Perfect Peace (38 page)

Walking a few feet downstream, he attempted to skip a stone across the surface of the water, but the Jordan, like a watery black hole, consumed the pebble in a flash. It was as if the waters were angry at the disturbance. “Sorry,” he murmured, then knelt and listened to the song of the current. It was a tumultuous melody, full of chaos and frustration. Had there been words, Paul was sure he could’ve learned the history of Swamp Creek’s people, his people, in the watery uproar. The Jordan would probably have told him everything Gus had ever wept about, and now he would know the inner workings of his father’s heart. But there were no words, so Paul closed his eyes and let the Jordan speak for itself, on its own terms, in its own language. He recalled the day’s events and began to understand finally, though not fully, why Gus came to the Jordan each spring. There was something medicinal in its chaotic melody, something that reminded him of the big picture, of the minutiae of his troubles. It told him that he was human, and that his emotions were a reflection of the God in him. Paul needed that reminder. His life had been a series of mountains and valleys—mostly valleys—where he found himself depressed and inadequate. The moment he conquered one struggle, another appeared, until he resolved that peace would never be his. As much as he tried, he couldn’t seem to please everyone, and, many days, he couldn’t please anyone. There was always something unsatifying or unsettling about him. Like when he tried not to switch, someone swore they saw his hips sway, regardless of how constrained he walked. Or when he spoke to boys, simply trying to befriend them, someone inevitably accused him of flirting as if he were bold enough to solicit sexual favors from those who despised him. How could he win, he wondered, if people weren’t willing to believe something other than what they already thought about him?

Paul sighed and opened his eyes. What he liked most about the Jordan was that no one could hinder its flow. It had a mind all its own. Others’ opinions of its size or depth didn’t matter. Only God possessed the power to subvert its course. Whether viewers loved it or not was inconsequential. It was a river, and it was created to flow, and that was exactly what it did. And that’s all it did. That was its purpose, and no one could alter that identity, regardless of what they thought. The Jordan enjoyed a life free from external criticism and that’s what Paul wanted. Isn’t that what everyone wanted?

Recapping his life, Paul chuckled. How had he survived it all? Since age
eight, all he’d heard was “faggot” this and “sissy” that. His family had been helpful sometimes and hurtful other times. They’d meant well though, Paul assumed. Maybe others had, too. Yet, when he thought about it, no one had stood with him every step of the way. Not Eva Mae, not Authorly, not even Emma Jean. She’d always loved him and was careful to say so, but after the transition, she surrendered him to the men and turned a blind eye, it seemed to Paul, to his pain and abuse. Paul never saw Emma Jean’s tears drip onto her pillow at night or heard the muffled whimpering when her guilt became unbearable. He thought she’d simply made a decision and never looked back. Questioning her about it would’ve been useless, he determined, since no explanation would’ve justified what she’d done. Some days he still considered running away, but what good would that do now? It wouldn’t change people’s opinion of him, and it wouldn’t keep him from being—what did others call it?—funny.
Funny?
Paul shook his head slowly. How in the world was
he
funny? What was funny about being mocked and ridiculed and sent to hell? And who actually laughed about it?

Paul’s life had changed the night Gus thought he might die from the fever. Even after having beaten and demeaned him, Gus still loved him and that’s all Paul needed to know—that his daddy still loved him. He was the only man whose opinion mattered—at least before Johnny Ray came along—and Gus’s affirmation freed Paul to consider that he might, in fact, survive as a man. Gus had survived when others thought he wouldn’t, so Paul planned to do the same. Dying simply wasn’t an option. Paul didn’t know how to die anyway.

He stood and he felt better. He didn’t know why, but it seemed as if the Jordan had done something to his spirit, or
for
his spirit, and he resolved to make it, if only to prove the world wrong. Emma Jean used to say that he was a perfect child, a God child, and if it had ever been true, then Paul considered that it might still be. Like the Jordan, he had to ignore what others said about him and simply be himself. Sol had said this the day he left. “But who am I?” Paul asked the rushing waters. The Jordan didn’t answer. Obviously, he’d have to figure this out for himself.

With his satchel clutched in his left hand, Paul walked away. He was grateful for the Jordan’s cleansing power and vowed to return if he needed to. Pressing through the woods, he stumbled upon the pathway home, and that’s when his newfound clarity disintegrated into total chaos.

It all happened so fast. In the weeks to come, he couldn’t order the sequence of events in a way that made sense. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t recall
exactly which thing occurred first. Or last. Had he been able to do so, he could’ve retraced the moment, he convinced himself, and understood. At least maybe. The only thing he remembered clearly was the initial attack.

Like a pack of wild wolves, the bodies descended upon him and wrestled him to the earth. He tried to fight—unlike in the schoolyard—and wielded more strength than he thought he had. “Stop!” he shouted before they stuffed the funky white sock in his mouth and covered his eyes with a heavy strip of cloth. All subsequent screams were muted as Paul struggled in utter darkness. His strength soon faded, however, allowing them to tie his wrists behind his back. They hadn’t counted on such a fight. Maybe he had some man in him after all.

“Don’t!”

The trees, sky, road swirled about him as the multiple sets of hands restricted his movement. There were at least four assailants. He could tell that much. Some hands were bigger and heavier than others, and one set quivered as though aware it was participating in an evil thing.

“Fuckin’ freak!” a voice whispered. The others quickly shushed him. This was a secret, something not to be known. Paul tried frantically to turn his head in hopes of seeing his violators, but, each time, they pressed his face harder into the rough, coarse earth. He was too afraid to cry.

Suddenly, Paul felt the button of his trousers snap. “
No! Please don’t!
” he screamed into the sock, but of course it was useless. His head twisted hysterically as someone jerked his pants away from his flesh. Fighting more fiercely than before, he attempted against all odds to toss the weight from his slender frame, but he simply didn’t have the strength. Who were these people and why were they doing this to him? He wondered. He knew they were boys. They had to be. Girls never did things like this. Not that he’d ever heard of. And even if they did, the only girl strong enough to hold him down was Eva Mae, and of course this wasn’t her doing. She’d save him if she were there, Paul told himself, like she had done earlier. Sure, she’d been upset that he hadn’t defended himself, but she wouldn’t ever let anyone do this to him, would she? She was his best friend. At least she used to be. No, she still was, Paul decided, and he needed her now more than ever.

One lone tear inched its way down Paul’s dirty, marred cheek. His last muffled cry—“
Oh God, no!
”—never reached the ears of his abusers. They were too preoccupied with achieving the goal at hand.

When the elastic waistband of Paul’s underwear gave way and slid across
his rounded buttocks, he knew he had been defeated. The cool evening breeze, drifting between his bare thighs, brought attention to his nakedness and caused him to shiver with panic. What were they doing?

As abruptly as they had overwhelmed him, they flipped him over. “That ain’t no pussy!” the voice from before declared. “That’s a goddamn dick!” The others recoiled in horror. Now they knew the truth. Paul
was
a boy. Emma Jean hadn’t lied after all.

The truth infuriated the boys more than the rumor had. They recalled how Paul always took refuge in Eva Mae’s protection and how his flawless, chesnut-colored skin glimmered in the bright, morning sun, and they began beating him mercilessly. From one side of his face to the other, unexpected blows fell upon him, leaving intersecting streams of blood. Someone’s foot, a bit less intense than the fists, kicked his thighs repeatedly until they went numb. Where was Authorly? Sol? Gus? Emma Jean? Somebody?

When the commotion ended, Paul thought the worst was behind him. He tried to stand, with his pants and underwear gathered about his ankles, but the boys leveled him to the earth again. His eyes throbbed, as though attempting to jump from their sockets, and he was sure his lip was busted in several places. Lying upon his stomach once more, he begged God to make those evil boys vanish, but God wouldn’t do it. Was it because he wasn’t saved? He’d thought he was, but maybe he wasn’t. If he had been, none of this would be happening, right? Salvation to Paul meant that one was protected, guarded, exempted—as it were—from Satan’s plan, and now he knew he’d never been saved. Had he been, God would’ve caused him to sprout wings like an angel and fly away. Or He would’ve killed those beasts on the spot or sent a giant like Goliath to consume them. He would’ve done something. At the very least He would’ve told them that Paul was His child and that he was not to be violated. But God didn’t say or do anything, precisely because, Paul thought, he’d never truly believed. Or never gotten delivered. Now, in the midst of trouble, Paul trembled and apologized for having fallen far short of God’s glory.

In a flash, one of the boys descended upon him from behind, and Paul belted a desperate scream—“NO!”—that sounded like a thousand wounded buffalo. Birds, insects, deer, lizards, and squirrels scampered away in fear. His body quivered as the boy attempted to enter him.
Death? Oh, Mr. Death? Where are you? Come, and come quickly. I ain’t scared no more. I need you. Please, please come.

The boys heard rustling nearby and stopped. Paul felt the load lift from him as suddenly as it had descended, then heard feet rush away into the heavy, sad night.

His saliva tasted like bile. The insertion had only lasted a few seconds, but its memory would linger a lifetime. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt dirty and nasty, like someone had pissed and shit all over him. How would he ever feel clean again? All the soap and water in the world couldn’t wash that feeling away. Paul never heard the boys say, “He ain’t no girl, but he’s certainly a bitch!” as they slapped each other’s palms excitedly. They’d planned to do other things, but the rustling in the woods had frightened them and altered those plans.
Oh well
, they thought.
He got the point.

But Paul didn’t have the point. Why had they done this? Who were they? What had he done to deserve something like this? He knew what folks believed about him, and he knew that most of it wasn’t true. What more could he have done to prove himself worthy of human respect? He never said much to anyone—except Eva Mae—and he tried his best to stay out of people’s way. That wasn’t enough?

He inhaled and tried, though he failed, to lift himself from the earth. Someone scampered behind him and, with hands warm and strong, bore him up as though he were dead. Paul leaned heavily upon the angel’s shoulders as he felt his underwear and pants restored. The angel then untied his hands, removed the blindfold, and lifted him, like a groom hoists a bride, carrying Paul home with swift urgency. Under the moonlight, still semiconscious, Paul couldn’t discern who the stranger was although he guessed it was a man. He wanted to say thank you and maybe offer the money in the coffer for his trouble, but Paul hadn’t the energy or the will to speak. As they approached home, the man’s deep, soothing voice hissed, “Shhhhhhhhhh” into Paul’s left ear. Laying him gently on the porch, he said, “You ain’t gotta die. ’Less you want to cain’t nobody kill you. Not you.” Paul blinked several times and beheld Sugar Baby’s soft, scruffy face. His smile was different, as though he knew something Paul didn’t. And why didn’t he reek of alcohol like he usually did?

Sugar Baby turned suddenly and vanished down the lane while Paul moaned, “Help me!” Mister opened the screen, thinking he had heard the old cat purr, and yelled, “Oh my God, y’all! Come here! Hurry! Somebody done hurt Paul!”

Emma Jean screamed, “My baby!” as the men carried Paul to the sofa.

“What happened, boy!” Gus shouted. “Who done this to you?”

Woody and Mister gathered wet washcloths and began cleaning Paul’s face. Sitting at his feet, Bartimaeus removed Paul’s shoes and rubbed his numb legs vigorously.

Emma Jean stared in dismay. With her mouth covered and quivering like a dry leaf in the wind, she groaned painfully and blamed herself for everything Paul had endured.

Gus sat on the edge of the sofa, next to Paul’s limp, emaciated body, pleading, “Tell me, boy! Who done this to you!”

Paul’s light, choppy breathing assured Emma Jean that at least he was alive. She stumbled to a chair at the kitchen table and buried her weepy eyes into her folded arms.

“What happened, Paul?” Mister asked, wiping streaks of blood from his face.

Paul couldn’t answer. Everyone’s voice sounded far away, as if they were shouting at him across a wide open field. He would’ve answered had he had the strength. Each time he formulated a response, he couldn’t gather the breath with which to say it. The best he could do was nod to assure his family that he wasn’t dead—although he felt dead. Pain traversed every pore of his flesh. Even the skin beneath his fingernails ached, as did the soles of his flat feet.