprano. Emma Jean stood on the porch and said, “Goddamnit! Sound like a bunch o’ women hollerin’!” She knew someone would ask her about the shift in tone, and she didn’t know how she’d explain it. Their annual presence at the river never bothered her—everyone had long accepted Gus’s and Bartimaeus’s irregularity—but at least in years past they had sounded like men crying out in battle. Men! Now, folks might be wondering if Emma Jean had joined them.

  Oblivious to and uninterested in others’ assessment, Gus wept and screamed exultations to God, Who had done exactly as he had requested. Relinquishing his staff, he shuffled waist deep into the Jordan, pounding his chest and arms as though self-flagellation intensified his praise. Bartimaeus moved his small hands across the water’s surface, trying hard to sustain the C above middle C while asking God to protect Paul in the future. He had convinced Gus to help Paul, and now he felt better about things. Of course life for all the Peaces might have been different had he told what he knew, but that was in the past now. His hope at the Jordan was that God would build a fortress around his little brother if he’d purge completely, so Bartimaeus took a step forward, filled his diaphragm with air, and hollered, “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!” until he felt certain that God would honor his plea.

  The two were home by dark. When they entered, Gus retired his cane to the corner, smiled, and said, “It is finished.” Woody retrieved dry clothes and, after father and son changed, they joined the family in the living room and the cleansing of 1954 was history.