Perfect Peace (4 page)

Emma Jean looked away. “Just let me handle this my own way, okay? And anyway, a child gon’ believe whatever you tell it. As long as she thinks she’s a girl, that’s what she’ll be. So that’s what she is now.”

Henrietta clasped her mouth in horror. “Emma Jean, don’t do this! You can’t jes’ make a person be what you want ’em to be! That’s sick!” She backed away from the bed slowly. “You can’t make a daughter outta no boy!”

“Sure you can. Just think about it. You don’t know what most folks is. Not really. You ain’t seen ’em naked, is you?”

Henrietta paused.

“Well, is you?”

“No, I ain’t, but . . .”

“But what? Most folks
look
like a boy or girl, but you don’t
know
for sure what they is, do you?”

“Come on, Emma Jean! Don’t try to justify this mess! I don’t care what you say. It ain’t right!”

“Maybe it ain’t, but it’s what we gon’ do.”

“We?” Henrietta hollered.

“That’s right. Me and you. We in this together.”

“I ain’t in nothin’ with you, Emma Jean Peace! You ain’t nothin’ but a ole connivin’, black heffa!”

“Maybe I am, but I’m a damn good one! And, like I said, I ain’t got to explain nothin’ to you or nobody else. All you gotta do is be quiet ’bout my business.”

Henrietta shivered. “What’s wrong with you, woman? You think ain’t nobody got good sense but you? Who gon’ believe this boy is a girl? You may as well admit you had a boy and be done with it. You can’t just turn no boy into a girl.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want to, Miss Lady, and you gon’ keep yo’ mouth shut about it!”

“Stop this, Emma Jean! Stop it right now!”

The menfolks wondered why Henrietta was stomping, but they dared not enter the birthing room.

“I know you been wantin’ a girl, but it wasn’t God’s will. You gotta take what God gives you and try to see the blessin’ in it.”

“And sometimes you gotta make a blessin’ out of it.”

Henrietta shook her head and breathed deeply. “You can think whatever you want to, Emma Jean, but I ain’t goin’ ’long wit’ no mess like this.” She turned to exit.

“Oh, sure you will,” Emma Jean sassed, “unless you want folks to know ’bout Louise’s baby.”

Like Lot’s wife, Henrietta turned and froze. “Don’t you dare! You don’t know nothin’ ’bout Louise’s baby! She ain’t got nothin’ to do with this shit you doin’!” Henrietta’s bottom lip trembled like a gospel soloist’s.

“You right! That ain’t none o’ my business and this ain’t none o’ yours. Not really. So jes keep yo’ mouth shut and we’ll all be fine.”

“But, Emma Jean, I ain’t ’bout to tell folks you had no girl. I can’t lie like that!”

“Oh yes you can. Sure you can. You did it for Louise, didn’t you? Well, now you’ll have to do it again.”

“Louise’s baby died, Emma Jean. Ain’t nothin’ else to know.”

“Ha!” Emma Jean mocked. “That’s what most folk think, ain’t it?”

Henrietta saw the truth in Emma Jean’s eyes and knew she couldn’t deny it any longer. She studied the crevices in the hardwood floor, then said, “Don’t do this to me, Emma Jean. Please.”

“Do what?” Emma Jean squealed joyfully. “I ain’t doin’ nothing to you. Nothin’ at all.”

Henrietta sat at the foot of the bed, unable to believe that Emma Jean Peace, of all people, knew what no one else in the world was supposed to know.

“Any time you go sneakin’ ’round, thinkin’ you hidin’, I guarantee you somebody watchin’. Guarantee!”

Henrietta sighed. Nothing to do now but set the record straight. “It ain’t what you think.”

“I don’t think about it. And that’s what you should do about this—just don’t think about it.”

Henrietta couldn’t yield so easily. “I wouldn’t neva blackmail nobody into doin’ somethin’ so evil. You shonuff got the devil in you, Emma Jean.”

“Well, you musta had him in you, too, to take another woman’s child.”

“I ain’t took nobody’s child! It didn’t happen like that.”

“Well, however it happened, it happened. That’s yo’ business.” She lifted the baby to her bosom. “And this is mine.”

Henrietta rose. “You gon’ answer to God for this.”

“Ain’t we all? Who ain’t got somethin’ to answer to God for?”

Henrietta said nothing.

“That’s what I thought. Now. Let’s make sure we’re on the same page with our little . . .
arrangement
. What is this?” Emma Jean pointed to the infant.

Henrietta looked away. “It’s whatever you say it is.”

“That’s right. And what do I say it is?”

Henrietta hesitated. “A girl. It’s a girl.”

“That’s right! And she’s beautiful. Couldn’t be more perfect, could she?”

Emma Jean’s wink drove Henrietta toward the doorway. “You’ll never get away with this.”

“Get away with what? Lovin’ and celebratin’ my perfect little girl?” Suddenly, Emma Jean shrieked, retarding Henrietta’s exit. “Oh my God! That’s it! That’s her name—Perfect. Because that’s what she is. Don’t you think that’s a pretty name?”

“It’s yo’ chile.”

“Yes it is! And Perfect’s her name. Oh, this is wonderful!” Emma Jean beamed.

Henrietta closed her eyes and said, “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get you for this one day. I promise you that.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Emma Jean said.

“Oh I’ll keep it. And when I do—”

“You can go now, Henrietta. Thanks for everything. And, on yo’ way out, tell Gus and the boys ’bout the new woman in the family.”

When the rooster crowed, Emma Jean leapt across the two sisters with whom she shared a bed, declaring, “It’s my birthday! It’s my birthday!” Gracie and Pearlie grunted their annoyance and burrowed themselves deeper beneath the homemade quilts. Their indifference didn’t stifle Emma Jean’s joy. “It’s my birthday! It’s my birthday!” she sang as she slung her battered housecoat around her scrawny shoulders. The floorboards whined and squeaked as she shuffled, and Emma Jean hoped she hadn’t awakened Mae Helen. If she had, her birthday would be ruined. Mae Helen had told her countless times to do her morning chores quietly so as not to disturb her sisters. They needed their beauty sleep. Whenever Emma Jean disobeyed, the sting of Mae Helen’s backhand lingered across her cheek for days. Yet Emma Jean purposed in her heart to celebrate her eighth birthday, if she had to do so alone.

“Cut out all dat damn noise!” Mae Helen shouted from the other end of the house.

“But it’s my birthday, Momma!” she exclaimed, skipping softly down the narrow hallway.

“So what!” Mae Helen screamed. “Who is you? The goddamn queen o’ Sheba? You think everybody’s s’pose to jump up just ’cause it’s yo’ birthday? Shit. Everybody got a birthday.”

They met in the kitchen.

“I just thought it might be fun maybe”—Emma Jean swallowed hard, trying not to cry—“to do something special today.”

“Special?” Mae Helen sneered. “You better be glad I ain’t slapped de shit outta you for wakin’ me up wit’ all dat hollerin’.”

Emma Jean gathered kindling for the woodstove. Once the fire was brewing, she filled the coffeepot and placed it atop the warming surface. Mae Helen sat at the table, mumbling something about having to wash white folks’ dirty drawers, and Emma Jean turned and risked, “I just thought that maybe, um, we could have a li’l party or somethin’? You know. Nothin’ big or fancy. Just a fun little party.”

Mae Helen glanced up. “A party? Shiiiiiit! Ain’t nobody wastin’ no time on no goddamn party. We got work to do ’round here, girl.” She stood and stared at Emma Jean. “I mean, who you think you is for real? You ain’t nobody special. That’s what I shoulda named you—Nobody.”

Emma Jean’s solid hope began to liquefy. “I know I ain’t nobody, Momma, but since I ain’t neva had no birthday party in my whole entire life, I thought that, maybe, I could have one this time. I ain’t talkin’ ’bout nothin’ big or nothin’. Just a li’l yellow cake, maybe, and a scoop o’ ice cream or somethin’. I ain’t even got to invite nobody.”

“Ain’t gon’ be no goddamn birthday party ’round hyeah today, you black heffa!” Mae Helen screamed into Emma Jean’s watery eyes. “You must think you some rich white girl or somethin’. Well, you ain’t! You’s a po’, ugly, black-ass nigga. That’s what you is!”

Emma Jean recoiled and trembled.

“You think de world s’pose to stop and dance”—she mocked a jig—“jes’ ’cause it’s yo’ birthday?”

Tears burst free across Emma Jean’s deep chocolate cheeks. Now she wished she had jumped into the Jordan like she had contemplated weeks earlier.

Mae Helen stared hatred into Emma Jean’s eyes. “You’s a selfish li’l bitch, you know that?”

Emma Jean couldn’t figure out what to say or do.

“We already ain’t got nothin’ and you want us to spend what little we do have on you jes’ ’cause it’s
yo
’ birthday? What about everybody else? Huh? I guess we ain’t got no birthday, huh? Don’t nobody have no birthday ’round here ’cept you? You de only one whose birthday really matter?” Her condescension made Emma Jean nauseous.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Momma,” the child whispered.

Mae Helen retrieved a cast-iron skillet from a nail on the wall. “That’s exactly how you meant it. It’s always about you, ain’t it?” As though by reflex, she slammed the skillet against Emma Jean’s forehead, then placed it on the
stove. “Now get that broom and sweep this floor. I bet you done woke yo’ sistas.”

The room was swirling like a merry-go-round. Emma Jean couldn’t maintain her balance. She leaned against the small rectangular kitchen table, trying to steady herself.

“Did you hear me, girl? I said git that broom and sweep dis floor! And I mean now!”

Mae Helen’s voice echoed in Emma Jean’s head as though her mother were shouting from a distant mountain. Emma Jean stepped forward uneasily, hoping to avoid another blow. Stumbling to her knees, she was grateful that, now, Mae Helen would know that at least she was trying to be obedient.

“Girl, if you don’t git up off dat flo’, I’ma beat yo’ ass fo’ real! I didn’t even hit you dat hard.” Mae Helen stepped around the child and sat at the table, peeling potatoes.

Emma Jean managed to utter “Yes, ma’am” and lift herself, climbing a badly splintered table chair. The high-pitched ring in her ears reminded her of the incessant chirping outside her screenless window every night, or maybe it resembled the chiming of the church bell on Sunday morning. That, along with the fact that everything she reached for seemed to back away from her, made Emma Jean wonder why God didn’t just take her away. The beautiful colors of the trees and flowers outside had all turned gray in her head, and the dingy nightgown she wore seemed to float away from her flesh. If only she could uncross her eyes, she thought.

“If I have to tell you one more time to sweep this floor”—Mae Helen scowled without facing Emma Jean—“you gon’ really be sorry.”

Emma Jean hadn’t the strength to wipe her tears. She wanted to move, wanted it more than her birthday party, but she feared her wobbly legs couldn’t carry her. Her only recourse, she concluded, was to return to the floor and crawl to the corner. Having done so, she climbed up the broom handle, caressing it gently like one might a lover, hoping all the while it had the strength to bear her weight.

On her feet, she clutched the wooden handle to her flat chest and sighed heavily after the three miles, it seemed, she had crawled to reach it. “Thank you,” Emma Jean whimpered. Then she shuffled slightly, dragging the broom along. It was a kind of two-step waltz, the movement she and the broom made, like a three-legged creature fumbling through a basic choreography. The three-quarter time structure provided a rhythm conducive to a
tremulous little girl and a broomstick, especially since, after being knocked senseless, Emma Jean shared the broom’s mental wherewithal. The swoosh of the first beat allowed Emma Jean to breathe on the second and third, giving her just enough strength to perform the movement again before the wrath of Mae Helen befell her. Sweat and trickles of blood covered her once-hopeful brow and made her regret the mention of her birthday. Breathing like someone in danger of drowning, Emma Jean dragged the broom across the floor in no particular direction, praying that whatever dirt her mother saw, the broom collected. She dared not ask whether her effort was satisfactory. It never was. She dreamed of the day Mae Helen said, “That looks great, honey!” or “Momma’s so proud of you!” But after she was struck with the black cast-iron skillet—with which she shared a complexion—Emma Jean’s dream shattered and scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind.

“You ain’t doin’ shit, gal!” Mae Helen said. “And you want a birthday party?” She rose and snatched the broom from Emma Jean, who, shivering like a newborn calf, almost tumbled to the floor. “Go git dem eggs outta de hen house, and don’t let it take you all day.”

Grateful to be out of harm’s way, Emma Jean stumbled through the screen door and onto the front porch. Fumbling down the cinder-block steps as though inebriated, she hobbled through the dusty dirt yard until she reached the chicken coop. How she would gather eggs without breaking them she didn’t know, since the violent tremors wouldn’t subside, yet presenting Mae Helen with cracked shells was definitely not an option.