by Daniel Black
Within a week, they were roommates. School was harder than Sol had imagined. Reading was no problem, but algebra kept him up late at night. Walter explained what he could, but much of it Sol simply didn’t get. Sometimes Professor Everett tutored him after class until he had to report to the dining hall. He used his lunch break for studying, and Mr. Pace declared, “Son, you ’bout de hardest workin’ somebody I ever knowed! You gon’ make it.” In a letter to his folks, he reported that he was in college and doing all right. He hoped he hadn’t lied.
Dr. Johnson summoned Sol to his office at the end of the semester.
“Have a seat, son.”
Sol sat uneasily. Dr. Johnson’s tone unnerved him.
“I took a chance on you back at the beginning of the school year. Is that right?”
“Yessir.”
“What was our agreement?”
Sol shuddered. “Our agreement was that I had to get really good grades from my classes in order to go here officially.”
“That’s right. How do you think you did?”
“Um . . . I don’t know, sir. I studied really hard and I think I did okay. My math class was really hard though.”
Dr. Johnson reclined in his seat. “Well, I asked all your teachers to report your final grades directly to me. Here they are.” He extended a folded sheet of paper.
Before Sol looked, he repeated, “I worked really hard, Dr. Johnson. I swear I did. Mr. Pace’ll tell you—”
Dr. Johnson was unmoved. “Look for yourself.”
Sol unfolded the paper and saw three As and one B.
Dr. Johnson smiled and stood. “Congratulations, Mr. King Solomon Peace. You are now officially a student at Howard University.”
Sol grabbed his head like James Earl and screamed, “Oh my God! Are you serious? Oh my God! Yes! Yes!” He leapt around Dr. Johnson’s office, shouting, “Yes! Yes!” until the secretary peeked through the door, wondering what all the noise was about. “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just so excited!”
Dr. Johnson laughed. “You’ve done well, son. Your folks would be proud. You’re a credit to your people, and I have no doubt you’ll go on to do great things.”
“Yessir!” Sol was grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
“Now one more thing. I’m recommending you for the university scholarship. It’ll cover your room, board, and tuition until you graduate, provided you keep your grades up.”
“What? Are you for real, Dr. Johnson?”
“Of course I’m for real, son. I don’t play about education.”
Sol shook his head in disbelief. “I’m gon’ make you proud, Dr. Johnson. I promise I will.”
“You already have, son. You might have grown up poor, but somebody taught you enough about hard work to make sure you’d survive anywhere in the world. That’s the greatest gift a parent can give a child.”
Sol thought about Gus. “Yessir.”
“Then it’s settled. You have a merry Christmas and I’ll see you next semester.”
Sol found Walter and jumped all over him.
“What’s wrong with you, man?”
“I’m in! I’m in! Look!”
Walter glanced at the paper. “All right, man!” he cried, and tossed his arms around King Solomon.
The two remained roommates until 1957 when Walter graduated and went on to medical school. Sol finished the following year, summa cum laude, and pursued a graduate degree in psychology. It had been his favorite subject. He loved learning why people do what they do, and he yearned earnestly to comprehend the mind-set of people like Emma Jean Peace.
Gus wanted to attend the graduation but couldn’t afford to. Three dollars and forty-eight cents—the total in the coffer—would barely get him to Little Rock, much less Washington, D.C. The rains were recently past anyway, so he knew his crops would soon need his attention.
Emma Jean never considered going—what kind of hypocrite would she have been?—but she wanted to do something, so she emptied the coffer into Authorly’s hands, added her own personal money from selling hen eggs, and told him what to do. After traveling all day and night, Authorly pressed his way to the commencement ceremony and screamed, “Yeah, Sol! We love you, man!” when King Solomon received his degree. Sol turned abruptly, searching the massive audience for the familiar voice. When their eyes met, he ran from the stage as Authorly plowed his way through the crowd, crying for the first time in his life. Too overwhelmed to speak, Sol leapt into his big brother’s arms and they wept together until Sol’s soul was made whole again.
Chapter 25
King Solomon’s graduation confirmed to Woody, somehow, that God had called him to preach. He had been reading the Bible for months just because, he said, and something about Sol’s commencement invitation corroborated that he was supposed to be in the pulpit.
“I have an announcement to make, church,” Reverend Lindsey said the Sunday after Sol graduated. “I know everyone remembers Sol Peace, the real smart one o’ de Peace bunch, who left here years ago on his way to college.”
Some murmured that they didn’t know he had left. Others nodded merely as protocol.
“Well, I’m glad to announce that he has just graduated from Howard University at the top of his class.”
The congregation cheered.
“I understand that he’s pursuing a graduate degree in psychology, is that right?”
Emma Jean stood and nodded.
“Well, bless the Lord!” the Reverend said. “I always knew one of these children ’round here was gon’ make us proud.” Miss Mamie gave Emma Jean the fakest smile she could muster.
“There’s another surprise from the Peace family.” He motioned for Woody to join him on the pulpit. “I’m proud to announce that Woody here has been called to the ministry.”
Thunderous applause echoed throughout the sanctuary. Gus and Emma Jean beamed. They had suspected as much, wondering why Woody had been reading the Bible all of a sudden.
At his trial sermon a week later, Woody opened with “There was a black man who had lived a righteous life, so God told him he could have anything he desired. Well, he asked God if he could have a highway to heaven. God frowned and told him that that would be kinda difficult, since a highway to heaven would have to float in midair, so He asked the man to think of something a bit more reasonable. The man sat awhile and then said, ‘Oh yeah, God! I got somethin’. How ’bout You explain to me why white folks treat Negroes the way they do. I always wondered that.’ God nodded to the man and said, ‘Two lanes or four?’ ”
People’s laughter reverberated throughout the church. Woody even laughed at himself.
Then, without transition, text, topic, or introduction, he told his neighbors about the power of the blood. “It cleanses the sin-sick soul, ha! It makes the wounded whole, ha! It sets the captives free, ha! It gives slaves liberty, ha! It destroys what the devil, ha, I said the devil, ha, thought he had established!”
Congregants shouted in emotional ecstasy. Woody abandoned the pulpit and walked the aisles.
“Without the blood, there is no remission of sins, ha! Without the blood, ha, we’d all be doomed to the burnin’ hellfire, ha! It was the blood of Jesus, ha, streamin’ down that old rugged cross, ha, that gives us everlastin’ life, ha!”
“Yes, Lord!”
Folks drooled, screamed, shouted, and fainted as Woody discovered the alluring power of the black church pulpit. He had never experienced anything like it. Not even the Laughins in the front yard. Paul and Eva Mae sat mesmerized, smiling at Woody who, just days ago, didn’t mean much, but now stood as the messenger of God. He would get married soon, Paul assumed, since he had never met an unmarried preacher, and he hoped that, as a heavenly representative, Woody could answer a few of the zillion questions he had about God and the Bible. Like why God made some people strange and some people regular. Or why He let people have kids who didn’t want them. Yes, he’d ask Woody about that later. For now, he was proud that his brother’s oratorical ski
lls were being used for something other than mannish clowning.
“Lawd, that boy sho did preach, didn’t he!” Miss Mamie said after the benediction. “Who woulda thought that one o’ de Peace boys would ever preach de Word? De Lawd shonuff works in mysterious ways, don’t He?”
At home that evening, Paul declared, “Wow, Woody! Man! You was real good at church today. Real good.”
Woody grinned. “It wunnit me, praise the Lord! It was the God in me.”
“Everybody was hollerin’ and stuff, and me and Eva Mae was clappin’ the whole time. I ain’t neva seen church on fire like that!”
“Well, that’s what happens when you let de Lawd use you. He’ll use you, too, if you let Him. It might not be in the pulpit, but He’ll shonuff use you.”
Paul didn’t want to be used by anyone. “I wanna ask you somethin’.”
“Okay. Go ’head.”
Paul wasn’t sure why he hesitated. “Why does God make some people different from everybody else?”
Woody shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s a mysterious God. His ways ain’t our ways, and His thoughts ain’t our thoughts. You just gotta trust Him. And believe on Him. He’ll bring you through every time. I’m a livin’ witness!”
Paul grimaced. Had Woody answered his question somewhere in the midst of all that useless verbiage? He tried again.
“But why don’t God just make everybody the same so nobody can make fun of nobody else?”
“You can’t question God, Paul. You just gotta accept Him in yo’ heart and let Him change yo’ life. Weepin’ may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. Don’t never forget that.”
Huh?
“You got any more questions?”
“Yeah.” Paul swallowed. “How you get saved?”
“You confess with yo’ mouth that Jesus was raised from the dead and believe it in your heart.”
“But how would I know if Jesus was raised from the dead?”
“ ’Cause the Bible says so.”
“I ain’t never read the Bible.”
“You don’t have to. Just believe it. It’s in there. I promise.”
“What’ll happen if I don’t get saved? Ain’t there some people who don’t gotta be saved? And what is you saved from?”
“From burnin’ in hell! That’s what you saved from!”
Reverend Lindsey had preached countless sermons about a place where people burn forever because they don’t believe—although Paul never knew precisely what they were supposed to have believed—and now the fire in Woody’s eyes frightened Paul even more than Reverend Lindsey’s brimstone.
“You just need to pray, boy. God’ll answer all yo’ questions.”
God’s voice had proven difficult for Paul to hear. “Cain’t you answer ’em?”
“No, I cain’t, ’cause you askin’ carnal stuff, and I’m a holy man. You sound like a fool, but I know you mean well.” Woody stood to leave.
Paul blurted, “I wanna be saved.”
“You cain’t be saved yet, boy. Not while you still a sissy. You gotta get delivered from that first.”
“I been tryin’! What else can I do?”
“Pray and ask the Lawd to deliver you. He’ll do it! I know He will!”
“I done asked God a thousand times!”
“Well, obviously you ain’t been sincere. If you was, He woulda done it by now.”
“I thought all you had to do was believe in Him?”
“You do gotta believe, but you cain’t be no sissy. You gotta get rid of that before He can do anything with you. He hates sissies.”
“Oh. I didn’t think God hated anybody.”
Woody smiled. “You don’t know Him yet, boy.”
“But don’t you gotta be baptized or somethin’, too?”
“No! You only gotta be baptized if you gon’ join the church.”
“So can somebody be saved who don’t go to church?”
“No!” Woody shouted, irritated. “The Bible say everybody gotta go to church.”
“But what if somebody get saved, but then don’t wanna go to church?”
“Then they ain’t saved!”
“Why not? You said—”
“Listen, Paul! You don’t know nothin’ ’bout God ’cause you ain’t read yo’ Bible.”
“I know I wanna be saved. I don’t wanna burn in no fire forever.”
“Then pray and ask God to deliver you from what you is. And really mean it this time.”
Paul thought he’d meant it every time.
“Ask God to make you clean. I know you been tryin’. He’ll save you one day—soon as you get delivered. Keep fightin’. It won’t take long.”
Woody walked away.
Paul closed his eyes and said, “God, I hope You can hear me. I don’t really understand everything Woody said, but I know I wanna be saved. I don’t wanna burn in hellfire forever.” He paused, but didn’t open his eyes. “Will you take the rest of the sissy out of me? Please?” Paul waited, but didn’t feel anything. Maybe he didn’t believe, he considered. He’d certainly tried, but believing was hard when there was no proof. How could he be asked to believe what no one could prove?
Paul went to bed troubled and unsatisfied. Would he ever be saved? He loved God in his heart, but obviously that wasn’t enough to save his soul. He’d never wanted to be a sissy—had tried desperately to avoid it—but he must not have tried hard enough, he thought. Woody’s words left him despondent and less sure than ever that God even liked him. The day would come when he’d need a savior and, on that day, when the savior didn’t come, Paul would regret that, years ago, he had never learned how to believe.
With Sol gone and Woody lost in religious rhetoric, Paul became withdrawn and reticent. He and Eva Mae wrote notes to each other in class, but they stopped going to the field of clovers. Most days, he went straight home after school, performing chores with a silent disposition that soon accompanied him everywhere.
By eighteen, his transition into masculinity was as complete as it ever would be. He still switched slightly and never garnered any male friends, but his self-esteem was better than it had ever been since the death of Perfect. Or the birth of Paul. Memories of girlhood days had waned, and, more than anything, he wanted to be left alone. He didn’t want to be alone; he simply wanted adults to treat him like they treated everyone else. With simple nods of acknowledgment and invitations to “come by and see me sometime.” He wanted his peers, especially Johnny Ray, to stop avoiding him and to know that he was just as much a boy as the next. Well, almost. The urge to dress in girls’ clothes had disappeared, after that day in the barn when Gus put the fear of God in him, and once he’d recovered from the fever, Paul tried hard to say and do things that would make Gus proud. He didn’t want to cook with Emma Jean anymore, and he learned to restrain his normal overflow of tears. The only thing he missed was someone else confirming his worth. No one mentioned how precious he was—like they had said of Perfect—and he was left to believe that, as a boy, he didn’t matter. Only Emma Jean reminded him that he was still beautiful, although menfolk taught him to reject such comments. “Boys ain’t pretty, Emma Jean!” Gus interjected each time she said it. “They either handsome or nothin’ at all.” Paul was afraid to ask to which category he belonged, so he began studying his face in the mirror, hoping to discover those features that would qualify him as handsome. Being called “handsome,” however, didn’t feel the same as having been called “pretty.” Paul discovered that when people said “pretty,” they meant something or someone innately endowed with traits found pleasing to the eye. Like when a forest dweller happens upon a rare, purple blossom. He marvels at it, then considers its creation as a manifestation of the divine God. Its beauty is simply the fact that it exists. It needs no enhancing or modification. “Handsome,” Paul discovered, is a designation used for those people or things that are well put together. A shiny car, for instance, can be handsome. Or a well-built house. Or a man in a suit. Something abou
t the compliment didn’t feel as authentic as the former declarations of his beauty. It was as though men could be handsome, if they were willing to make the sacrifice, whereas pretty women had been sent from heaven that way.
He knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t ugly. Folks in Swamp Creek had expressions, both facial and vocal, for those whom they deemed unattractive. “That Redfield boy? The middle one? Lord have mercy! That child looks like homemade sin!” Miss Mamie said each time she beheld him. Others apparently agreed. They’d shake their heads, observing him from a distance, undoubtedly thanking God their children didn’t look like him. What did homemade sin look like anyway, Paul wondered. People never said these things about him. As Perfect, she had been affirmed by women and men as a carrier of beauty. Now, as Paul, his caramel, flawless complexion was spoken of only in private by women, and men acted as though they didn’t notice. The balanced nature of his facial features rendered most silent with envy. The truth was that he was a bit too beautiful for most people’s liking. Authorly kept Paul’s hair neat and orderly, and his extra-bushy, perfectly arched eyebrows accented soft, sensual, deep-set, dark brown eyes as though he wore eyeliner. In his teenage years, Paul’s face lost its roundness, revealing sharp cheekbones and full, puckered lips that made others look at him longer than they intended. Most agreed, silently, that Paul Peace was a pretty colored boy. Yet, because of his history, they didn’t dare say it.
Lee Anthony Redfield approached Paul and Eva Mae one day during lunch. The two were sitting on the grass beneath the only tree in the schoolyard.
“Hey, funny boy,” Lee Anthony called. His face showed no emotion. He was short for his age, five foot three, and couldn’t have weighed more than 120 pounds. Eva Mae had anticipated the day someone would beat the rudeness out of him.
“Shut up!” Eva Mae shouted, and stood. “He ain’t botherin’ you, so just leave us alone!” She waited for Paul to stand his ground.
“I ain’t talkin’ to you,” Lee Anthony said. “I’m talkin’ to Perfect.”