Perfect Peace (3 page)

On Sol’s first day of school, Miss Erma Briars was taken with his brilliance. He was precisely what a burnt-out country schoolteacher needed. Yet Gus saw things differently. He asked Emma Jean, “If the boy already smart, what’s de point o’ sendin’ him to school?” She ignored him and smiled at the As plastered across Sol’s worksheets. He tutored his older brothers in reading and math and loved that Authorly submitted to him, if only for a while.

“How you get smart like that?” Gus asked Sol one night before bed. “Me and yo’ momma ain’t smart.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Gus shrugged, too.

And Sol honestly didn’t know. Things just came easily to him, he said. And quickly. Sometimes he’d stare at other pupils, wondering why the simplest concepts appeared so difficult for them, but he never belittled anyone. Gus had told him that if you don’t use a gift to help others, God’ll take it away from you, so Sol assisted his classmates, whenever Miss Erma allowed, until most comprehended what he had understood days earlier. Little King Solomon Peace was the joy of the classroom until the day Emma Jean insisted he stop going.

Gus and Emma Jean’s fifth child was born blind. Kicking in the womb as though frustrated with its confinement, the baby reminded Emma Jean every day that she would surely regret having conceived out of desperation. In her sixth month, she knew it was a boy because, as she told her sister Gracie, “Only a man would kick a woman this hard.” Miss Mamie confirmed her fear. “High as you carryin’ that load, girl, can’t be nothin’ but a ole’ big-head boy.” Thirteen minutes after her first contraction, her fifth son burst forth without uttering a sound. Emma Jean screamed.

“He all right,” Henrietta said. “Just quiet, I guess. That’s all.”

Having run out of boy names two boys ago, Emma Jean simply called him Baby and said that somewhere, somehow his name would surface. Gus thanked God the child was alive and felt relieved that at least the boy didn’t seem slow.

Baby was even punier than James Earl had been. At six weeks, he weighed seven pounds and always seemed to be staring into oblivion. Emma Jean fed him and told God that if He were going to take him, then go ahead and do it. When God didn’t, she asked Henrietta to take another look at the child. “He all right,” Henrietta reassured after further examination. “Just little. And
blind as a bat.” Emma Jean sighed, then remembered that Reverend Lindsey had preached about a blind man who, despite others’ objections, cried out to Jesus on the Jericho road until Jesus restored his sight. Hoping for a similar miracle, Emma Jean prayed, and named her son Blind Bartimaeus. She dictated each letter slowly, repeatedly, until Gus had it engraved in the family Bible:

Blind Bartimaeus Peace, July 31, 1934.

Of all the boys, Bartimaeus was most like his father, and Gus hated it. He had prayed that his sons wouldn’t inherit his oversized heart—that’s how he thought of his emotional fragility—but as Bartimaeus cried throughout his formative years for reasons no one could discern, Gus knew his prayer had gone unanswered. What the boy couldn’t see, he felt even more intensely, and only when Gus held him did he calm and drift to sleep. Grateful the child couldn’t see him, Gus often walked the dirt roads of Swamp Creek with Bartimaeus cradled in his arms, smearing tears into both his own and the child’s high cheekbones. Only then did Gus ever see the boy smile and cackle like a normal baby. When the rains of ’37 came, he wasn’t surprised that Bartimaeus’s two-week crying spell ended abruptly. He simply knew he’d have to teach the boy to hold his heart until he found a safe, obscure purging place.

As Bartimaeus grew, his sensitivity multiplied. The rains of ’39 marked his transition from a shy, quiet youngster into a talkative, perceptive one. Gus groomed contempt for this new self, especially once people started calling the boy “sweet.” “He ain’t sweet!” Gus insisted. But Bartimaeus
was
sweet, people declared, and his blindness made him sweeter. Who had ever seen a child feel his way from one person to the next, hugging everyone as though trying to feel the beat of people’s hearts? And who had ever seen a boy raise his arms in frozen ecstasy as floral fragrances wafted by his nose? Yes, he was the sweetest boy in Swamp Creek. Probably in the whole state of Arkansas, Miss Mamie declared. Sweet, blind Bartimaeus. Nothing Gus said could redeem the boy’s public reputation. Gus thought to beat him, like Chester Sr. had done him. Surely that would allay the boy’s sensitivities and quiet people’s tongues. The only problem was that whenever he raised his hand to strike Bartimaeus, the child sensed the impending violence and recoiled in utter fear. All Gus could do was cry and hold him.

Never attending school—how in the world, Gus argued, could a child learn to read if he couldn’t see?—Bartimaeus let his imagination become his
reality. In his mind’s eye, he saw the world as a place of perfect love, where people exchange hearts simply to know what others’ feel like. Uninhibited by frowns and stares, Bartimaeus touched everything within reach as he attempted to see what those with eyes often overlooked. He would have given anything to glimpse, if only for a moment, the honeysuckle bush that smelled so sweet or the mountain range that Mister said touched the sky. At night, he grazed his hands over his brothers’ faces, creating a family portrait only he could see, but how would he ever know the accuracy of his imagining? Maybe there was a reason God had denied him sight, he thought, and each day he hoped to discover that reason.

The last child—or so Gus had thought—was also a boy, and Gus thanked a merciful God he’d never have to raise a girl. He’d wanted Bartimaeus to be the last, but Emma Jean’s desperate hope for a girl compelled him to relent once again. She’d always foreseen a herd of children, but girls were her preference, so with each birth she prayed the curse of the boys would end. Believing the sixth child was a girl and too sick, after the seventh month, to endure another day, Emma Jean induced her own labor. Unable to find Henrietta, Gus told her that she’d have to birth the child alone, so she did. When she saw its penis, she looked heavenward and mumbled, “Damn you.” Then she screeched, “Gus! Come get this!” He knew it was another boy. “You name him whatever you like. It don’t make me no difference.” Gus said, “Well, people gon’ call him mister somethin’ when he get grown, so we might as well start callin’ him Mister now.” Emma Jean would have hollered had she had the strength. After waking from a nap and hearing the other boys call him Mister, she decided to let the name stand. Gus wrote

Mister Peace, August 16, 1935

in the family Bible and closed it with finality. “When I have my little girl, I’ll name her something pretty,” Emma Jean promised herself.

“We almost got the shoulders out,” Henrietta said. “If you can give me one more good push—”

Emma Jean raised herself, almost to a full sit-up position, and roared, “AHHHHHHHHH!” then collapsed heavily. “Oh my God!” she gasped. “This has gotta be my little girl. It’s just gotta be.”

“Let’s just get it here first,” Henrietta cautioned. “Then we’ll see what it is.” She dabbed Emma Jean’s forehead with a cool, moistened cloth.

Gus didn’t have to worry about this ever again, Emma Jean thought. Boy or girl, she had had enough of childbearing for the rest of her life.

After one last, feeble push, Henrietta said, “Dear Jesus! Here it is.” Slowly, she lifted the baby, showing Emma Jean her seventh son.

Emma Jean closed her eyes and trembled. What had she done to make God mock her so, she wondered. Hadn’t she been an obedient daughter, even when her mother beat the shit out of her? Hadn’t she fed and clothed her children to the best of her ability? Hadn’t she married and loved—well, not loved, but at least respected—a husband whom she was sure no one else had wanted?

“He’s jes’ as cute as he can be, Emma Jean,” Henrietta pacified, after severing the umbilical cord. “This one’s kinda golden. Not as black as the others. Soft, curly hair. Yep! He’s a beauty.”

Emma Jean wouldn’t look. All she could think about was the promise she had made as a child to love and pamper a daughter the way someone should’ve loved her. She’d dreamed of stroking a little girl’s hair and binding it with golden ribbons, then sending her off to be admired by the world. But that couldn’t happen now. How would she ever spite her mother without a daughter of her own?

“Don’t be disappointed, honey. A healthy child’s a blessin’, don’t care what it is. And this one’s the cutest one yet. Plus, a house full o’ boys is always a blessin’.”

Henrietta sat the newborn in a small basin of lukewarm water and began to rinse the guck from him. “Yep, he’s the prettiest! Just look at all this hair, girl!” Emma Jean’s silence compelled Henrietta to add, “All dese hyeah boys sho nuff gon’ take care o’ you one day. You mark my word. Boys take care o’ they momma!”

Emma Jean ignored Henrietta. She certainly loved her boys, especially Authorly, but she couldn’t foresee a future without the daughter she’d imagined.
God must think this is funny
, she thought.
Why does He love to watch people suffer? What kind of God is He anyway? Aren’t people supposed to get
something
they want before they die, especially if they’ve never had anything?

Henrietta wrapped the infant in the pink towel Emma Jean had bought weeks ago at Morrison’s, and handed the baby to its silent, stoic mother. Emma Jean received the bundle like one receiving an eviction notice. She shook her
head as tears welled, but she refused to cry. What would’ve been the point? Why couldn’t she ever have what she wanted? After six boys—six!—didn’t she deserve a girl?

“I may as well go tell the menfolk now,” Henrietta slurred. “At least Gus’ll be happy.”

A yellow-breasted chat appeared on a branch outside the bedroom window. Emma Jean studied its color and smirked. She loved that shade of yellow. She had foreseen it in dresses and matching hair barrettes adorning her little girl, and now she couldn’t relinquish the image. Of course a boy
could
wear yellow, but most didn’t. What father, including Gus, would allow it? And who would call him beautiful? That’s why Emma Jean needed a girl. She needed someone others would deem beautiful, someone around the house who would care as much as she did about dainty, frivolous things.

“Emma Jean?”

Someone who wanted her and thought she was the greatest mother in the whole wide world. Someone who
needed
her like her sisters had needed their mother, Mae Helen, years ago. Someone who justified why she, Emma Jean, hadn’t murdered Mae Helen back when she had the nerve. Yes, she needed a girl. She had to have one. And if God thought He was going to deny her, Emma Jean resolved, He had another thing coming.

“Yes! Yes! Of course!” She burst into triumphant laughter. Her dismay lifted like fog on a cold, cloudy morning.

“Emma Jean? Are you all right? What is it?”

Emma Jean unveiled the baby, caressing its limbs, hands, and feet. “Hi, honey,” she whispered. “You finally made it, huh? You just as pretty as you can be.”

“Emma Jean? What are you talkin’ about?”

“I prayed for you a long time ago, and now you’re here.”

Henrietta’s mouth twitched. “Emma Jean? You all right?”

The mother blinked tears of joy. “I’m just fine, Henrietta Worthy. Just fine!” She stroked the baby’s head gently.

“Well, I’ma go on out and tell the menfolks—”

“You ain’t gon’ tell ’em nothin’,” Emma Jean said. “Nothin’ but what I tell you.”

Henrietta turned, confused. “Excuse me?”

“You gon’ tell ’em they got a new baby sister. That’s what you gon’ tell ’em. And she’s just as cute as she can be!” Emma Jean smiled.

“What?” Henrietta said, approaching the bed. “What did you say?” Her eyes narrowed to small, oval slits.

“That’s right! This is my baby girl! She’s jes’ as pretty as she can be! You said so yourself!”

“What chu talkin’ ’bout, Emma Jean?”

“This here’s my baby girl,” Emma Jean repeated. “At least now she is.”

“That ain’t no girl! I know you wanted one and all, but—”

“And now I got one!”

Henrietta glanced frantically from Emma Jean, to the ceiling, to each of the four walls, and back to Emma Jean. “What?”

“You heard me. I said, this is my baby girl. And that’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t understand what you sayin’, Emma Jean Peace.” Henrietta stood with arms akimbo.

“Oh, sure you do. It ain’t deep.”

“It must be deep ’cause I ain’t gettin’ it.”

Emma Jean wrapped the child again and cleared her throat. “This is my
daughter
,” she stressed, peering into Henrietta’s bulged eyes. “And don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”

Henrietta blinked repeatedly. “You is crazy! You must be done lost yo’ mind, Emma Jean. That baby ain’t no girl!”

“I know what it is, but it’s gon’ be a girl. From now on.”

Henrietta’s mouth fell open.

“You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. This is all my doin’. I just need you to keep yo’ mouth shut. That’s all.”

“Keep my mouth shut?” Henrietta shouted. “Is you plumb crazy, Emma Jean Peace?”

“Shh! Like I said, you ain’t got nothin’ to explain to nobody. Just let my business be my business.”

“You can’t be serious! What kinda mother would do this to a child?”