Perfect Peace

by Daniel Black

  Paul’s head bowed.

  “You is funny, ain’t you? Everybody says so.”

  “Kick his ass,” Eva Mae murmured.

  Paul stood. “Why don’t you just leave me alone? I ain’t never done nothin’ to you!”

  “Well, answer my question and maybe I will.”

  Eva Mae pounced upon him. Having underestimated her strength, Lee Anthony grabbed her lightly, allowing her to toss him aside and punch his nose until blood flowed from it like the Jordan. Paul watched in amazement. Lee Anthony soon realized he was no match for Eva Mae, so he surrendered with his right hand dripping in blood. “I’ll get you one day, faggot!” he declared to Paul as he shuffled toward the schoolhouse. “Girls can’t take up for you the rest of yo’ life.”

  When Lee Anthony disappeared, Eva Mae turned and slapped Paul’s arm angrily. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” she shrieked.

  “What? What did I do?”

  “Nothin’! That’s the problem!”

  “What was I supposed to do? You definitely didn’t need my help.”

  Eva Mae gasped. “Aw, come on, Paul! You was s’pose to fight him, not me! Didn’t you hear what he asked you? How come you didn’t hit him? You can’t walk around bein’ no sissy! You gotta be a man—one day!”

  “I don’t fight, Eva Mae!”

  “Well, damnit, you better start. I can’t be takin’ up for you like you some helpless li’l punk!”

  He never thought he’d hear Eva Mae call him those names. “I ain’t helpless, Eva Mae, and I ain’t no punk!”

  “Then stop actin’ like one! You big as most of the boys ’round here now. Bigger’n many of ’em. How come you let them treat you like that?”

  “I don’t let them treat me like nothin’! They just do it!”

  “And they gon’ keep on doin’ it ’til you start defendin’ yo’self! You ain’t no girl no more, so stop actin’ like one!”

  Paul’s mouth fell open. “I ain’t actin’ like no girl, Eva Mae! I just didn’t want to fight!”

  “Why not!”

  “ ’Cause I don’t fight. I just don’t.”

  “Well, like I said, you better start ’cause I ain’t fightin’ for you no more.” She brushed her dress.

  “Good! I didn’t ask you to fight for me anyway!”

  Eva Mae walked toward the school. “Just be a man, Paul, okay? If you gon’ be one, then be one!”

  Paul’s hurt settled beneath his skin like a lymphoma cancer. How could she, of all people, call him a punk? She knew his story, knew it better than most, and still she had said those ugly things? If he couldn’t depend on her, who could he depend upon?

  Paul turned his back suddenly to Eva Mae, to the school, to the world, and dashed down the road a bit, crying, “I ain’t no punk! I ain’t!” His arms flailed wildly as his feet stomped the earth. “And I ain’t no sissy! Not now, not ever! You can’t make me be that way!” He grabbed a stick from the ground and began beating the trunk of a mighty pine. “I ain’t nothin’ but a boy, just like any other boy!” Tears flooded his cheeks but he didn’t wipe them away. “And I ain’t no freak!” Had the stick been an ax, the pine would’ve been leveled. “I’m a normal”—wham!—“Negro boy”—wham!—“and nobody’s gonna call me a sissy”—whack!—“ever again!” When the stick broke, Paul tossed the pieces into oblivion and found another one. “You cain’t make me no punk!”—whack!—“ ’Cause that ain’t what I am!”—wham!—“I’m a boy!”—wham!—“A boy!”—wham!—“A BOY!”

  A curious squirrel watched Paul purge. Its head jerked right, then left, seemingly unable to discern the source of his madness. Abandoning the attempt, it scampered away, leaving Paul to complete alone what he had begun. “I’ll never be no sissy again!”—wham!—“Never!”—whack!—“I’ma be a man one day! A man!”

  The screeches, grunts, yelps, and hollers left Paul exhausted. Within minutes, he collapsed to the earth, panting for dear life and fearing that people’s perception of him, like the tree, was immovable. He sighed deeply, unable to think of anything else to do. What difference did it make anyway? Emma Jean always said, Folks gon’ talk about either what you is or what you ain’t, so no need wasting good time trying to make them like you. It never works. They ain’t God noway! Paul agreed, but now felt the loneliness of having been rejected by his only friend, his best friend, his one true confidante. That’s what hurt most. He knew others didn’t care about him, but Eva Mae? Her betrayal stung at the core. He felt weak and tired, like one suddenly drained of the desire to live. Crying had done him no good, and his inability to fight left him as vulnerable as a wounded bird in a forest. What else could he do? Nothing at all, he concluded, so he rose, brushed the seat of his overalls, and, with bowed head, returned to the schoolhouse where, half-listening to Miss Erma drone on about some man named Ralph Waldo Emerson, he sat in misery the remainder of the afternoon.

  Chapter 26

  After school, Paul went to the Jordan. He couldn’t imagine what Gus and Bartimaeus did there, but whatever they did, they returned renewed, and that’s what he needed—a renewal, a rebirth, a fresh start—now that Eva Mae had become like the others. He’d never felt so alone in all his life. He’d also never realized how much he needed Eva Mae. Maybe the Jordan would teach him how to survive without a friend in the world.

  Once arrived, he stood on the bank with folded arms as the breeze massaged his wounded soul. The rains had long since passed, so he certainly couldn’t count on them for assistance, and he was far too shy to wail. He didn’t understand why Gus and Bartimaeus did that anyway.

  The Jordan had a beauty all its own. It wasn’t very wide—fifty yards or so—but its waters rushed as if in a desperate hurry. Fishermen and swimmers alike avoided it until, farther downstream, it spread and calmed into shallower water. Paul bent and submerged his hand in the flow, then jerked it back from the shock of the cold. He was taken by the Jordan’s clarity, as though, from the beginning of time, nothing had been allowed to pollute it. It was so clear that Paul noted huge rocks resting on the bottom, far from shore. The water was clearer than any well in Swamp Creek, and he wondered why people didn’t come to the Jordan for their drinking water. Wild ferns and other greenery covered both banks as far as Paul could see, and he knew now why the flood of 1915 had claimed so many lives. The turbulent rush outgrew its banks, he imagined, and ran in every direction until its thirst for life was satisfied. Only then did it recede and resume its natural flow. It was a mighty stream, a breathtaking wonder, certainly the most scenic place in all of Swamp Creek. Maybe all of Arkansas. Yet, beautiful as it was, Paul felt certain that the Jordan was nothing to play with.

  Walking a few feet downstream, he attempted to skip a stone across the surface of the water, but the Jordan, like a watery black hole, consumed the pebble in a flash. It was as if the waters were angry at the disturbance. “Sorry,” he murmured, then knelt and listened to the song of the current. It was a tumultuous melody, full of chaos and frustration. Had there been words, Paul was sure he could’ve learned the history of Swamp Creek’s people, his people, in the watery uproar. The Jordan would probably have told him everything Gus had ever wept about, and now he would know the inner workings of his father’s heart. But there were no words, so Paul closed his eyes and let the Jordan speak for itself, on its own terms, in its own language. He recalled the day’s events and began to understand finally, though not fully, why Gus came to the Jordan each spring. There was something medicinal in its chaotic melody, something that reminded him of the big picture, of the minutiae of his troubles. It told him that he was human, and that his emotions were a reflection of the God in him. Paul needed that reminder. His life had been a series of mountains and valleys—mostly valleys—where he found himself depressed and inadequate. The moment he conquered one struggle, another appeared, until he resolved that peace would never be his. As much as he tried, he couldn’t seem to please everyone, and, many days, he couldn’t please anyone. There was always
something unsatifying or unsettling about him. Like when he tried not to switch, someone swore they saw his hips sway, regardless of how constrained he walked. Or when he spoke to boys, simply trying to befriend them, someone inevitably accused him of flirting as if he were bold enough to solicit sexual favors from those who despised him. How could he win, he wondered, if people weren’t willing to believe something other than what they already thought about him?

  Paul sighed and opened his eyes. What he liked most about the Jordan was that no one could hinder its flow. It had a mind all its own. Others’ opinions of its size or depth didn’t matter. Only God possessed the power to subvert its course. Whether viewers loved it or not was inconsequential. It was a river, and it was created to flow, and that was exactly what it did. And that’s all it did. That was its purpose, and no one could alter that identity, regardless of what they thought. The Jordan enjoyed a life free from external criticism and that’s what Paul wanted. Isn’t that what everyone wanted?

  Recapping his life, Paul chuckled. How had he survived it all? Since age eight, all he’d heard was “faggot” this and “sissy” that. His family had been helpful sometimes and hurtful other times. They’d meant well though, Paul assumed. Maybe others had, too. Yet, when he thought about it, no one had stood with him every step of the way. Not Eva Mae, not Authorly, not even Emma Jean. She’d always loved him and was careful to say so, but after the transition, she surrendered him to the men and turned a blind eye, it seemed to Paul, to his pain and abuse. Paul never saw Emma Jean’s tears drip onto her pillow at night or heard the muffled whimpering when her guilt became unbearable. He thought she’d simply made a decision and never looked back. Questioning her about it would’ve been useless, he determined, since no explanation would’ve justified what she’d done. Some days he still considered running away, but what good would that do now? It wouldn’t change people’s opinion of him, and it wouldn’t keep him from being—what did others call it?—funny. Funny? Paul shook his head slowly. How in the world was he funny? What was funny about being mocked and ridiculed and sent to hell? And who actually laughed about it?

  Paul’s life had changed the night Gus thought he might die from the fever. Even after having beaten and demeaned him, Gus still loved him and that’s all Paul needed to know—that his daddy still loved him. He was the only man whose opinion mattered—at least before Johnny Ray came along—and Gus’s affirmation freed Paul to consider that he might, in fact, survive as a man. Gus had survived when others thought he wouldn’t, so Paul planned to do the same. Dying simply wasn’t an option. Paul didn’t know how to die anyway.

  He stood and he felt better. He didn’t know why, but it seemed as if the Jordan had done something to his spirit, or for his spirit, and he resolved to make it, if only to prove the world wrong. Emma Jean used to say that he was a perfect child, a God child, and if it had ever been true, then Paul considered that it might still be. Like the Jordan, he had to ignore what others said about him and simply be himself. Sol had said this the day he left. “But who am I?” Paul asked the rushing waters. The Jordan didn’t answer. Obviously, he’d have to figure this out for himself.

  With his satchel clutched in his left hand, Paul walked away. He was grateful for the Jordan’s cleansing power and vowed to return if he needed to. Pressing through the woods, he stumbled upon the pathway home, and that’s when his newfound clarity disintegrated into total chaos.

  It all happened so fast. In the weeks to come, he couldn’t order the sequence of events in a way that made sense. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t recall exactly which thing occurred first. Or last. Had he been able to do so, he could’ve retraced the moment, he convinced himself, and understood. At least maybe. The only thing he remembered clearly was the initial attack.

  Like a pack of wild wolves, the bodies descended upon him and wrestled him to the earth. He tried to fight—unlike in the schoolyard—and wielded more strength than he thought he had. “Stop!” he shouted before they stuffed the funky white sock in his mouth and covered his eyes with a heavy strip of cloth. All subsequent screams were muted as Paul struggled in utter darkness. His strength soon faded, however, allowing them to tie his wrists behind his back. They hadn’t counted on such a fight. Maybe he had some man in him after all.

  “Don’t!”

  The trees, sky, road swirled about him as the multiple sets of hands restricted his movement. There were at least four assailants. He could tell that much. Some hands were bigger and heavier than others, and one set quivered as though aware it was participating in an evil thing.

  “Fuckin’ freak!” a voice whispered. The others quickly shushed him. This was a secret, something not to be known. Paul tried frantically to turn his head in hopes of seeing his violators, but, each time, they pressed his face harder into the rough, coarse earth. He was too afraid to cry.

  Suddenly, Paul felt the button of his trousers snap. “No! Please don’t!” he screamed into the sock, but of course it was useless. His head twisted hysterically as someone jerked his pants away from his flesh. Fighting more fiercely than before, he attempted against all odds to toss the weight from his slender frame, but he simply didn’t have the strength. Who were these people and why were they doing this to him? He wondered. He knew they were boys. They had to be. Girls never did things like this. Not that he’d ever heard of. And even if they did, the only girl strong enough to hold him down was Eva Mae, and of course this wasn’t her doing. She’d save him if she were there, Paul told himself, like she had done earlier. Sure, she’d been upset that he hadn’t defended himself, but she wouldn’t ever let anyone do this to him, would she? She was his best friend. At least she used to be. No, she still was, Paul decided, and he needed her now more than ever.

  One lone tear inched its way down Paul’s dirty, marred cheek. His last muffled cry—“Oh God, no!”—never reached the ears of his abusers. They were too preoccupied with achieving the goal at hand.

  When the elastic waistband of Paul’s underwear gave way and slid across his rounded buttocks, he knew he had been defeated. The cool evening breeze, drifting between his bare thighs, brought attention to his nakedness and caused him to shiver with panic. What were they doing?

  As abruptly as they had overwhelmed him, they flipped him over. “That ain’t no pussy!” the voice from before declared. “That’s a goddamn dick!” The others recoiled in horror. Now they knew the truth. Paul was a boy. Emma Jean hadn’t lied after all.

  The truth infuriated the boys more than the rumor had. They recalled how Paul always took refuge in Eva Mae’s protection and how his flawless, chesnut-colored skin glimmered in the bright, morning sun, and they began beating him mercilessly. From one side of his face to the other, unexpected blows fell upon him, leaving intersecting streams of blood. Someone’s foot, a bit less intense than the fists, kicked his thighs repeatedly until they went numb. Where was Authorly? Sol? Gus? Emma Jean? Somebody?

  When the commotion ended, Paul thought the worst was behind him. He tried to stand, with his pants and underwear gathered about his ankles, but the boys leveled him to the earth again. His eyes throbbed, as though attempting to jump from their sockets, and he was sure his lip was busted in several places. Lying upon his stomach once more, he begged God to make those evil boys vanish, but God wouldn’t do it. Was it because he wasn’t saved? He’d thought he was, but maybe he wasn’t. If he had been, none of this would be happening, right? Salvation to Paul meant that one was protected, guarded, exempted—as it were—from Satan’s plan, and now he knew he’d never been saved. Had he been, God would’ve caused him to sprout wings like an angel and fly away. Or He would’ve killed those beasts on the spot or sent a giant like Goliath to consume them. He would’ve done something. At the very least He would’ve told them that Paul was His child and that he was not to be violated. But God didn’t say or do anything, precisely because, Paul thought, he’d never truly believed. Or never gotten delivered. Now, in the midst of trouble, Paul trembled and apologi
zed for having fallen far short of God’s glory.

  In a flash, one of the boys descended upon him from behind, and Paul belted a desperate scream—“NO!”—that sounded like a thousand wounded buffalo. Birds, insects, deer, lizards, and squirrels scampered away in fear. His body quivered as the boy attempted to enter him. Death? Oh, Mr. Death? Where are you? Come, and come quickly. I ain’t scared no more. I need you. Please, please come.

  The boys heard rustling nearby and stopped. Paul felt the load lift from him as suddenly as it had descended, then heard feet rush away into the heavy, sad night.

  His saliva tasted like bile. The insertion had only lasted a few seconds, but its memory would linger a lifetime. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt dirty and nasty, like someone had pissed and shit all over him. How would he ever feel clean again? All the soap and water in the world couldn’t wash that feeling away. Paul never heard the boys say, “He ain’t no girl, but he’s certainly a bitch!” as they slapped each other’s palms excitedly. They’d planned to do other things, but the rustling in the woods had frightened them and altered those plans. Oh well, they thought. He got the point.

  But Paul didn’t have the point. Why had they done this? Who were they? What had he done to deserve something like this? He knew what folks believed about him, and he knew that most of it wasn’t true. What more could he have done to prove himself worthy of human respect? He never said much to anyone—except Eva Mae—and he tried his best to stay out of people’s way. That wasn’t enough?

  He inhaled and tried, though he failed, to lift himself from the earth. Someone scampered behind him and, with hands warm and strong, bore him up as though he were dead. Paul leaned heavily upon the angel’s shoulders as he felt his underwear and pants restored. The angel then untied his hands, removed the blindfold, and lifted him, like a groom hoists a bride, carrying Paul home with swift urgency. Under the moonlight, still semiconscious, Paul couldn’t discern who the stranger was although he guessed it was a man. He wanted to say thank you and maybe offer the money in the coffer for his trouble, but Paul hadn’t the energy or the will to speak. As they approached home, the man’s deep, soothing voice hissed, “Shhhhhhhhhh” into Paul’s left ear. Laying him gently on the porch, he said, “You ain’t gotta die. ’Less you want to cain’t nobody kill you. Not you.” Paul blinked several times and beheld Sugar Baby’s soft, scruffy face. His smile was different, as though he knew something Paul didn’t. And why didn’t he reek of alcohol like he usually did?