Queen Sugar: A Novel (29 page)

Charley looked at her grandmother, then she rose and stood by the window.

“I only wanted Ernest to have a chance,” Miss Honey said.

Charley nodded, because part of her understood exactly why Miss Honey did what she did. If Micah fell in love with someone too frail or weak to help her stand against the world, would she interfere? She probably would. And yet, and yet. How many lives had Miss Honey ruined, and if not ruined, altered in a way that couldn’t be fixed? Charley felt a small burst of fury, like a match being struck within her. Sometimes there was no fixing a life once it was broken; love, devotion, shortsightedness,
ignorance
—none of it mattered. Sometimes it was too late.

•   •   •

Charley woke early the next morning with a sick feeling. Her first instinct last night after hearing Miss Honey’s confession had been to call Violet, but Violet wasn’t home, and Charley had only said, in the message she left on Violet’s voice mail, that she needed to talk.

The sun had barely risen as Charley climbed behind the wheel. She’d just turned out of the Quarters when she spotted Hollywood ambling along the road’s shoulder, pushing his mower in her direction. The sight of him in his fatigues and baseball cap instantly lifted her spirits. She honked and pulled over.

“You think your regular customers would mind if I hired you for a couple hours?” Three days since the hurricane and Miss Honey’s yard was still a mess. The sunroom wasn’t flooded anymore—what water hadn’t evaporated, she’d mopped up or pushed out last night before she went to bed—but underneath the half inch of sludge, the floor had buckled. “I have to get to the farm, but I’ll drop you off so you can get started. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Before she could ask how much he’d charge, Hollywood had lifted the Volvo’s back hatch, tossed in his mower, and slid into the passenger seat.

•   •   •

Now it was later that evening and Charley, back home after a full day with Denton and Alison, leaned the push broom against the doorjamb, wiped her face on a strip of old bedsheet. Miss Honey’s sunroom opened onto the side yard where just weeks before all the family had gathered for the reunion. It felt like ages ago. Charley stepped out into the warm evening. “Maybe Walmart sells linoleum squares,” she called.

Hollywood had spent the entire day at Miss Honey’s and Charley couldn’t believe the progress he’d made. By the time she got home, he’d hauled all sunroom furniture into the yard so it could air out, pulled up all the waterlogged linoleum flooring—an enormous task—so the sunroom’s pine plank floors could dry. Now he tossed another tree limb on the burn pile—a smoldering heap of trash and leaves and splintered branches—he’d made in the yard’s far corner. “I reckon,” Hollywood said. “They sell everything else.”

Only now was Miss Honey’s yard beginning to look normal. Charley glanced at her watch. Almost seven o’clock.

“If you’re tired, I can finish up here,” Hollywood said, walking over. “Walmart’s open till midnight. I’ll go over there later to see what kind of flooring they got.”

Charley pictured Hollywood struggling to push a basket of linoleum squares all the way back to Miss Honey’s. “Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll drive together, then I’ll buy you dinner. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done today.” She looked at Hollywood standing there in fatigues now stained with sludge and ash. “Where would you like to go?”

“We could go to Sonic?”

“I’d rather take you someplace you’ve never been. You’ve gone above and beyond.”

Hollywood looked at Charley then back at the burn pile. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I’ve always wanted to go to Shoney’s in Morgan City. I’ve heard folks talk about the all-you-can-eat buffet. They say it’s real nice. I’ve seen the commercials on TV.”

“You got it,” Charley said, and imagined the family restaurant just off the four-lane. There were at least three restaurants between here and there that served better food, but oh well. “We can take the highway or the back roads. You pick.”

“I don’t know.” Hollywood’s face darkened. “I’ve never been to Morgan City.”

“Never been to Morgan City?” Charley laughed. “But that’s just down the road; couldn’t be more than twenty miles.”

Hollywood slid his hands into his pockets and Charley knew he was reaching for the comfort of his movie magazine. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not making fun of you. I guess I’m just surprised.”

Her apology was enough to set Hollywood at ease again. His face blossomed. “That’s okay. I know you’d never do that.”

•   •   •

At Shoney’s, Hollywood spent fifteen minutes surveying the buffet choices, then joined Charley at the booth by the window. He tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and bowed his head to say grace. Charley put her fork down and bowed her head too, and when she opened her eyes, she watched with quiet amusement as Hollywood stared in wonder at the mashed potatoes, meat loaf, fried chicken, string beans, pasta salad, and fried catfish he’d piled on his plate.

“I think something’s wrong with Miss Honey,” Hollywood said, and took a sip of his Mello Yello. “She usually comes out to talk to me when I’m working. Today she hardly said a word.”

And because Hollywood sounded genuinely worried, and because Violet still hadn’t called her back, and she needed someone to talk to, Charley confided in Hollywood. She knew she was betraying Miss Honey’s confidence, but she repeated Miss Honey’s story anyway, including the part about paying Emily’s family. “I know she loved my dad, but I can’t believe what she did.”

“I remember Miss Emily,” Hollywood said. “She lived in a little house on Saint Bernard, right before you get to the boat ramp. Liked to sit on her front porch and smoke cigarettes.”

Charley sat forward. All these years and she’d never really thought about Ralph Angel’s mother. “Ralph Angel never talks about her. Maybe one day you could take me to meet her. Or if you don’t feel comfortable, just tell me where she lives and I’ll go. She’s part of the family. Miss Honey should have invited her to the reunion.”

Hollywood set his fork on the table. “Miss Emily’s dead.”

Charley gasped.

“She killed herself,” Hollywood said. “Jumped off the bridge. I remember ’cause she did it the same summer Ralph Angel went to live with his daddy in California. It was in the paper.”

•   •   •

Half a dozen small children, snaggle-toothed and barefoot, ran up to the gate and stared at Charley’s car as she pulled up to Hollywood’s family compound.

“I had a fine time,” Hollywood said. “Thank you. It’s gonna be a long time before I have that much fun again.”

“I’m glad we went,” Charley said.

“Shoney’s is even better than it looks on TV. Maman’s gonna be jealous.”

“Then it’s a good thing you brought something back for her.” Charley handed Hollywood the bag of takeout. “And thanks again for today. That was a lot of work to do all by yourself. You’re a good friend to Miss Honey, Hollywood—and to me.”

Hollywood wiped his hands on his fatigues. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” Charley said, and braced herself. Hollywood was looking at her with such urgency, such earnestness, she was afraid of what he might be about to confess.

“You know how I said I’d never been to Morgan City before?”

Charley nodded.

“Truth is, before today, I’d never been out of Saint Josephine.”

Thirty days of dry weather, that’s what they needed. Thirty days with little or no rain, a whole lot of sun to bake the fields, an infusion of cash, and maybe, just
maybe
, they could save the farm—or at least that’s what Denton told Charley when she arrived at the shop. Debris still littered the fields, new ruts needed filling, drains needed redigging, johnsongrass needed cutting where it had grown tall and thick amid the cane, and so, for the first few days of September, Charley, Denton, Alison, Romero, and the crew spread out across the farm. They worked from seven in the morning until seven at night with a quick break for lunch. In the evenings, Charley staggered into Miss Honey’s to eat whatever she found in the fridge or whatever Miss Honey left for her under a covered dish by the stove. She showered before bed only because her own smell drove her to it.

After the first week, to Charley’s astonishment, the cane in the nearest quadrants actually righted itself, stretching toward the sun as if pulled by invisible wires, and they were able to assess how much they could salvage for planting. By the end of the second week, over in Micah’s Corner, the water had all but drained off the fields. Mud still made new planting impossible, though, and between the salt and the standing water, it was pretty clear the cane they’d planted earlier was ruined.

“Be glad we only dropped seventy-five acres’ worth,” Denton said as they ate lunch one afternoon, their sandwich papers smoothed out on the hood of Denton’s pickup. He balled his napkin and tossed it on the dashboard. “Farmers who started planting before we did lost everything. The Dugas brothers lost a thousand acres.”

Mid-September and still the weather held, with each day seeming a little better than the last. The humidity lessened, the nighttime temperature hovered in the mid-fifties, and for the first time, Charley thought she felt a hint of autumn in the air. Every day, she monitored their expenses, questioned each purchase, and sat on bills until the very last minute. She hadn’t found a bank that would lend her money, but they were scraping by.
The Cane Cutter
, meanwhile, rested on her dresser, frozen in his labor, but she no longer lifted the T-shirt draped over him; she could barely stand to look.

And then, in the third week of September, Denton announced he had good news and bad news. The mills had postponed the start of grinding until the middle of October—that was the good news, because it meant they had two more weeks to plant and maybe a couple days to catch their breath. The bad news was that the 4840’s engine had blown out, and since he couldn’t find used replacement parts, they would have to order new ones; the cheapest estimate was eight thousand dollars.

“We can’t plant without that tractor,” Denton said. He picked through the crumpled papers stuffed above his sun visor and handed Charley the estimate. “Time for you to pull that rabbit out of your hat.”

In her bedroom that evening, Charley folded the T-shirt Micah had thrown over
The Cane Cutter
and looked directly into his eyes. A braver woman would go ahead and sell, Charley thought; a more practical woman would add up the ongoing expenses and the unpaid invoices, consider the look of despair on Denton’s face every time he scribbled figures on the yellow pad, and there would be no question. But Charley didn’t think of herself as practical and she certainly didn’t feel brave. She slipped under the covers, pulled the sheet over her head, and curled into a ball, but she couldn’t get Denton’s face out of her mind. On the phone the next morning, Charley asked the operator for the numbers of all the New Orleans auction houses. A queasy feeling settled over her as she dialed.

•   •   •

Friday evening now, and Charley eyed the pile of clothes on her bed—the black wool suit she wore to her father’s memorial, the jeans skirt she’d owned since grad school, the yellow checked blouse with the Peter Pan collar that made her look too much like a schoolgirl. Everything she owned was too wrinkled, too heavy for the weather, or out of style. She stepped into her only pair of jeans that didn’t have oil on the knees.

On the air mattress, Micah picked through Charley’s makeup case, tested a lipstick on the back of her hand. “A date,” she said, “that’s gross.”

“It’s not a date.” Charley shed the jeans and peeled a green halter dress from its wire hanger.

“If you’re wearing that dress, it’s a date, Mom.” Micah drew a black line along her eyelid. “Are you gonna flirt?”

“Flirting is for cheerleaders,” Charley said. “God, this dress makes me look pregnant.”

“Then how’d you get a date?” Micah widened her eyes. The mascara wand licked the tips of her lashes. “Are you gonna go to second base?”

“Second—
what
? Okay, that’s it. No more PG-thirteen movies.”

In the end, Charley decided on a plain black skirt she used to teach in, and the blouse she wore when she visited Mr. Denton the first time. She looked at her reflection and sighed.

“Those shoes make your feet look huge,” Micah said.

Charley snapped eye shadow pallets shut, scooped up lip pencils and pots of blush she hadn’t worn in years. Other than the light coat of gloss on her lips, her face was bare.

“How late can we stay up?” Micah asked. She’d made two friends at school and had invited them over to watch movies.

“Ten thirty,” Charley said. “But you have to help Miss Honey with the dishes.”

Micah rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on a pillow. “Moms shouldn’t date. It should be illegal.”

“And don’t call unless it’s an emergency. I’m not kidding,” Charley said, and thought,
I’m too old for this.
But on her way out of the room, she touched the
The Cane Cutter
for good luck.

•   •   •

Remy Newell took a road that snaked lazily along the bayou where lily pads the size of elephant ears grew in clumps on the banks, and tree branches, willow and tupelo, dipped down to touch the slow-moving current. As the bayou turned, Charley caught a glimpse of a small aluminum boat anchored a few feet from shore and a fisherman gently lifting his pole and letting it fall as he tested his line. They passed plantation homes, old and grand, with sweeping verandas, tin-roofed Cajun cabins made of cypress, Creole cottages with gingerbread around the windows, and as the day’s light waned, Charley leaned back, content just to ride.

“Your place is looking better,” Remy said, breaking the silence. “That second quadrant is coming back real strong.”

Charley looked at Remy. He’d traded his T-shirt for a striped oxford rolled to his wrists, his dusty Wranglers for a new pair, stiff and lightly creased down the front, but he still wore his work boots, which was sort of reassuring because it meant they weren’t on a date after all. Just two farmers blowing off steam over a couple of beers. Still, he cleaned up well.

“Not fast enough,” she said, and pushed thoughts of her low bank balance out of her mind. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she said, then added, softly, “Well, the second hardest.”

“The first?” Remy said.

“Raising a daughter.”

Remy nodded, and seemed to consider Charley’s answer, but he didn’t probe.

They crossed the bayou again as the road turned, and lost the radio signal. Remy toyed with the dial till he found a zydeco waltz; the melancholic whine of the accordion, the singer’s voice full of resignation and longing, wafted through the speakers.

Remy sang along for a few bars. “You speak French?”

“I wish,” Charley said, thinking of Micah. “Just some high school Spanish, and even that leaves a lot to be desired.”

For a while, they discussed the benefits and challenges of hiring migrant farm labor, the rising price of health insurance and workman’s comp, but eventually, just as Charley knew it would, their conversation turned to the subject of marriage and family.

“You have just one?” Remy asked.

“Just one.” Charley scrounged through her purse for the single picture she carried: Micah leaning against a bright red door, grinning with permanent teeth that looked too big for her mouth. Charley handed the picture over. “She’s eleven.”

Remy steered with one hand as he held the photograph up to the window. “She’s a pistol, I can tell.”

“You have no idea.”

He studied the picture again, then looked at Charley. “Where’s her daddy?”

Remy was so easy to talk to that Charley was surprised the subject of spouses hadn’t come up before now. “He died four years ago,” Charley said. “We were coming back from the movies and two guys tried to mug us. He tried to be the hero but they had guns.”

“I’m sorry.”

Charley slid Micah’s picture back into her wallet. With every passing day, that other world, her old life, felt as though it belonged to someone else. Three and a half months and there was so much about it she’d forgotten. Charley looked at Remy again. His hair was thicker than she’d noticed and the tops of his ears were sunburned. “What about you?”

Remy drummed the wheel with his fingertips. “Divorced,” he said. “Didn’t last long. She said she didn’t get married to be a farmer’s wife.”

“What did she want you to do?”

Remy shrugged. “Business, I guess. Management, sales—hell, even politics, not that I have the stomach for it; I don’t think she cared as long as it didn’t have anything to do with farming.” He looked out the window, forlornly. “But I’ve worked around cane since I was sixteen. You name it, I’ve done it. It’s who I am. Used to come home from college every weekend during grinding just to smell the burned sugar in the air.”

“Kids?”

Remy shook his head then wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Maybe one day, if I’m lucky.”

•   •   •

Paul’s Café was a tiny joint that sat back from the road. The parking lot was jammed with pickups, and the sign over the door read
NO DANCING ON TABLES OR BAR
. It looked as if it had always been there.

As they parked, Charley looked at Remy with concern. Music echoed faintly across the parking lot and a cheer went up. Charley frowned. “I have a bad feeling.”

“Trust me, California,” Remy said. He took her hand and gently eased her out of the truck. “All folks in there care about is how much you tip the bartender and how well you dance.”

•   •   •

Charley was relieved to see that the crowd was a comfortable mix of blacks, whites, and everyone in between. In one corner of the dance floor, a middle-aged colored man of uncertain lineage wearing a cowboy hat with a turtle’s head mounted on the headband swung a white woman whose freckled skin had lovely orange undertones and whose red hair was streaked with silver. An elderly Cajun couple, eyes closed, wrinkled hands pressed together, waltzed gracefully around the edge of the crowd to a melody only the two of them seemed to hear. Men in jeans and vests, girls in short, twirly skirts and boots; husbands and wives, uncles and widows, undergrads and retirees—they were all dancing, everyone shuffling and stomping and two-stepping, their troubles temporarily forgotten.

For a while, Remy and Charley sipped beers at the bar and watched the dancing. Then Remy grabbed her wrist. “Come on,” he said, pulling Charley off her stool, excusing himself and begging people’s pardon as he pushed his way, politely but firmly, to the middle of the dance floor. Remy took Charley’s hand, wrapped his arm around her waist, then patiently guided her through a series of intricate steps, first turning her this way and then the other, then spinning her out on the length of his arm like a fly at the end of a fisherman’s reel before pulling her back.

The band played one upbeat tune after another, and Charley worked to follow the steps. It wasn’t difficult—just step together step, back, then front—but she had to concentrate. The moment she took her mind off what she was doing, looked at another couple, how they moved together, changed it up, she got confused and stumbled.

And then, just as she was getting comfortable, just as she reached the point where she could anticipate Remy’s next move, the band threw her a curveball and downshifted to something slow. It was a sweet, lilting melody with an old-timey feel: Spanish moss, low-hanging mist, and pirogues slipping through the water. The accordion whined and the leader sang in French.

“This here’s my song,” Remy said, starting to sing softly. He took Charley’s hand again, pulled her close. So close that she felt where the front of his shirt was damp from dancing; so close she felt his breath on her ear and neck as he exhaled and she smelled his citrus muskiness.

But every time Remy moved one way, she moved the other.

“Sorry,” Charley said for bumping into him. “Sorry,” she said for stepping on his feet.

“It’s all right. Just relax.”

They knocked knees.

“Oh my God. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll get this.” Charley’s back and shoulders tightened. She started to sweat.

Over and over. She kept messing up and apologizing, until finally, Remy pulled his cheek away from Charley’s just enough to look at her. He caressed her face and gave her that long, careful stare, then, in a calm, steady voice, said, “Listen to me, California. I know you’re a strong woman and all, but you need to let me lead.”