by Daniel Black
“Didn’t I!” Emma Jean sassed. “But, really, it wunnit nothin’. He had to have somethin’ to wear to the dance.”
Mister smiled beyond his hurt. “I hope Christina got a real pretty dress, ’cause if she don’t, you gon’ make her look bad!”
The family laughed as Mister exited to feed the chickens.
“I appreciate this, Momma,” Paul said, peering into Emma Jean’s eyes. “You didn’t have to do it.”
“Well, of course I did. You deserve it. And, anyway, it ain’t nothin’. I just want you to be happy.” She kissed Paul’s cheek and became giddy, temporarily forgetting the price she’d soon have to pay. For now, his joy was the point and that alone was her pleasure.
“Don’t get it dirty, son. We sho ain’t got no money to clean it. Take it off and go hang it back up. You’ll get to wear it soon enough.”
After obeying his mother, Paul joined the others at the kitchen table and said, “You musta sat up all night sewing.”
“Don’t you worry ’bout that. You jes’ focus on yo’ part and I’ll always make sure I take care o’ mine.”
“I didn’t even know you could sew.”
“Well, like I said, don’t you worry ’bout that. What you don’t know could make another world, chile.” She placed the scrambled eggs on the table and extracted biscuits from the oven.
Paul imagined the look on his peers’ faces when he appeared at the dance. He hadn’t been this anxious since seeing the chocolate-covered lemon cake on his eighth birthday. He couldn’t wait for Johnny Ray to see him. Maybe then he’d speak.
“Well, y’all come on and eat,” Emma Jean called, placing chipped plates and mismatched cutlery on the table. “Where did Mister go?”
“He went to feed the chickens,” Woody said.
Gus frowned. “It don’t take nobody this long to feed no chickens. Paul, go get yo’ brother and tell him to come on and let’s eat.”
Glancing around outside, Paul called for Mister but didn’t see him. Before reentering the house, he saw Mister’s shirttail disappear into the nearby forest. “Mister!” he screamed, but Mister never turned. What was he going into the woods for? Paul stood on the porch momentarily, staring at the space where Mister had vanished. He felt awkward, as though having witnessed something he shouldn’t have. He decided not to mention anything to the others and to ask Mister about it later.
“I didn’t see him,” Paul said, and took his seat at the table.
“Well, he’ll just have to eat later,” Emma Jean said. “Gus, bless the food before it gets cold.”
Mister hoped the family would ignore his absence long enough for him to do what he needed to do. At twenty-one, against everyone’s prediction, he had blossomed into the most virile, physically desirable of the Peace boys—even beyond Paul—and most agreed that his only rival was Johnny Ray Youngblood. His chiseled chest, arms, abs, and thighs caused Authorly to say, upon viewing Mister’s naked torso, “Boy, you done got fine as hell!” His entire childhood was filled with visions of leaving home and moving to a place where he had his own bed and maybe even his own room. But what would Gus and Emma Jean do without him? Woody would leave soon, he thought, and Bartimaeus was useless, for the most part. Paul would probably go to college since he had gone to high school, so Mister feared his escape would mean the starvation of his parents. Gus would always work, Mister knew, but, with a stubborn hip, he certainly couldn’t work the farm alone, and, since the fire, Emma Jean’s productivity had never quite rebounded. Yet the real reason Mister stayed, the reason churning in his soul, went far beyond the welfare of his parents, or his brothers’ future. In fact, a year or so later when Bartimaeus married and moved out, shortly after Woody, Mister cried. Not because of some fraternal longing, but because along with Bartimaeus went the cover for the truth of Mister’s stagnation. No one understood why such a handsome young man didn’t take a wife and raise countless children the way other southern black men did. But he couldn’t tell it—not if he wanted to live in Swamp Creek—for had he followed his heart, he would have announced to the world his love for Johnny Ray Youngblood. Women—including Emma Jean—had worshiped Johnny Ray so much that, as a child, Mister wanted to be like him and, as an adult, he wanted to be with him. Maybe Emma Jean would have approved, Mister considered, happy that Johnny Ray found at least one of her children desirable, but Mister wouldn’t have dared to mention such a thing. In various sermons, Woody made the community’s position on sexuality quite clear, calling same-sex attraction a disease, an abomination, a reproach to humanity as the congregation shouted, “Amen!” The last thing Mister wanted was to be the source of familial shame. He was certain Gus knew nothing of homosexuality—he knew about sissies, but that was different—and mentioning as much would surely have incited unbridled confusion in an already mentally fragile man. So Mister hid in his parents’ house, trying frantically, on bended knees, to pray away desires that seemed only to intensify. Out of sheer desperation, he confessed his struggle to Paul the evening of the day Emma Jean unveiled the suit, believing that, if anyone would love him unconditionally, Paul would.
“Where’d you go this morning? I saw you run off in the woods.”
Mister closed his eyes. “I had to meet somebody.”
“In the woods?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Mister sighed. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay. Go ’head. What is it?”
“Well . . .”
“Just say it. You can tell me anything.”
Mister huffed and said, “I have . . . um . . . feelings for boys.”
“What!”
“Shhhhhh. Be quiet, man. I ain’t tryin’ to tell the whole world.”
Paul was lost somewhere between surprise and curiosity.
“I jes’ can’t help it. God knows I tried. I don’t know where the feelings come from and I sho don’t know how to get rid of ’em. I wish I could. I done asked God to take ’em away, but He won’t do it.”
Paul bit his fingernails.
“Say something, please. Anything.”
“I don’t know what to say, Mister.”
“Ain’t you never had no feelings for a boy? I thought that maybe you had, considerin’ everything you been through.”
“Naw, I ain’t never had no feelings for a boy. Not like that.” Paul hated himself for lying.
“No? Really?” Mister glanced at Paul in disbelief, then shrugged. “Well, I don’t know what to do.”
“And I don’t know what to tell you.” Why, he wondered, hadn’t he trusted Mister as much as Mister had trusted him?
“Sometimes when we sittin’ in the NAACP meetins or goin’ ’round talkin’ to folks, I can’t hardly concentrate for lookin’ at Johnny Ray.”
“Johnny Ray!” Paul shouted.
“Yeah. Johnny Ray Youngblood. You know Johnny Ray, right?”
“I know him.” Paul feared he couldn’t hide his disappointment.
“I try to get him outta my mind, but most times I can’t.”
“Johnny Ray?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothin’.”
“You actin’ like it’s somethin’.”
“Oh no. It ain’t nothin’. Really. I’m just a little surprised, I guess. He seems so . . . I don’t know . . . quiet.” Paul became dazed.
“Well, he’s the one.”
Oh no, Paul thought. This can’t be.
He’d never tell anyone about his feelings for Johnny Ray now, and he assumed it wouldn’t matter anyway. Johnny Ray wanted Mister, and Paul didn’t know how to abort the contempt growing in his heart. What does Mister have that I don’t? he wondered. And what is it about me that Johnny Ray doesn’t like? His brows furrowed as he realized that the man he’d always wanted, the only one his mother might’ve approved of, loved his brother instead. He couldn’t imagine what they did out there in the woods, but he knew they must have been driven by love, for had anyone c
aught them, their own fathers would have hanged them.
“We can’t live this way,” Mister whispered into Johnny Ray’s mouth. They sat on the edge of a tree stump.
“I know. I know,” Johnny Ray said, caressing Mister’s thick brows with his thumbs.
“And we can’t keep meeting like this. What if somebody sees us?”
Johnny Ray sighed. “I’d just tell ’em how much I love you. And why.”
Mister stood. “This ain’t funny!”
“I ain’t makin’ no joke.”
“We can’t live like this!” Mister repeated.
“Then leave me,” Johnny Ray said matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“If you so tortured, just leave me and let’s be done with it.”
Mister resumed his seat. “I never said I was tortured.”
“Well, you act like it.”
“I’m sorry, man. I just don’t want this . . . this thing between us to get out.”
“It can’t long as we keep quiet. Anyway, if it did, we’d just have to confess our love for each other. To hell with what the rest of the world thinks. I’d even give up the organization if I had to in order to be with you.”
“It ain’t that easy, and you know it. What would your father say?”
Johnny Ray hesitated. “You right. He wouldn’t be happy.”
“Happy? He’d kill both of us. And my father would help him.”
“Well, let’s just take it one day at a time.”
“That’s what we been doin’.”
“You got a better plan?”
They held hands and dreamed of different, though equally liberating scenarios in which people celebrated their union. Neither thought of quaint cottages surrounded by blooming violas or a wedding akin to anything Emma Jean had once dreamed for Perfect. They weren’t even sure if two men could marry. Certainly they had never heard of such a thing. And certainly not in Arkansas. To think of it occurring in the church was even more challenging—until they remembered that drunkards, liars, whores, divorcées, and non-virgins married in churches all the time. So, even though preachers denounced men lying with men, Mister and Johnny Ray guessed that if they simply claimed to love God, like everybody else did, they, too, might be joined in holy matrimony in the Lord’s house.
But that hope was for another day. For now, they simply fought to envision a life, a forever and ever, free from degradation. Mister wished he were Paul, with a mother who would give anything to secure his happiness. Even as a child, Mister knew that Paul—Perfect back then—was the parental favorite, and maybe that’s when he began to long for Paul’s life. As a girl, she had gotten all the pretty things, including her own room, while Mister and the others were treated as ordinary, disposable vagabonds. For every dress, she had matching accessories, although one pair of pants and an old hand-me-down shirt was apparently sufficient for the boys. He wanted to be special like Perfect, but boys weren’t supposed to be special. Authorly told him constantly that to be jealous of Perfect was tantamount to sissihood, so Mister learned to ignore his feelings. Even the suit, which Emma Jean handcrafted for Paul, was more than anything Mister had ever gotten from her. He was always made to feel insignificant and unworthy, and as long as he stayed in that house, he knew he’d always feel that way.
Some days, Mister wished he was Authorly. He was the one Emma Jean adored. Once, when Authorly cursed her about having opened his mail, Mister overheard Emma Jean say, “Now that’s a man who don’t take no stuff!” Mister’s desire to please her, which manifested in an impeccable reputation and a sweet, kind disposition, only repulsed her, causing her to ask on ocassion, “Why don’t you be a man sometimes?”
His only option, he thought, was to leave and take Johnny Ray with him. Where they’d go he didn’t know, but he’d find someplace out in the world where he could live unashamed. He had worked hard all his life for people’s approval, and had gotten it—everyone’s except his mother’s. Now he had to figure out how not to need it.
Chapter 31
“Gus! Boys!” W. C. shouted frantically from the road the following Sunday morning. “Come give us a hand! The Redfield house is on fire! Hurry up!” It was dawn.
The Peace men leapt from the table and stumbled out the door, buckling overalls and zipping pants all the while. Even Bartimaeus scurried along, unsure of what he could do, yet determined to do something.
“Get the buckets from the barn!” Gus yelled to Woody. “Run!”
Mister and Paul were amazed that their speed and stamina were no match for their father’s. On an ordinary day, they would’ve bet him top dollar that they could outsprint him, and now they knew they would’ve lost badly. When they arrived, Gus was already amid the other men, slinging streams of water onto a virtual inferno.
“Grab a bucket and come on!” Gus screamed.
Within minutes, the house was totally engulfed in flames. Paul drew water from the well as the others dashed it onto the burning structure. His arms ached from the constant lowering and pulling of the chain, but as long as they were trying, he knew he couldn’t quit. There were at least twenty men present, and all of them moved as if the house were their own. They knew their efforts were useless; anyone could see that. The blaze was simply too hot to battle. Those at the end of the line were tossing more water on the ground than on the fire, but they had to try.
Once exhaustion took its toll, W. C. stepped back and said, “Let it go, boys. Ain’t no use.”
The men dropped their buckets and moved away with bowed heads. Frank Cunningham told Gus, “It’s a shame, man. That whole family’s gone.”
Paul stumbled and fell. “What do you mean ‘gone’?” he cried. “Nobody was in there, was it?”
Gus motioned for Mister to assist Paul.
“All of ’em were in there, son,” Frank said. “By the time we got here, wasn’t nothin’ nobody could do.”
Paul leaned on Mister and trembled. “Oh my God.” He tried not to look weak in the company of men. “All of ’em?”
“That’s right. It’s a sad day, but you can’t question the ways of God. He knows best.”
Paul thought of Lee Anthony and his brothers, sitting in school, making fun of him, and he shivered at the thought of them consumed in a ball of fire. He imagined how they must’ve screamed and fought to get out, running to doors and windows, which apparently barred their way. He could see Lee Anthony, with his bulged eyes and protruding forehead, searching desperately for a way of escape, but finding none. Paul wondered if their screams had been heard, if maybe Sugar Baby had been awakened by strange screeching he couldn’t understand. But Sugar Baby was nowhere to be found, and since the surrounding trees couldn’t talk, Paul resolved that he’d never know.
Yet someone knew. She was standing just in the shadow of the forest, watching the men grieve in their silent, stoic manner. She wanted to comfort Paul, to tell him that, now, his abusers would never touch him again, but fearing exposure, she remained nestled among the trees. It hadn’t been as bad as the men imagined, she thought. In fact, it had all happened rather quickly. The fire wasn’t supposed to claim the entire family. It was only meant for the boys. Yet it took on a mind of its own, consuming everything and everyone in its path. Fires do that sometimes, she thought. But those boys had to pay. It was only right. They had violated her best friend—Caroline had overheard them boasting about it and she’d told Eva Mae—and it was her job to make them pay since Paul couldn’t do it. He was too embarrassed, and she understood why. But someone had to. You can’t treat people like that and get away with it, she justified in her heart. Especially someone like Paul who had never bothered anybody. He deserved love and friendship and kindness, so for those boys who did what they did, they deserved what they got. The whole family did. None of them were innocent. If they had raised those boys right, she thought, they would’ve known to respect other people and they wouldn’t have called Paul those mean, hurtful names. They definitely wouldn’t have beaten and tou
ched him that day. The oldest boy, whom none of them even knew, had participated without ever having encountered Paul. Ain’t that the devil? So she sent them all to hell forever and ever, amen.
Sugar Baby had awakened to the smell of smoke. He dashed outside and followed the scent until he saw flames billowing from the Redfield house. His first instinct was to run inside and save whomever he could, but the blaze blocked his way. He then ran to the back of the house and saw, through a window, the faces of the same boys he had beheld beating Gus’s youngest boy that night. Still, he would’ve helped them if he could’ve, but the window was too high to reach. He thought to search the barn for a ladder, but suddenly his mind returned him to the dusky evening on the road leading to the Jordan River. And he relaxed and watched them writhe in agony. God was collecting His debt, Sugar Baby told himself, and although it was painful, it had to be paid. That boy hadn’t done anything to them, he thought. Still they beat him like a dog. They would’ve done worse, Sugar Baby knew, if he hadn’t come along. Now, God was punishing their wrong.
He saw Eva Mae dash, like a frightened fawn, into the nearby woods. He assumed she was going for help, then he wondered why she was there at all. It didn’t make sense that a young lady would be found, before dawn, loitering around the Redfield place, unless she was having a fling with one of the boys, and even then, shouldn’t he have been the one to make his way to her? Sugar Baby didn’t put the pieces together until he noticed that Eva Mae had stopped just beyond the edge of the forest and turned to watch the flames engulf the house. He didn’t know if she’d started it—maybe it had begun inside—but she definitely wasn’t committed to putting it out. The look on her face was one of retribution, not horror, and Sugar Baby squinted harder as he tried to discern exactly what she was thinking. Unable to do so, he stood still among the trees, as though he were one of them, and watched her smirk until she went away. Again, he would’ve helped if he could’ve, but there was nothing he could do. Whether it had been inspired by God or Eva Mae, he resolved that the Redfield boys had it coming. In terms of the others, he decided that not only do the sins of the father visit the sons, but sometimes the sins of the sons visit their fathers.