Perfect Peace (18 page)

Perfect didn’t know what to say.

“I just wanna know if I imagine things right. That’s all.”

“Well, I’d give you my eyes if I could. At least I’d give you one of ’em.”

Bartimaeus blushed. “Thanks, Perfect, but I guess God didn’t mean for me to have ’em.”

“I’ll describe the whole world to ya!” Perfect shouted. “That way, you’ll see everything everybody else see. At least sorta.”

“It don’t matter. I bet I imagine it better than it is anyway. I’d probably be disappointed if I saw the truth.”

Perfect looked around. “I don’t know. The world is beautiful. Everything’s green or purple or yellow or brown and everything changes colors from one part of the year to the next.” Perfect paused.

“Tell me more.”

“Well, the sky is real blue and birds fly all around—”

“What does blue look like?”

Perfect was dumbfounded. “I don’t know. I can’t describe it, but it’s pretty. It makes you feel warm inside.”

Bartimaeus nodded.

“And the trees are real big with leaves hanging from them. The leaves are green. They make you feel . . . well . . . excited, I guess.”

“Un-huh.”

“And the grass is green, too, but it’s a lighter green than the leaves. It feels soft and fuzzy like black people’s hair.” She pressed Bartimaeus’s hand to the earth and he smiled. “And the flowers are all different colors and they make you wanna cry ’cause they so pretty.” She picked a honeysuckle blossom and handed it to him. “Just feel it and you can tell what it looks like.”

Bartimaeus obeyed.

“And the wind blows, but can’t nobody see it.”

“Why not? It don’t have no color?”

“I guess not.”

“I’m glad can’t nobody see it, so everybody know what it feels like to be blind. At least sometime.”

“But I ain’t blind.”

“If you can’t see de wind, you a little blind. I guess everybody is though.”

Perfect blew into her palm, straining to see what she obviously felt.

“Wow. I ain’t never thought about it like that.”

“I guess everybody’s blind to a certain extent. Some people jes’ more blind than others, but if nobody can’t see de wind, then, yeah, everybody’s a little blind.”

Perfect felt enlightened.

“There’s a bee over there.” Bartimaeus pointed to his right.

Perfect didn’t see it. “Where?”

“Right over there.” His index finger outlined a small circumference.

When the bee rose and flew away, Perfect murmured, “Wow. How’d you know there was a bee over there if you can’t see?”

“ ’Cause I can hear real good. I guess if God don’t give you one thing, He give you a whole lot more of somethin’ else.”

“What else can you hear?”

“Close yo’ eyes,” Bartimaeus said. “And keep ’em closed ’til you start hearin’ stuff.”

Perfect tried, but didn’t hear anything more than usual.

“I can hear the Jordan.”

“The river?” Perfect screeched. “We ain’t nowhere near de river!”

“But I can still hear it.”

She closed her eyes again, but heard nothing.

“And I can hear a animal walking in de woods.”

Perfect surveyed the trees, but saw nothing.

“And I can hear those birds’ wings flapping way up in the sky.”

“Way up there?”

“Yep. It’s not loud, but I can hear it. And sometimes, if I get real quiet, I can hear my own heartbeat.”

“Really?”

“Un-huh. Like I said, I guess when God takes one thing away He gives you twice as much of something else.”

The two sat at the edge of the road, one seeing, the other hearing and feeling God’s creation.

“I wanna try something,” Perfect said suddenly.

“Okay.”

She lifted Bartimaeus’s hands and pressed them against her cheeks. “Can you tell what I look like?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

He grazed her tender face slowly, nodding as the familiar image coalesced in his mind. “You real pretty,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ too big or little. You jes’ right.” He felt her smile.

“But what about my legs? Everybody say my legs is real thick.”

“Yo’ legs is just fine, girl.”

Perfect guided his hands down to her kneecaps. “You feel ’em and see if they feel fine to you.”

“Aw, these is great legs,” he teased. “They gon’ hold you up for a long time.”

“I’m glad you like ’em!” she said, relieved. Then, she pressed his hand against her private.

Bartimaeus jerked away. “What was that?” He tumbled backward.

“I told you girls have things down there, dummy!” she chuckled.

“What was that!” Bartimaeus cried again.

From his tone, she knew something was wrong. “What did I do?”

“Oh God! What was that? What was it!” he kept asking.

“It was my—”

“You ain’t s’pose to have that!”

“Why not?”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God!”

“What is it?”

Her innocence calmed him.

“L-l-l-listen, Perfect. Somethin’ ain’t right. I don’t know if it’s you or me, but somethin’ ain’t right.”

“What chu talkin’ ’bout, Bartimaeus?”

He tried to still his trembling hands. “Listen to me real good, Perfect. I know you a little girl and all, I know you are, but . . . um . . .”

“But what?” She was practically in tears.

“Somethin’s wrong.”

“What chu mean?”

“I mean, you ain’t s’pose to have that! You a girl!”

Perfect was confused. “I know I’m a girl.”

“And girls is s’pose to have somethin’ else!”

“Huh?”

He rubbed his head. “Perfect, somethin’ ain’t right.”

“Why you keep sayin’ that?” She was becoming annoyed.

“Because it’s true. I . . . um . . . don’t know what it is, but somethin’s real wrong.”

“Then what is it?”

Bartimaeus knew he wasn’t making sense. “Something’s wrong,” he said again.

“What chu mean ‘wrong’?”

Bartimaeus shook his head. “This ain’t right.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this”—Bartimaeus rubbed his head in confusion—“but you ain’t no normal little girl.”

Perfect didn’t understand. Bartimaeus didn’t, either.

“Listen to me, Perfect.” He reached for her hands. “Don’t never,
ever
let anybody touch you down there again! Do you hear me?”

She thought of how Eva Mae tickled her thighs, although she had never touched her private parts.

“I said, do you hear me!”

“Okay! But why not?”

“Because you cain’t! Never! Don’t ever let anybody touch
that
again. Nobody!” Bartimaeus shivered as though naked in the snow.

“I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, Bartimaeus,” she pleaded.

He reached for her hand. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry for hollering, Perfect. You right—you didn’t do nothin’ wrong. I just want you to be careful so others don’t hurt you.”

“Why would somebody hurt me?” She still didn’t understand.

“Please, Perfect. Just do what I said. Please.”

“Okay.”

He rubbed her head soothingly, trying to ascertain what to do. Should he mention this to Gus or Emma Jean? Surely they already knew. After all, she was their daughter. Emma Jean definitely had to know. She had changed Perfect’s diapers, so of course she knew. But why hadn’t she told anyone? Didn’t the brothers deserve to know that their sister had a penis? It would be their job to protect her if others found out, but they couldn’t do that if they didn’t know. And that was a penis, wasn’t it? Of course it was. Bartimaeus knew what a penis felt like, having felt his own countless times, but he couldn’t understand why his sister had one.

“Promise me one thing,” he repeated as he released her hand.

She sniffled. “Okay. What?”

“Don’t ever tell anybody else what you got down there.”

“Why not? Every girl’s got—”

“Don’t
ever
say it again. Ever! They won’t understand and they might try to hurt you.”

Perfect couldn’t understand why he was saying this again.“Who are you talkin’ about?”

“Just don’t say it no more, Perfect! Ever! To nobody! Promise me!”

“All right. I won’t.”

Perfect knew Bartimaeus loved her. She didn’t see the big deal in others knowing she had what she thought every other girl had, but Bartimaeus’s reaction convinced her never to speak about it again.

Sauntering home, Perfect asked a million other questions, none of which Bartimaeus heard. He tried to blot out what he knew, even to wipe the feeling from his hand, but he couldn’t. Maybe he was mistaken, he considered again. Maybe what he had felt wasn’t a penis but a . . . a . . . what? Nothing he recalled felt remotely similar, so he found himself unable to formulate the lie he needed so desperately.

Perfect didn’t share his trauma. She couldn’t figure out why, every few steps, he stumbled like old, drunk Sugar Baby. She thought that maybe he was hungry or fumbling over stones unseen. Yet, unable to take refuge in the material world, Bartimaeus walked in darkness, rushing to the comfort of his coffin, where he hoped God might clarify his confusion.

God didn’t. In fact, God didn’t say anything. Bartimaeus lay in total silence, waiting for God to send a vision of what he should do, but instead Bartimaeus drifted off to a vacuous sleep, only to be awakened by Mister knocking on the coffin.

“I can’t sleep,” he complained.

“Leave me alone!” Bartimaeus muttered. His voice sounded hollow and distant.

“But everybody else is ’sleep. I don’t got nobody to talk to!”

Bartimaeus opened the top slowly as though rising from the dead. “What do you want?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Mister shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought that maybe you couldn’t sleep, neither. Daddy said you don’t know night from day.”

Bartimaeus climbed from the coffin and whispered, “Come on, boy.”

He took Mister’s hand and felt his way to the front porch. The balmy night welcomed the brothers, offering a breeze a few degrees cooler than the ninety-degree air circulating in the living room.

“What chu wanna be when you grow up?” Mister asked.

Bartimaeus was in no mood for small talk. All he could think about was Perfect and his inability to help her. “I don’t know. I ain’t thought about it much.”

“I wanna be a preacher,” Mister volunteered. “You wanna know why?”

Bartimaeus nodded.

“ ’Cause preachers get all the food they want! And they get the best of it, too. If Momma burn some o’ de fried chicken, she don’t neva give them pieces to Reverend Lindsey. She give ’em to us and give him the pretty pieces.”

Bartimaeus said, “You s’pose to love God in order to preach.”

“I do love God!” Mister said. “Plus, I like to talk. Aunt Gracie said I have the gift of gab.”

It was true. Mister could speak for hours without pausing, and most people simply walked away when they tired of listening. Whether he’d preach or
not was yet to be seen, but what was certain was that, whatever the occupation, he’d have to talk. He’d die otherwise.

“We gotta go back to bed now, boy,” Bartimaeus said, interrupting Mister’s disjointed discourse. Together, they reentered the house and returned to their respective sleeping places.

“Good night,” Mister said kindly.

“Good night, boy,” Bartimaeus returned, and began praying for Perfect’s safety. He forgot, for the first time in his life, to ask God to restore his sight.

At Perfect’s eighth birthday party, Eva Mae told Caroline, “I know a secret you don’t know.” They and several other children sat around the Peaces’ rectangular kitchen table, anticipating the homemade ice cream and cake Emma Jean had promised.

“Tell me!” Caroline murmured, tight-lipped.

Eva Mae smiled devilishly and raised her head like one marching in a parade. She never intended to tell Caroline the secret. Her joy was in taunting others with it. The power and authority she felt each time she broached the subject made her giggle and understand how insecure people are. She had determined, years ago, never to tell that she and Perfect were kissing buddies, because someone might find it objectionable and bring an end to their private joy.

Their intimacy always occurred in the same place—under the house, far away in the back corner. Because they had anointed the space with their sweat and innocence, it felt clean, honest, and sacred every time they entered. In school or church, Eva Mae would whisper, “See ya at
home
,” speaking the final word sensually, and Perfect would smile, anticipating the moment. “You real pretty, Perfect Peace,” Eva Mae always told her, and although Perfect didn’t believe it, she loved hearing it. Emma Jean said it all the time, but she was her mother and she was supposed to say it, Perfect thought. When Eva Mae said it, Perfect heard something else in the words, something more convincing. It was as though Eva Mae’s words were more sincere or more trustworthy, and Perfect began to believe Emma Jean precisely because of Eva Mae. Whenever the husband whispered the affirmation, Perfect giggled, freeing Eva Mae to kiss her repeatedly until Perfect lost count of how many times.