Perfect Peace (27 page)

“She’s over there,” Woody said, pointing to the area behind the sofa.

“You boys get back,” Doc said. “Let me see how bad it is.”

The boys withdrew and Gus transferred Emma Jean’s head gently from his lap to the pillow.

“She’s alive, but probably in shock. You boys help yo’ daddy get her to the bedroom.”

Gus decided not to mention that Emma Jean’s bed was on the floor. “How bad is it?” Gus asked.

“I don’t know. I’m gon’ have to examine her first.”

Doc told Gus to remove her garments slowly and carefully, then he ordered Gus from the room. “I’ll come tell you somethin’ soon’s I know.”

Under an aura of gloom, the men waited. Bartimaeus envisioned what Emma Jean must have looked like, twirling and shouting while cloaked in a ball of fire. It was times like these that he hated his blindness most. It always limited his response to things. He seemed inept, he thought, for people never depended on him when it really mattered. Unlike his brothers, he was always
assigned menial tasks so that if he failed, no one’s life would be affected. But of course this wasn’t the time to complain about being insignificant.

The heat had crawled up Emma Jean’s legs from behind. On any other day, she would have been more cognizant of things, but her mind was consumed with the shocked faces of her neighbors at church. Their expressions highlighted the irreparable mistake she’d made. She knew it wasn’t correct, but never did she consider that she had destroyed her own child’s life. When people’s eyes bulged so big that they almost fell from their heads, she was forced to admit that she hadn’t told herself the truth. Not the full truth. And if she told herself now, she would feel like a bad mother and she knew she hadn’t been a bad mother. Or had she? If, indeed, she
had
been a bad mother, maybe she was becoming more like Mae Helen each day, and the thought alone depressed her. She’d never live with herself, believing that she’d made Perfect—or, rather, Paul—hate her. Her aim had been the exact opposite, and now, somehow, everyone was scolding her for having loved a child so much she wanted to give her—him—the world?

It was these thoughts, fighting for prominence in Emma Jean’s consciousness, that had distracted her and kept her from noticing that a spark from the old woodstove had set the hem of her dress on fire. By the time she noticed, it was too late to simply brush the fire away. As she screamed for help, she heard a voice in her head say,
You gotta tell the truth, Emma Jean
.
The whole truth.
But she didn’t know what truth the voice was speaking of. She had told all the truths she knew. At least she thought she had. The truth that Mae Helen used to beat her for no reason at all. The truth that she was too black to be beautiful. The truth that she had lied to her family and the community about Paul’s identity. She had told these already. What more was there to tell?

When she felt the skin on the back of her thighs begin to sizzle, she considered that her dying day had arrived. She’d never imagined it would come like this though. When her consciousness returned and she saw that God had not called her number, she lay in Gus’s bed trying to remember what truth she hadn’t told.

Doc emerged, closing the door gently. “It could’ve been worse, I’m glad to say. Much worse.” He sat his satchel on the back of the sofa and snapped it shut. “She’s gonna live.”

Bartimaeus heaved a sigh of relief. Gus simply asked, “How bad is it?”

“Well, she has third-degree burns from the lower back down across her rear end and thighs. But, like I said, she’ll live. It’ll take a while for the sores to heal. Gus, you’ll have to rub this salve”—he handed Gus a bottle—“on the wounds every day until you’ve used it all. It’ll be painful for her, but it’s the only way the burns are gonna heal. She’ll have difficulty sitting, or lying on her back for a while, but after the burns scab over and peel away and a fresh layer of skin grows, she should be okay. She’ll never be like she was, but she’ll recover. Let her rest for a while before you go in.”

“Is she woke?” Gus asked.

“Yes, but she’s a bit disoriented.”

“Huh?” Gus frowned.

“She shouldn’t be disturbed right away. Give her time to get herself back together.”

Gus thanked Doc Harris for everything and told Authorly to get him a basket of canned fruits and vegetables and a healthy side of bacon from the smokehouse. Doc received the payment gratefully and told Authorly not to let others worry Emma Jean during her recovery. He promised he wouldn’t.

After Doc left, everyone fell silent until Authorly said, “Let’s go to the table and eat.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to eat!” Mister said. “The food’s all burnt up.”

“Just do what I said, boy. I’ll find us somethin’.”

Gus hadn’t said a word. His heart vacillated between thanks for Emma Jean’s life and frustration that he’d now have to usher her back to health.

Authorly scavenged the kitchen for enough leftovers to feed his brothers while Gus told him he wasn’t hungry.

At dusk, Gus went into the bedroom and mumbled, “You need anything?” He hadn’t meant to sound cold, but he knew he did.

Emma Jean was lying on her stomach with her face toward the wall. She whispered, “Water. Can I have some water?”

Gus held the dipper as she sipped slowly. “I don’t wish you no harm, Emma Jean, but I knowed somethin’ like this was gon’ happen. I knowed it.”

Emma Jean gulped, and breathed heavily.

“Don’t think this makes me forget what you did ’cause it don’t. I’ll give you a few weeks, then you back on the floor. This is only the beginning.” He turned to leave.

“Can you send Paul in? Please. I need to speak to him.”

Paul tiptoed through the door. Emma Jean turned her head to face him.

“You all right, Momma?”

“I’ma make it, baby, I guess. You all right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I know this ain’t been easy.” She swallowed hard. “I just wanna say I’m sorry again. Just in case I don’t make it, I need you to know how sorry I am.”

Paul looked away.

“I hope you can forgive me. One day. All I meant was good. I didn’t neva mean for you to suffer like this.”

Her trembling hand reached for his and Paul surrendered. She pulled him to her side on the bed.

“When I look back, I know I coulda done somethin’ else, but all I was tryin’ to do was love you the best way I knew how. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Paul wanted to say no, but under the circumstances he didn’t say anything.

“If the Good Lord lets me live to see it, I’ll make this up to you one day. I promise you that. I don’t know how, but I will.”

Paul eased his hand away from Emma Jean’s and stood.

“Try not to be mad at me, honey. I love you so much.”

He wanted to ask Emma Jean if she could send him somewhere to live by himself, free from the words and stares of everyone he knew. Then he wouldn’t be angry anymore. But of course, in her current state, Emma Jean couldn’t do anything, so Paul prepared to endure.

What he really wanted was the life he had before. The joy of waking in the morning to a family who loved him. Obviously things were different now. No one
said
they hated him, but he felt it, like people feel tension or excitement among a crowd. Their silence confirmed it. Even at church earlier, when others scowled at him, his own folks had said very little. They didn’t say that he was still the joy of the family and that he was just as precious as he’d ever been. Shouldn’t they have said that? Authorly had fought Snukey, but only because he felt embarrassed, right? Sure it was, Paul thought. Authorly used to tell him all the time how pretty he was, but, since his transformation, Authorly didn’t tell him anything except how to work and be a boy. He didn’t mind being a boy if the admiration continued, but clearly it did not.

“I gotta go now, Momma. Authorly told me not to stay long.”

“Okay, baby. But just one more thing.”

Paul hung his head and waited.

“You still
my
baby. Don’t chu never forget that. I don’t care what you do or
what happens to you, you gon’ always be my baby. I wouldn’t take nothin’ for you. Nothin’. And you still perfect.”

Paul wiped his eyes as he exited.
You gon’ always be my baby
echoed from one side of his skull to the other. That’s what he needed to hear—that something about his former life was still intact. Maybe Emma Jean wasn’t as bad as people were making her out to be, he told himself.

In the following days, women brought food to the Peace house and inquired about Emma Jean’s health. “You can check on her yo’self,” Gus told them, nodding toward the bedroom. Most followed propriety, whispering sympathetic words as they entered, although thinking that Emma Jean deserved everything she got.

“Yoo-hoo! Emma Jean!” Miss Mamie called early one morning. She had on her good wig and first Sunday hat. “I hope I ain’t waking you. I heard what happened, so I just
had
to come see ’bout you.”

Emma Jean convinced herself that she was having a nightmare. “How you doin’, Miss Mamie?” she asked, trying painfully to sit up.

“Oh no! Don’t get up, chile! You lay right there and get yo’ rest. I’m just here to visit the sick—like Jesus would do.”

Emma Jean swallowed her pride. “Well, I thank you for comin’. I’m doin’ much better, thank the Lord.”

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. Those boys definitely need a momma.” Miss Mamie paused. “How’s that youngest one?”

Emma Jean knew it was coming. “He’s fine. Just like the rest of ’em.”

Miss Mamie cackled, “Naw, he ain’t like the rest of ’em! Least I hope he ain’t!”

“The boy’s fine, ma’am, and I’d appreciate if you left him alone.”

“Oh I ain’t gon’ bother
him
, ’cause
he
ain’t done nothin’, but I just cain’t believe what
you
did. I just cain’t believe it, Emma Jean.”

“It ain’t for you to believe, so don’t worry about it.” She hated that she didn’t have her strength. That’s the only reason Mamie Cunningham was trying her.

“Oh, I ain’t judgin’ you or nothin’. I mean, we all make mistakes. Even me! But come on, Emma Jean! This one takes the cake! How did you think you was gon’ get away with somethin’ like this?”

Before she cursed, Emma Jean closed her eyes and said slowly, “You’ll never understand, so ain’t no need in me tryin’ to explain it to you. It ain’t none o’ yo’ business nohow.”

“You right, you right! You shonuff right about it. But I was layin’ in bed the other night, tryin’ to figure out how a mother can decide to change the baby she had. It just don’t make no sense to me, Emma Jean.”

“It don’t need to! Leave it alone, Mamie, and mind yo’ own business. We workin’ it out the best way we can.”

“Oh, I don’t mean no harm, Emma Jean. I didn’t mean to upset you, especially not in yo’ condition. You done got enough punishment from God without me sayin’ a word!” Mamie smacked her lips. “And He might not be through with you yet.”

Emma Jean wanted to tell Mamie to go to hell, but of course that would’ve been rude.

“I’ma get on out of the way, girl. I just come by to see how you doin’. You be sho to let me know if I can do anything for you, you hear?”

Emma Jean nodded.

“I baked a sweet potato pie for the boys.
All
of ’em. I didn’t want you to worry ’bout no cookin’.”

Emma Jean was glad she couldn’t move. She would’ve slapped Mamie Cunningham, elder or not.

“Let’s just pray nothin’ else happens. Sometimes, when God whips us, He gets out o’ control. You know what I mean?”

Emma Jean refused to respond.

“Well, toodeloo!” she sang, sashaying through the door, glad that God’s wrath had visited itself upon her neighbor.

Why had Gus let her in the room, Emma Jean wondered. He knew they despised each other. He had done it for spite, she concluded, but, angry as she was, she couldn’t confront him. His anger might boil again and result in another thrashing. So she tolerated others as they came and went, and prayed that Mamie Cunningham would keep her nosy ass away from her house.

Then, one day, the most unexpected visitor arrived.

“Well, well,” Henrietta joked.

Emma Jean opened her eyes. “What do you want?”

“I came by to see how you doin’, honey!” She slapped Emma Jean’s back.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Shit!” Emma Jean screeched. “That ain’t funny! It still hurts!”

“Hurt? You wanna talk about hurt?”

“Oh, don’t start that! I done told what I did, so why can’t you let it go! Everybody knows now.”

“Yeah, but everybody don’t know what you did to
me
!”

“It don’t make no difference. It’s over. Everybody thinks I’m a bad person, and that’s what you wanted, right? For everybody to think I’m a bad person?”

“It’s always about you, Emma Jean, ain’t it? You get burned and still you can’t see the full truth.”

There’s that truth thing again
, Emma Jean thought. “What is you talkin’ about, Henrietta? What truth? I done told what I did.”

Henrietta walked to the window and looked out. “If you can’t figure it out, you don’t wanna know. And I ain’t gon’ tell you. But God is. And when He does—”