Perfect Peace (39 page)

Gus leapt from the sofa and retrieved his shotgun from the wall. “I’ll find out myself!” he declared, loading the gun clumsily.

“No!” Emma Jean said, standing slowly. “You too mad. Ain’t no tellin’ what you might do.”

“You right! And you better hope I don’t find whoever done this to my boy, ’causen if I do, somebody’s goin’ to hell tonight! Me or them!”

The door slammed and rattled behind him.

“I’ll go with him,” Woody said. “Just to make sure he don’t do nothin’ crazy.”

Emma Jean nodded. “Good, good. Hurry up before he get too far gone.” At the screen she bellowed, “And fetch Doc Harris!”

Mister lifted Paul’s torso and removed his shirt.

“Is he hurt bad?” Bartimaeus asked.

“I don’t know. He look bad though. His face is pretty messed up.”

“What chu think happened?”

“I don’t know!” Mister snapped. “We’ll just have to wait ’til he tell us.”

Emma Jean took Gus’s seat. “Sweetie,” she called, reaching forth a trembling
hand, “yo’ momma’s here. Everything’s gonna be all right now.” She shuddered as she imagined what someone might’ve done to her youngest son. Her mind conceived possibilities that made her stomach churn. She would never know, now or in the future, that her imagining had been correct, frighteningly correct, down to the smallest detail. What she knew for sure, however, was that this was all her fault. People had never accepted Paul as a legitimate boy, although, biologically, that’s all he’d ever been. Even after she cut his hair and Gus changed his name, nobody believed he wasn’t a girl. They followed the lie as the truth until the truth of the lie was revealed. Even then they didn’t believe it. Emma Jean could tell from the way they looked at her—and at him—that they preferred the lie, had made room for it in their reality, and they hated her for forcing them to relinquish it. Most simply refused. Had they seen his nakedness—like his family and the rapists—there was still no guarantee they’d alter their truth.
A girl with a penis
, many would say, instead of simply calling the child a boy. Evidence doesn’t always convince people of the truth, Emma Jean told herself, especially when the lie is what they prefer.

Yet, regardless, Emma Jean knew she had planted the seeds for this harvest. She wished she could go back and do things over. Not just concerning Paul, but everything. Her marriage to Gus, the children . . . everything. Why hadn’t she ignored Mae Helen’s discouragement and become a dancer? That’s the only thing she’d ever really wanted. But of course Mae Helen’s dissuasion trumped Emma Jean’s self-esteem back then. Now, she was stuck with a life she’d never wanted, unable to fix the things—and the people—she kept destroying.

Woody returned. “I found Doc,” he panted, “but Daddy ran off.”

“Where is the boy?” Doc Harris asked.

“Over here,” Emma Jean called.

“Does anybody know what happened?”

“No, he ain’t said a word. He’s alive, though, thank the Lord, but I don’t know how bad he’s hurt.”

“Let me look at him.”

Emma Jean stepped back and Doc Harris took over. After several minutes, he said, “Somebody beat him pretty good, but he’ll survive. That eye’ll be black for a few days, but, other than that, he’ll be fine.” Paul was glad Doc didn’t think to examine him all over. “Just keep those bruises clean so infection doesn’t set in. Beyond that, there’s nothing more any of us can do.”

Emma Jean walked Doc Harris to the edge of the porch. He asked, “Do you have any idea who would’ve done something like this?”

Emma Jean shrugged.

“Well, whoever it was, they sure had it in for him. He’ll be okay though. He’s tough. Just keep your eyes open, and make sure Gus doesn’t do anything he’ll regret.”

“I’ll handle Gus,” Emma Jean assured him. “And thank you.”

“Oh, no problem. And don’t worry about paying me. This one’s on me.”

Woody walked Doc home and spent the next two hours looking for Gus. Some said they thought they heard a shotgun fire, while others said they hadn’t seen or heard a thing. Woody never thought to look for Sugar Baby. If he had, he would’ve found Gus, too.

Sugar Baby didn’t have a home, per se, but only an old shack he inhabited some nights when he didn’t feel like wandering. Most had never seen it and, in fact, never would. It was hidden among heavy brush and huge vines, deep in the backwoods of Swamp Creek. No one strolled by leisurely, and, if they had, they wouldn’t have noticed it. The forest had overtaken the shack as if to camouflage it from outsiders. It simply looked like a dark green lump, sitting upon the earth, in the midst of massive trees that blocked almost every shred of sunlight.

Whenever he could find them, Sugar Baby lit candles at night, which, from the outside, made the hovel glow like a lime green volcano. Once the short wicks burned out, he sat in total darkness, swatting nagging mosquitoes and drinking cheap liquor. That wasn’t hard to come by. He simply gathered discarded bottles during the day and drained them into his own container at night. When he had candlelight. Rum, vodka, scotch, moonshine . . . whatever. He didn’t care. He simply needed the escape.

The night of Paul’s tragedy he’d been wandering the woods, talking to himself, since he’d run out of liquor. In a sober state, his reality left him restless, so he walked the forest until he’d expended enough energy to return home and, hopefully, fall asleep. That’s when he’d found Paul, on his way home. He heard the shuffling of feet and the muted squealing of voices. Sugar Baby approached with the stealth of a lamb, and saw the faces of boys whose fathers he’d known a lifetime. As he stepped on a rotten log for a better view, the log crumbled beneath his weight and caused enough noise to frighten the boys away. But Sugar Baby had seen them. There was no doubt about it. The
full moon shone brightly on all four faces, and he recorded their images in his mind. He never wanted to forget.

When Gus came stomping through the woods, Sugar Baby knew who it was. He didn’t know what Gus’s response would be, but he knew Gus would do something. He met him on the road.

“Somebody hurt my boy tonight,” Gus said in the dark. “And I intend to find out who it was. You ain’t seen or heard nothin’, is you?”

Sugar Baby saw the fire in Gus’s eyes and mumbled, “I brung him home. Found him in the road down yonda, close to the river.”

Gus nodded his thanks. “Did you see who done it?”

Sugar Baby knew Gus’s intention. “Naw.”

Gus sighed.

Sugar Baby said, “Come on.”

Having no other recourse, Gus followed him to his shack. He’d never been there before, but there was something about Sugar Baby that always made Gus trust him.

Leaning the shotgun against the dilapidated door frame, he ducked beneath overgrown greenery and entered Sugar Baby’s cabin. The dark calmed Gus’s nerves a bit, and when Sugar Baby lit the small white candle, he noticed that Gus was crying. He gestured for Gus to take a seat and Gus obeyed. Sugar Baby took the other chair, and they sat in silence as though attending a wake. Sugar Baby couldn’t tell Gus the truth. Gus was his only friend in the world and he didn’t want to lose him. He knew Gus meant to use that gun and, if he did, he’d probably be sent away forever. Then, the Peaces would be destroyed and Sugar Baby would be completely alone.

Having never been a man of many words, Sugar Baby said nothing as Gus sniffled and wiped his tears. The candlelight made them look like ghostly figures in a cave, surrounded by bottles and miscellaneous trash.

“He gon’ be all right,” Sugar Baby muttered once the candlelight flickered down. “Cain’t nobody kill him.”

Gus’s guilt wouldn’t release him.

“Man cain’t touch what God send. Not ’til He get through with it.”

Gus looked up.

“He’ll be all right. Whoever done this gon’ get theirs.”

Paul didn’t speak for days. He barely ate. When the family gathered at the table, he sat like a zombie, listening to the chomping and smacking of the other Peaces, as the fateful night replayed in his mind. Whose voice was that? It had a familiar cadence, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe he’d never heard it before, but that was unlikely in Swamp Creek. Visitors didn’t come often, and they certainly didn’t stay long. No, it had to be someone he knew. Or at least knew
of
.

Wincing with pain, he moved about the house until he voluntarily returned to his chores. Gus told him he should rest a few more days, but Paul shook his head. He’d had enough of Emma Jean breathing across his face every five minutes, and he didn’t intend to let those boys ruin his life. The most difficult part was trying to understand why The Bold One had plowed his way into his private space. Paul didn’t see the phallus, but he felt it and he knew what it was. What he didn’t know was what the act was supposed to mean. Was the point to demean him? To convince him that he was nothing but worthless, sissified trash? It had hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before, and instinctively he knew he’d never tell it. He couldn’t. Not even to Eva Mae.

She tried, day after day, to pry the truth from him.

“What really happened, Paul?”

He blinked, and spoke for the first time. “They beat me.”

She followed him to the cows’ trough.

“Who?”

He shrugged.

“Why?”

“Why you think?”

Eva Mae didn’t answer.

“ ’Cause I’m a punk.” Paul’s voice broke. “And a faggot. That’s what people say, ain’t it?”

Eva Mae reached to touch him, but Paul wouldn’t allow it.

“You ain’t no punk.”

He turned away.

“Aw, come on! We been best friends our whole lives, Paul. You know what I think about you.”

He looked past her.

“You do! I was mad ’cause you didn’t fight back. That’s all. I didn’t have no business callin’ you those names. I wish I could take it back.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“You right. I can’t. But you know I didn’t mean it.” Eva Mae wanted to smile but couldn’t. “I’ll never, ever call you any of those names again. I swear. I guess I was just trying to make you mad enough to fight.”

Paul poured the feed until the cows ambled over.

“Now, what happened?”

Shaking his head the way people do when they’re overwhelmed, he repeated softly, “They beat me.”

“I know that. Anybody can see that. But why? Why would somebody wanna beat you like that?”

Paul rubbed his eyes.

“I know what people think about you, Paul, but that ain’t enough to explain this.”

“Why ain’t it?”

“It just ain’t.”

“Do you really wanna know what happened? Really?”

She hesitated, then said, “Yes, I do.”

Paul closed his eyes.

“Tell me.”

Snippets of the attack returned. He felt, all over again, the hands thrust him to the ground and rip his clothes. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

Paul began walking toward the barn.

“I already know somebody beat you up. Everybody know that. So what’s the part I don’t know?”

Paul wouldn’t look at her.

“Oh my God!” Eva Mae screeched. “They did something else to you, didn’t they?”

As badly as Paul wanted to confess it, he said, “No.”

“You’re lying. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

“Shhhhh.”

“You gotta tell me, Paul.”

“No.”

“You can’t let them get away with this!”

“Nothing else happened. They beat me up. That’s all.”

“You lyin’!”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Yes you is! I can tell! Those boys . . . touched you, didn’t they?”

“Shut up, Eva Mae! Just shut up!”

“You ain’t got nothin’ to be ’shamed of. The shame ain’t on you.”

He grabbed her arm forcefully. “Didn’t nothin’ else happen, all right? Now leave it alone!”

Eva Mae surrendered. “Fine. Didn’t nothin’ else happen.” On her way home, she determined to find out what her best friend couldn’t bear to say.

Paul knew Eva Mae wouldn’t rest until she knew. That was just her way. She was always sticking her nose in other folks’ business. Why couldn’t she just leave well enough alone? It was moments like this that made him miss Sol. He would know what to say. Or sing. Yet Sol was nowhere to be found.

Paul returned to school battered and bruised. When he entered, Miss Erma said, “Class, there is no excuse for this kind of behavior. I won’t tolerate it! Whoever did this is not welcome in my classroom!”

She studied each face.

“And let me make myself abundantly clear. If I find out that any of you were involved in this I will personally dismiss you from this school forever. Don’t make me prove myself.”

The vehemence in her voice was undeniable. She was livid not simply because it was Paul, but because she had a feeling who the perpetrators were. She felt sure of it. She’d seen their frowns and heard their snickering far too many times. Her rebuke of them was undermined, however, by the unmitigated sneering of Swamp Creek parents who went so far as to ask Miss Erma
not to seat Paul next to their child. Of course she denied their requests. Whenever she scolded a youngster for making fun of him, she discerned that no one—other than Eva Mae and Caroline—supported her reprimand. That’s why this had happened—because children had no fear of reprisal from parents who supported their ignorance.
What is the world coming to?
Miss Erma thought.