Perfect Peace (45 page)

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.

“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 touched 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.

The community was somber until the funeral. Of course there were no
bodies, but the church was packed with moaners who remembered the Redfields as hardworking, giving people. No one said so, but they were really referring to Martha Mae, since Sipio was known as the laziest man the Good Lord ever made, and everyone knew the boys were good for nothing. People asked for her peach cobbler as though it were medicinal, and Martha Mae worked hard to meet every request. Reverend Lindsey said, “His ways are not our ways, and His thoughts are not our thoughts.” Paul wondered if there’d ever be a time when he’d know the ways of God. Or the thoughts of God. And how could a man know?

Eva Mae sat next to him, contented. It had to be this way, she thought. Someone had to submit themselves as a vessel in the hands of the Almighty God. For Paul’s sake. He’d thank her one day, she determined—if he ever became bold enough to know the truth.

The evening of the dance, Paul called on Christina at six and brought her to see Gus and Emma Jean before going to the party.

“Good evening, Miss Emma Jean, Mr. Gus,” Christina said, tiptoeing into the living room. She looked radiant in the powder blue evening gown, but Emma Jean refused to say so. Instead, she murmured a casual “Hello.”

Gus extended the warmth. “Come on in, baby,” he said, standing quickly. “Have a seat. You looks mighty purty. Mighty purty!”

“Hey, Christina,” Mister said. “You really do look nice.”

“Thanks.”

Emma Jean gave a fake smirk. “How yo’ folks?”

“They fine, ma’am, thanks for askin’.”

“How’d they like Paul’s suit?”

“Emma Jean!” Gus huffed.

“What! I just asked a simple question.”

Mister shaded his brow with his right hand.

“They said he looked real handsome, ma’am. My mother loved the suit. She said Paul would probably be the best-lookin’ boy at the dance.”

“Well, that was nice of her to say. And she’s right!”

Christina smiled awkwardly, like an actor who’d forgotten her lines in the middle of a play.

“It’s just a suit, Emma Jean. Don’t make such a fuss over it.”

“Just a suit? I beg your pardon? Do you know how hard I worked to get that suit together? Huh, man? Do you?”

“It’s great, Momma, and I thank you for it.”

“I think it’s nice, too,” Christina said. “Real nice.”

“We better be gettin’ on,” Paul said before Emma Jean’s drama embarrassed him further. “We don’t wanna be late.”

“Well, you kids have a nice time,” Gus said. “And make sure you have that young lady home at a decent hour. Don’t let Frank Cunningham get after you.”

Christina chuckled. “It was nice to see all of you.”

“You be sure to come back, hear?” Gus said.

Emma Jean rose, but didn’t speak.

Once they left, Gus said, “What’s the matter with you, woman? You act like you ain’t got no manners at all. That girl was just as sweet as she could be, and all you did was show yo’ ass.”

“I don’t like her. Not for Paul.”

“Why not? She’s pretty and comes from a good family. What’s wrong with her?”

Emma Jean shrugged. “I didn’t say nothin’ was wrong with her. I just don’t like her for Paul. That’s all. Didn’t you see how she strutted in here like she was some big movie star or somethin’?”

“Aw, stop it, Emma Jean! That girl was just as nice and down-to-earth as she could be!”

“I think so, too,” Woody said.

Mister agreed.

“That’s ’cause y’all men and don’t pay attention to stuff like that. A woman can pick up on another woman’s nastiness a mile away.”

“She wasn’t nasty!” Mister hollered.

“I say she was! And, like I said, you woulda seen it if you was a woman. But y’all men, so I don’t expect y’all to recognize that kind of stuff.”

“Woman, you crazy.”

“Call me what you want, but I know a stuck-up heffa when I see one.”

“Stuck up? Christina?” Woody asked.

“I ain’t gon’ argue with you. I’m a woman and I know ’bout women. Men-folks don’t even notice what a woman been lookin’ at for years.” Emma Jean switched to the kitchen and washed the evening dishes.