Queen Sugar: A Novel (31 page)

“Yeah, I know.” Ralph Angel put his hand on the truck door. “But I’m riding on fumes. I don’t fill my tank tonight, I can’t make it back tomorrow.” He didn’t mean it to sound like a threat, but the German’s face flushed. “Not trying to be a smart-ass. I’m just being straight with you.”

“And I’m going to be straight with you,” the German said. He dug in his ear with his key. “I don’t give a shit where you went to school, or whether you wipe your ass with a silk handkerchief or the back of your hand. I pay out on Fridays; not Thursday afternoon, not Saturday morning. You want this job, Professor, you’d better figure out a way to gas up and get here by seven o’clock tomorrow. Not here at seven, I got ten other guys to take your spot.” He pulled the door closed.

Ralph Angel stepped away as the German turned the engine over. “I’m not a professor.”

•   •   •

Half a mile down the dirt road, the Impala sputtered then stopped. Ralph Angel sat behind the wheel, debating whether to sleep in his car, then got out and started walking. It had been years since he’d passed anywhere near a cane field. Now he cut through the rows. By dusk, he’d made it back to the Quarters and paused at the railroad tracks to look down into the dusty streets. The church, the school yard, the narrow road leading into the woods.

The screen door announced him. ’Da was at the stove. Blue, Micah, and Charley were setting the table.

“Where’ve you been?” asked ’Da.

“Got a job.”

Blue ran over, then backed away. “Yuck, Daddy, you stink.”

“A job,” ’Da said, like he’d just told her he’d been elected mayor.

“I’m working with this guy. He’s got a serious crawfish farm out past Bayou Duchein. Must have thirty-five, forty ponds.” Ralph Angel hung his jacket over a chair as though it were a suit coat and looked at Charley. “He says if I keep doing what I’m going, one day he’ll make me a partner, give me a percentage. What do you think about that, sis?”

“Congratulations,” Charley said.

’Da looked at him expectantly. “What’s he have you doing?” It was the same expression she had the first time he won the Junior Baptist Bible Verse Competition. He could still remember her, sitting there in the front row.

“Right now I’m out in the fields, managing the crew. He wants me to see how the whole operation runs, then he’ll bring me inside.”

“That makes two farmers in the family,” ’Da said. “God is good all the time. I’ve been praying for something like this. All that talent you got?”

“I’m not sure the Lord has much to do with this,” Ralph Angel said, “but thanks.”

“What do you mean?” ’Da said. “The Lord’s got
everything
to do with this. ‘And all these blessings shall come on thee, and overtake thee, if thou shalt hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy God.’ Deuteronomy, chapter twenty-eight, verse two.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel, then slung it over her shoulder. “You’re not sure what the Lord has to do with this? I know I raised you better than that.”

“Denton says some farmers will lose as much as seventy thousand dollars if their cane doesn’t stand up by the end of the week,” Charley said.

Ralph Angel looked at Charley. On another day, her farm talk would have made him want to rip her face off. Could she
really
not see how much it bothered him? She
must
be doing it on purpose. But today, listening to her talk was like drinking castor oil: you wanted to vomit for a few seconds, but the feeling passed. “Speaking of money, ’Da,” Ralph Angel said. “I need to borrow some. I ran out of gas; had to walk back.”

“Why didn’t you call? I’d’ve come get you.”

“This place is way out. Walked half a mile just to get to the main road.” Before he said another word, ’Da had reached for her purse. “Just enough to fill the tank. I get paid on Friday.”

’Da pressed forty dollars into his hand. “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow if you need more,” she said. “Now go shower.”

Ralph Angel turned to Charley. “If you can find it in your heart to help your brother, after dinner maybe you can give me a lift to the gas station then drop me at my car.”

•   •   •

“So, one more week till grinding,” Ralph Angel said as he and Charley pulled out of the Quarters. “Must be a lot of pressure.”

“It’ll be close,” Charley said. She was quiet for a minute, then looked at him. “Congratulations on finding something. I’m happy for you. I mean it.”

Ralph Angel looked at Charley and felt a small pocket of warmth—the same pocket of warmth that had first opened between them the day she took Blue for sno-cones—open again. For a moment, he considered telling her the truth about his job: that the German treated him like shit,
lower
than shit, actually, and that he’d never worked so hard in his life, didn’t think his body would ever recover; that a kid young enough to be his
son
, for Christ’s sake, had more seniority, was more successful than he was beginning to think he’d ever be; that if he thought about it too hard, he’d have to admit his life, other than Blue, was a total failure. He thought about telling Charley all that. It would feel good to confide in her, a load off his chest. But in the end, he just said, “Thanks.”

“You’ve been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing,” Charley said. “I’d never have guessed.”

Ralph Angel leaned back. “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to say anything till I was sure.”

•   •   •

Above the gas pumps at the Quick Stop, neon lights burned through the night. Charley cruised along the pumps, parked, then held out two singles. “Can you buy a bottle of water and some gum when you get your gas?”

“Sure thing.”

Inside, Ralph Angel found the shelf of auto supplies, checked the price of a plastic gas can with a detachable funnel, and put it back on the shelf. At the counter, he set down Charley’s bottled water. “You got any empty containers back there?” he asked the girl behind the counter. “Anything plastic? I need something to put some gas in and that gas can you’re selling is a rip-off.”

“No, sir. Not really,” the girl said. She thought for a moment. “I guess you can buy a Big Gulp, but I’ll have to charge you for the cup. Ninety-nine cents.”

With Charley’s singles, Ralph Angel bought the bottled water and the giant cup. He bought gas with ’Da’s money, pocketed the change, fished a fistful of peppermint balls from the tub by the register, and tossed four dimes on the counter, then on the way out, when the girl wasn’t looking, boosted a pack of Juicy Fruit.

“You can’t do that,” Charley said as Ralph Angel set the Big Gulp filled with gas in the cup holder.

“They wanted seven dollars for a stupid plastic gas can,” Ralph Angel said. “The cup was practically free.”

“I don’t care. Not in my car.”

“Here.” Ralph Angel tossed the peppermint balls on the dash, where they scattered like marbles.

“It’s completely illegal,” Charley said. “What if we have an accident?”

“Then we’ll be dead anyway. Chill out, sis. We’re fine.”

Out on the road, Ralph Angel crushed peppermint balls between his teeth while Charley, driving ten miles under the speed limit, glanced nervously in her rearview mirror. The country looked different at night and it took Ralph Angel a while to find the road where he’d left his car. Charley flipped on her high beams so he could see, but he still spilled most of the gas down the side of the Impala.

“I should get back,” Charley called. So much for being happy for him.

Ralph Angel waved the empty cup. “Thanks. I got it from here.”

When Charley was gone, he tossed the cup into the cane and stood in the dark. The night smelled of tea olive, swamp lily, and magnolia—the smells of his childhood—and for a moment, Ralph Angel understood why people loved it here, why no one ever left.

•   •   •

Seven hundred nickels, which was thirty-five dollars after he paid for the cup and the gas, and cashed in the rest, weighed far more than Ralph Angel expected. He set his plastic bucket on the stool next to him, balled his jacket on the floor. He fed the nickels one at a time into the slot machine, yanked the handle, and watched the numbers spin. When the waitress came back with his free drink, he asked for Amber.

“Who?” the waitress said, distracted. She stepped back, looked past Ralph Angel’s shoulder to where high rollers were cheering at the craps table.

“Young girl,” Ralph Angel said. “Wavy red hair.” He could barely taste the alcohol in his Manhattan.

“Don’t know her,” the waitress said. She glanced at his bucket. “You’re on the slow boat with those nickels, you know. Dollar slots or even the quarters, you’ll have better luck.”

“Thanks, but I got a plan.”

“A guy won ten grand last night playing dollar slots five bucks at a time.”

Ralph Angel rolled his drink around his mouth. “You’re really working for that tip, huh?”

“I’m just trying to be nice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ralph Angel set his glass on her tray. “But right now, I’ll just take another drink. With some bourbon in it this time.” He pushed another nickel into the machine.

•   •   •

Three coins left in his bucket. Ralph Angel’s eyes stung from all the cigarette smoke, so thick the air looked milky. Hours of handling the filthy nickels had left his fingertips stained the metallic gray of trout scales. He could still hear the German’s mocking voice. What he needed was something harder, a little horse to slay the beast. Ralph Angel pushed the last three nickels through the slot, yanked the handle one last time, and was turning away when the machine rang wildly and a spat a stream of coins into the tray. Three sevens bobbed on the centerline.

“I’ll be damned.”

•   •   •

Fifty dollars, crisp.

If he hurried, he could swing through Tee Coteau for a little nightcap and still be back at the ponds to catch an hour’s sleep, maybe two. The German would be impressed. He’d recognize his potential, maybe apologize for the bad start. End of the week, he’d be talking to Ralph Angel about a raise, maybe benefits. Ralph Angel pushed through the glass doors. The guy from his old life, the professional, would be back in the game.

At the ponds, Ralph Angel turned on the radio and stretched out in the backseat, where he caught a whiff of Blue’s urine each time he changed position and had to grip the edge of the seat to keep from rolling onto the floor. When he was comfortable, he lit his cigarette, then held the lighter under the square of aluminum foil until white smoke snaked into the air. In a few seconds, he was chasing the dragon, Delta blues providing an eerie sound track to his dreams.

•   •   •

Morning. The rumble of Jason’s truck rattled the Impala. Ralph Angel crawled out of the backseat and urinated in the weeds, then trudged down to the dock, where Jason was already loading bait. He’d stopped chasing the dragon, but the last of its effects, the feeling of being inside a cocoon where nothing—not Charley, not the German, not even his father—could get to him, hung with him still.

“Holy shit, man. Who dug you up?”

“Hey, man,” Ralph Angel said. He hung his jacket over a branch, then lifted two crates off the stack and dragged them over to the dock. “I want to drive.”

Jason glanced back at the crates. “I don’t know, dog. You don’t look so good.”

“No, no,” Ralph Angel said. “It’s cool. I watched you yesterday. I get it.”

“It ain’t that easy, man,” Jason said. “You fuck around, run over them traps, the boss is gonna be hella pissed.”

“I said I can handle it. Don’t worry.”

•   •   •

The sun had just risen over the trees as Ralph Angel stepped into the bateau. He slid into the driver’s seat.

“I got a bad feeling about this, man,” said Jason.

“Relax,” Ralph Angel said, and practiced working the pedals.

Antoine came down to the dock. He shot Jason a look when he saw Ralph Angel in the boat.

“Yo, man.” Jason tapped Ralph Angel’s shoulder. “Just one time around. Then you gotta get up.”

•   •   •

The bateau was surprisingly easy to maneuver and they slipped smoothly through the water, the pond’s surface, this early in the morning, smooth as freshly blown glass. Everything in the world, Ralph Angel thought, seemed brighter, more intensely defined—the spiked yellow petals of the lily pad’s flower, the silvery blue iridescence of a dragonfly’s wing—it was all a miracle.

Ralph Angel worked the pedals while Jason stood at the bow and kept an eye out for clumps of grass and reeds that might catch in the paddle wheel, nervously calling out, “Right, yo!” or “Left! Left!” making angular gestures as they crawled along. As he got the feel for the steering, Ralph Angel leaned back. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face.

Then all at once, Jason was yelling, “Shit, man. Fucking A! Go back!”

Ralph Angel snapped awake in enough time to see Jason race to the back of the bateau.

“What’d I do?”

“Ran over a trap.” Jason leaned over the stern, reached for the paddle wheel.

Ralph Angel heard a bump, then a scrape of metal under the boat.

“Turn off the fucking motor, man!” Antoine said.

Ralph Angel lunged. But before he could hit the switch, they ran over another trap. The engine whined crazily as it surged, ground through its gears.

“Cut the engine, motherfucker!” Antoine said again.

“I’m trying,” Ralph Angel yelled back, fumbling. “Where’s the switch? I can’t find the switch.”

Jason staggered forward. He reached for the switch and the engine died, but not before a third trap snagged on the paddle wheel and rose out of the water looking monstrous and strange. The crawfish inside the trap’s bulbous belly scrambled and clicked like balls in a bingo tumbler, and as the paddle wheel continued to roll forward, it crushed the neck of the trap lodged against the stern. Smoke billowed from the hydraulic engine. It took almost an hour to paddle to the dock.

The German was waiting. “How the hell?”

“I can explain,” Ralph Angel began, but the German pushed past him and leaned over the stern. “Who did this?”

“Give me a minute, Jesus.”

But the German was having none of it. He plowed into Ralph Angel, knocking him out of the bateau onto the dock. “Get the hell off my pond.”