Perfect Peace (16 page)

“But I don’t wanna be clean and pretty, Momma. I wanna play wit’ de boys!”

“Well, you ain’t! You’s a girl and you gon’ act like one!”

Tears welled and burst across Perfect’s cocoa brown cheeks. She knew her resistance was useless. By six, she had learned that Emma Jean’s word was law, especially concerning her upbringing. So knowing nothing else to do, she plopped down on the edge of the porch, sat Olivia beside her, and rested her chin in the palms of her hands. The pink dress and matching hair ribbons, for which Emma Jean had emptied the family coffer, meant nothing to Perfect, who wanted only to partake in the fun her brothers experienced daily. Of course Emma Jean wouldn’t hear of it, so Perfect had no choice but to sit on the porch with Olivia and watch as her brothers climbed trees and raced down the dirt road. She still liked Olivia, but at six, Perfect preferred a friend who talked.

“Why don’t chu go find Caroline and Eva Mae, and play with them?” Emma Jean suggested. “It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and I’m sure those girls would love to play with you.”

Perfect frowned, but boredom persuaded her. “Okay,” she huffed. “But what if—”

“There they go now!” Emma Jean pointed toward the road. “De Lawd always show up on time. Why don’t chu jes’ go over there”—she pressed Perfect’s shoulders gently—“and ask them to come play with you? They real sweet girls. And pretty. Jes’ like you.”

Perfect complied although, had she had her way, she would have been entangled in the limbs of the oak tree with Mister and Sol.

“Hey y’all!” she hollered lazily, sauntering toward the dirt lane with Olivia swinging from her right hand. “Y’all wanna play somethin’?”

“Sure,” Eva Mae said. “What chu wanna play?” She wiped sweat from her glistening brow and ran fingers across what her mother said was the nappiest hair she had ever seen. Never bothering to comb or brush it, Mrs. Free usually washed it on Saturday mornings and let it dry on its own. Most days, Eva Mae’s long, kinky hair coiled like a snail and stood on her head, pointing in every conceivable direction. It never warranted ribbons or bows. The left strap of her baby blue sundress hung off her shoulder, semi-exposing a tender young eight-year-old breast, anxious, but unready to bloom. She was barefoot, as was Caroline, whose sandy red plaits made Perfect jealous.

“I don’t know,” Perfect returned. “Whatever y’all wanna play, I guess.”

“Then let’s play house,” Eva Mae suggested, and led the girls back to the porch. Caroline and Perfect followed like naïve ducklings.

“I’m the momma!” Perfect said as they reached the front steps. She slung Olivia onto the porch.

Eva Mae nodded. “Okay. Then I’ll be de daddy and Caroline, you be de daughter.”

“Why you always gotta be de daddy?” Caroline complained.

“ ’Cause I’m bigger’n you,” Eva Mae said matter-of-factly.

“So!” Caroline hollered.

“And I’m older’n you. I’m eight and you’re only six. And me and Perfect both bigger’n you, so you have to be the daughter. And since I can beat both o’ y’all up, I gotta be de daddy ’cause daddies beat people. At least they gotta be able to. That’s what makes them daddies.”

Caroline wanted to be the daddy, for once, but unable to usurp Eva Mae’s authority, she sighed and assumed her secondary role.

“Perfect, you start cookin’ supper over there”—Eva Mae pointed to an imaginary kitchen at the end of the porch—“and I’ll start gatherin’ kindling for de woodstove.” She began to move, then added as an afterthought, “And, oh yeah, Caroline, you . . . um . . . play with your friends in the front yard.”

Caroline sat on the green lawn and immediately began conversing with invisible companions. For an instant, Eva Mae and Perfect stared, troubled that Caroline required no transition from reality to fantasy, but since her actions contributed to the fun of the game, they didn’t disturb her.

Perfect scurried back and forth in front of the porch, huffing complaints about sweating over a hot stove for niggas who didn’t appreciate it. With pursed lips and limp wrists swinging freely, she moved from pot to imaginary pot, stirring nothingness and daring anyone to touch it before it was done. Ocassionally, she switched her narrow hips like Emma Jean, unsure of why women did it at all until Eva Mae slapped her buttocks.

“Whatcha do that for?” Perfect asked.

“ ’Cause dat’s what my daddy do when my momma walk in front o’ him like that.”

“Oh,” Perfect said, wondering why Gus had never responded to Emma Jean that way. Simulating her mother’s coarse alto, she turned to Caroline and said, “Girl, git in here and sweep dis floor!”

When Caroline didn’t answer, Perfect huffed, “These kids! I swear they git on my nerves!”

Across the yard, Eva Mae swung her arms as though the make-believe ax were real. Every few minutes, she stopped and panted, “Whew! Shit! Lawd have mercy!” just as her father did, then she resumed the chore with renewed vigor. Her sweat confirmed her paternal authority, she believed, and now she knew why her father ate so ravenously at the dinner table.

“Y’all come on!” Perfect hollered sweetly, and wiped her hands on an invisible apron.

Caroline jumped and said, “I gotta wash my hands, Momma.” She went to the well on the side of the house and drew a bucket of lukewarm water with which she rinsed her hands and face.

“You got some dinner ready, woman?” Eva Mae growled. “I done worked hard all day, and you betta have somethin’ ready fu me to eat.”

“It’s ready, it’s ready,” Perfect mocked. “Just sit down, man, and I’ll put everything on de table. Caroline, git in here!”

Caroline ran from the side of the house. “Good evenin’, Daddy,” she said with a smile.

“What’s good about it?” Eva Mae grimaced.

“Um . . . I don’t know,” Caroline whimpered.

“Then don’t say it no mo’. Jes’ sit yo’ ass down and wait fu yo’ momma to put de food on de table.”

Eva Mae’s cursing was off-putting for Caroline and Perfect, but since she was the daddy they didn’t object.

Perfect set the fictitious table, complete with pots, pans, and cutlery, and said, “Go ’head and eat, man, befo’ de food git cold.”

Eva Mae lifted a lid and said, “What is this shit anyway?”

Perfect wanted to ask her not to say bad words in case Emma Jean was near, but instead she answered, “Meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, string beans, and homemade lemonade.”

“I hate meat loaf,” Eva Mae said.

Perfect was dumbfounded. She couldn’t imagine Gus saying something like that to Emma Jean, who certainly wouldn’t have cared anyway.

Caroline intervened. “It’ll be good, Daddy. Momma made it extra good jes’ for you.” She smiled and the tension eased.

The girls spooned imaginary food into their mouths, but chewed as though it were real. Never uttering a sound, Perfect and Caroline watched Eva Mae to make sure Daddy was satisfied.

After several silent seconds, Perfect rose and said, “Let me clear these dishes up.” She gathered plates, forks, and glasses from before Eva Mae and Caroline, saying, “Y’all don’t do nothin’ but dirty up a bunch o’ dishes that somebody else gotta wash. I tell ya, I’m sick o’ y’all.”

“Shut up, woman!” Eva Mae shouted. “Just do what you s’pose to do. Don’t nobody wanna hear yo’ mouth.”

“I speak when I want to, man,” Perfect returned. “You don’t own me.”

Eva Mae’s slap startled Perfect. “Stay in yo’ place, woman!”

Too shocked to cry, Perfect wailed, “That’s not part of the game!”

“Sure it is,” Eva Mae said. “I’m the daddy and the husband, remember? Don’t yo’ daddy slap yo’ momma when she get smart at the mouth?”

“No. At least I ain’t neva seen him do it.”

“Well, he
is
the man of the house, ain’t he?”

“I guess so.”

“Then he can do whatever he want to. That’s what bein’ the man of the house means. And if anybody make him mad, he can hit ’em.”

Perfect didn’t care for the notion, but since Eva Mae’s explanation was logical, she acquiesced. “Okay, but don’t hit so hard.”

“All right.” Eva Mae smiled. “Now finish cleanin’ dis kitchen and git dese kids a bath.”

Caroline stared at Eva Mae like she did her own father whenever he hit her mother. She would have shot him by now, but she couldn’t reach the shotgun hanging on the living room wall. One day, she stood in a chair and retrieved it, only to discover that it was too heavy to hoist. All she could do was stare her hatred at him in hopes that the memory of the contempt in her eyes would one day convict his heart.

She never looked at her mother immediately after the abuse. Instead, Caroline would escape outdoors and reenter later as though nothing had happened. The black eyes and bruises made the charade difficult to execute, but Caroline thought this delusion the least she could do to help her mother retain at least a modicum of dignity.

So when Eva Mae slapped Perfect, Caroline ran across the yard and hid behind a rosebush, only to return seconds later, skipping and calling, “Hey, Momma. What cha doin’?”

Perfect was wiping off the imaginary table. Neither of them looked at the other.

“Get in here, girl, and get yo’self a bath,” Perfect fussed playfully.

“Yes, ma’am,” Caroline said, and went to the far end of the porch where the invisible washtub rested. Sliding the spaghetti straps off her shoulders, she let the loose, thin dress crumple to the ground. Then she rubbed her body as though bathing, scrubbing vigorously under her arms and between her skinny legs. “All clean, Momma!” she announced in nothing but her panties.

“Good, baby,” Perfect said without turning. “Now put on your nightgown and git ready for bed.”

“Your bed is up here,” Eva Mae said to Caroline, pointing to the porch. “Our bed is down there.” She nodded toward the area beneath the house.

Caroline stretched across the edge of the porch and said, “Good night, Momma, good night, Daddy.”

Perfect grabbed Olivia, and Eva Mae ushered them into the abyss beneath the house. It was dark and damp down there, for although the sun shone brightly, the three enclosed sides blocked most of its light. As the husband, Eva Mae led the way, assuring her wife that everything was all right. Perfect had played under the house before, but, for some reason—maybe submission to a man—she now felt helpless and lost.

The young couple tripped over miscellaneous items—empty buckets, garden shovels, fishing cane poles, gas containers—and came to rest in the far back corner. For the cooler temperature, Perfect was thankful, but for Eva Mae’s boldness, which certainly exceeded her own, she was envious.

“We can lay down right here,” Eva Mae said spryly, noting a vacant spot on the moist earth. “This’ll be fine.”

Perfect wanted to protest, simply for the sake of challenging Eva Mae, but in truth she had no objection.

The two reclined easily as though careful not to make a squeaky bed squeak. Perfect’s back fit snugly into the concave of Eva Mae’s arms and chest, and, acting like she thought a good husband should, Eva Mae grabbed Perfect and said, “Come here, woman.” She took Olivia and cast her aside.

“Don’t be so rough with her. It ain’t nice.”

“All right, all right,” Eva Mae said, and began to caress Perfect’s left arm sensually. Her touch sent chill bumps racing across Perfect’s body.

“Just relax,” Eva Mae coached. “I won’t hurt you.”

Perfect sighed.

“Good, good.”

Everything’s okay
, Perfect told herself.
Ain’t no need in bein’ scared. We just playin’ house and this is part of the game.
She couldn’t understand why she wanted to cry.

Eva Mae released Perfect’s body and gently rolled her onto her back. Perfect resisted slightly, sensing something wrong, but Eva Mae insisted. “You ain’t playin’ right! I’m de husband and you de wife, so you s’pose to do whatever I tell you!”

“No, I ain’t! My momma don’t do that.”

“Well, she oughta! Dat’s what de Bible say and dat’s what Reverend Lindsey say, too. De man is s’pose to rule over de woman and she’s s’pose to help him do whatever he dream of doin’. Don’t yo’ daddy work every day and yo’ momma stay home and cook and stuff?”

“Yeah, but that’s work, too!”

“Of course it is. But dat don’t mean de man ain’t s’pose to tell her what to do. She can work all day and night, but de Bible say she still s’pose to mind the man.”

Perfect recalled Reverend Lindsey saying those things. She’d wanted to ask him exactly what a “help meet” was, but she never did. Now, she couldn’t challenge Eva Mae’s explanation, so she huffed and gave in.

On her back, Perfect looked up into Eva Mae’s fierce eyes. “Ain’t you s’pose to say you love me or somethin’?”

“Hell no!” Eva Mae said. “Colored men ain’t gotta say that to their wives. You musta heard some white folks on de radio or somethin’.”

She had.

“Just lay back and relax.”

Eva Mae unbuttoned Perfect’s blouse and began rubbing her flat chest as though smoothing out a rough surface. Perfect glanced at Olivia, whose smile eased her discomfort. Then Eva Mae bent and softly kissed the place she had anointed, and Perfect hated that Eva Mae’s lips felt so good. Without asking permission, Eva Mae grazed Perfect’s tender nipple with her tongue, leaving a trace of murky saliva, which Eva Mae subtly wiped away with her one free hand. All Perfect knew to do was stare at Olivia as her play husband introduced her body to sensations she would later wish she had never known.