Perfect Peace (51 page)

“Time for lazy Negroes like you to get up off they asses and get ready for this hyeah party!”

“What’s the rush, Daddy? I thought you said it wunnit ’til this evening,” Mister grunted.

“And leave it to Negroes like you to wait ’til the last minute to get ready! Well, not today! Yo’ momma’s sick. You know that. And I want everything just right. Now come on and get to movin’ so we can make sure everything’s in place.” Gus snatched the quilt from Paul, who wanted to curse him, although he knew better.

Throughout the day, the boys straightened up around the house while Eula Faye, Caroline, and Puddin’ prepared food. Paul decorated the living room with yellow ribbons, just as he’d done years ago, while Emma Jean observed silently. Her mind wasn’t completely gone; she simply entered and exited reality like one might move from one room to the next and back again. As Paul moved about, she saw him—in her mind’s eye—at eight, dancing around the living room in the frilly yellow dress, and, now, after having been beaten with the truth, the memory saddened her.

“I didn’t have no right to do what I did, son,” she murmured in a whisper.

Paul stopped abruptly. He thought his mother’s days of lucidity were gone. “It’s all right, Momma. I’m fine. You just worry about gettin’ yo’self better.”

Emma Jean smiled as the painful memories resurfaced.

See! Didn’t I tell you? This is worse than a beatin’, huh?

“You can’t come here!” Emma Jean yelled. “It’s my birthday and you ain’t welcome!”

I go wherever you go.

“I said, leave me alone!”

Paul watched Emma Jean slip further away. Then, kneeling before her on the sofa, he said, “Momma? It’s all right. I’m here.”

“I know you here, baby, but I’m tryin’ to get this”—she didn’t know what to call it—“
thing
to leave me alone.”

“What is it? What do you see?”

Emma Jean didn’t try to explain.

It’s sorta funny, ain’t it? Now he’s worried about you.

“I’m fine, baby,” she said, patting Paul’s spongy Afro. “It’s just that sometimes I hear . . .”

“It’s okay, Momma.” Paul resumed sweeping.

“Honey?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Would you put on yo’ suit for me?”

“My suit? Today? It’s Saturday, Momma.”

“I know, but would you put it on anyway? I need to see you in it.”

“Okay. Anything you want. It’s your birthday.”

He finished sweeping, then went into the bedroom and emerged more handsome than Emma Jean recalled. She covered her mouth and longed for bygone days. “I’m so sorry,” she managed to say. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know, Momma. I know.”

“No, you don’t know. When you was born, you was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. You just happened to be a boy.” She smiled and gazed into his eyes. “I hadn’t never seen no baby that pretty, and you was all mine. All I wanted was to love you and give you pretty things and make sure you knew how beautiful you was. I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

Well, you did.

“Shut up!” she shouted to the ceiling.

“I’m fine, Momma. It didn’t kill me.”

Gus almost did.

“I shouldn’t’ve done it, baby. You was a boy and you didn’t have no business bein’ no girl.”

That’s right.

“All I’m askin’ is that you forgive me for what I done.”

Very good, Emma Jean.

“I done already forgave you, Momma. I know you didn’t mean no harm. Stop worrying about me.”

Emma Jean smiled. “All right, honey.” She looked him over. “You sho do look nice.”

Paul glided and swayed before Emma Jean like a model on a runway. They laughed together.

“You all grown up now, son. I ain’t gon’ be ’round forever. You gotta fight for yourself.”

“I know, Momma. I ain’t weak.”

No thanks to you.

“Leave me alone, I said!”

Paul’s look of pity embarrassed her.

“It’s that voice again, honey,” she said, trying to laugh away the shame.

“I understand.” Studying the yellow ribbons plastered throughout the room, Paul added, “You know what, Momma? I miss bein’ Perfect sometimes.”

Emma Jean frowned. “Forget about that. That was all in the past.”

“I don’t wanna forget it. Not all of it. I know I can’t live that way, but I can remember. I had so much fun, playin’ with Eva Mae and Caroline, and dressin’ up on Sunday mornings. I felt special then, Momma, like I was really somebody.”

“You still special, baby. I shouldn’ta done what I done though. I messed up yo’ mind.”

You sure did!

“You didn’t mess up my mind, Momma. I had fun back then. I don’t neva talk about it no more, but it was the funnest days of my life. I was thinkin’ about it the other day.”

“Just leave it alone! Go forward, son. Let the past die. You’ll never be Perfect again.”

The past don’t never die.

“You know what I hate most, Momma? The way we stopped talkin’ and doin’ stuff together.”

“It had to be that way, son.”

You’re gettin’ good with this truth tellin’, Emma Jean.

“I know, but I still miss it. We had our own little world, just you and me. We used to laugh and cook and—”

“Look, boy! I said, forget about all that!”

Paul was startled. “Why! Why cain’t I have my own memories? It don’t hurt nothin’ to remember.”

“Yes it do! Memories hurt the most, especially if they bad memories.”

“My memories of bein’ a girl ain’t bad. The bad memories came when Authorly and Daddy started beatin’ me, tryin’ to turn me into a boy. Then everybody else started talkin’ about me.”

“It was for yo’ own good, son.”

“My own good? Beatin’ me was for my own good?”

“That’s right. There was no other way.” Emma Jean nodded confidently. “You couldn’t live out yo’ life like that.”

“All right, Momma. Let’s just stop talkin’ about it.”

“Okay, baby. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You can’t do nothin’ right, Emma Jean, can you?

Emma Jean rose slowly and exited to the backyard, where she wept bitterly. Paul’s effeminate nature assured her that he’d always have some residue of his former life, and now she knew that all the beatings in the world wouldn’t change him. She’d hoped the men’s influence could diminish the girl in him, and it had, but it hadn’t erased it. Not completely. That would never happen, and Emma Jean would be tortured with that truth for the rest of her life. She had loved him more than she had meant to, and far too much for him to forget. He still spent most of his time with girls when Emma Jean would rather him marry one. She’d even take Christina. He obviously hadn’t forgotten his days as Perfect, and from the looks of things, he didn’t intend to. At nineteen, he was precisely what he’d always been, and Emma Jean would never forgive herself for having made him that way.

You’re on your own now.

“Don’t leave me, Momma.”

I have to go. I’m glad you told the truth.

“Yeah. It just hurts so bad.”

It usually does.

Emma Jean hugged herself. “It got out of hand.” She marveled at the magnitude of it all. “And ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now. The boy’s grown. He gon’ have to figure thangs out on his own. Yeah, I shoulda told him sooner, but I didn’t know how. I mean, how do you tell yo’ own daughter that she ain’t really no girl? And I needed a girl. You know I needed a girl, right?”

I know you
wanted
one.

Emma Jean’s eyes followed the erratic movements of a bird outside the window. If only she could fly away . . . “All I’m gon’ ask is that somebody love him. I don’t care who, but don’t let him be lonely the rest o’ his life. It’s gon’ be hard as it is. I know that. But there’s gotta be somebody who can make him happy. He’s a good boy. Don’t let him suffer because of me.”

No one can guarantee love, Emma Jean.

“I know that! But can’t you?”

No. Not even you.

The party started shortly after five. Gus had hoped for a cheerful, jubilant atmosphere but, under the circumstances, the somber, gloomy air made sense. Authorly tried to talk, but no one really paid him any mind, and Woody’s jokes just weren’t funny. It was as if Emma Jean had died and people were now gathered for the wake. Gracie was there, as was Eva Mae, who came with a cake her mother had sent. Miss Mamie brought a pretty yellow and green quilt she’d made for herself, but decided to give away once she messed it up. Much to Emma Jean’s horror, Henrietta came and spent the afternoon shaking her head sadly, mumbling “ump, ump, ump” each time she glanced at Emma Jean.

The only consolation was the food. The daughters-in-law were superb cooks, much better than Emma Jean, so everyone ate far past their appetite instead of looking at Emma Jean drool at the mouth and rock on her hands. It was a humbling sight, Eva Mae thought. One minute you’re up and thriving, and the next you’re shriveled and dying. Her grandmother used to say, “You know neither the day nor the hour,” and, watching Emma Jean from the corner of her eye, Eva Mae knew her grandmother had been right. But who could feel sorry for Emma Jean after what she’d done?

When the feasting ended, Gus beckoned everyone to the living room. The boys brought chairs from the kitchen table and sat them in a semicircle before the sofa where Emma Jean sat. Mister and Paul joined her, sitting on either side, and the married boys stood behind their seated wives. Gus stood like one about to convene an important meeting.

“I jes’ wanna say how much I ’preciate all o’ y’all for comin’. ’Course Emma Jean ain’t well, but I’m sure she feels better, havin’ all o’ y’all here.”

Emma Jean tried to smile, but didn’t want to speak, fearing that the voice would return and contradict her words. She peered at everyone, especially her sons, imagining how she’d raise them differently if given the opportunity, and only now did she realize how she had privileged Paul over the others. A tear ran down her right cheek as a nonverbal apology which, apparently, the others understood and accepted. They smiled sympathetically.

Suddenly, Paul’s head twitched. Was he hearing things, too? He closed his eyes to listen more intently, and that’s when he identified the voice. It was unmistakable.

“All of my heeeelp!” he heard faintly in the distant breeze.

Paul lifted his hands and sang off-key, “All of my help,” as water gathered in his eyes.

“Oh my God!” Mister jumped and shouted. “It’s Sol!”

Everyone but Paul and Emma Jean ran through the screen door and into the yard to welcome King Solomon Peace home. Gus waited at the edge of the porch.

“Comes from the Looooord!” Sol continued to sing.

The family smiled at King Solomon, approaching from the weeded lane.

“Comes from the Lord!” Paul sang inside.

“All of my heeeelp,” Sol belted louder.

“All of my help,” Paul muttered, shaking his head in joyful disbelief.

Sol hugged his brothers first, crooning and crying all the while. “Comes from the Looooord!”

“Comes from the Lord.”

“Whenever I neeeeeed Him! He’s right by my siiiiide! Oh, thank Ya, Lord! All of my help!”

“My help!” Paul declared.

“Myyyy help!”

“My help.”

“My help, comes from the Lord, oh yes it does, shonuff it does!”

“Go ’head and sang yo’ song, boy!” Gus whispered from the porch, squeezing his staff to keep from crying.

“Hey, man! You made it! I hoped you would!” Authorly scooped Sol from the earth in an enormous embrace. “You got the letter, huh?”

“Yep, I got it. Wow. Y’all look so good!”

The girls chuckled.

“Eva Mae, you look good, too, girl! Where’s your husband?”

“Where’s yo’ wife?” she sassed playfully.

The crowd roared. Sol never relinquished Bartimaeus’s hand.

“Come on, man,” Authorly said, retrieving Sol’s bag. “Let’s put yo’ stuff in the house so you can say hey to Momma and Paul.”

“Man, you still tellin’ folks what to do?”

“Yes, Lord!” Woody hollered.

“You know he is,” Bartimaeus said. “He don’t know how to do nothin’ else!”

Mister shouted, “Put him in his place, Sol, for God’s sake!”

The boys laughed as they ushered Sol onto the porch. Gus grabbed him and slapped his shoulders as though Sol had been gone a lifetime.

“How you doin’, Daddy!”

“Doin’ good, boy! Doin’ good! You looks mighty fine.”

“Yes I do, don’t I?”

Woody and Authorly chuckled.

“You just got here?”

“Yessir. Just got off the evenin’ train.”