Queen Sugar: A Novel (12 page)

“I don’t know.” Hollywood jammed his hands into his pockets. “I should go.”

“But you walked all the way over here,” Charley said, thinking of the compound three miles down the road. Miss Honey had pointed it out one day as they ran errands in town—the handful of ramshackle trailers scattered around the cleared lot like boxes of crackers; the children, barefoot and pale, who played on the broken-down swing or in the rusted-out cars or jumped on the old mattress they used as a trampoline. “That’s the Arnaud Plantation,” Miss Honey had said. “Hollywood, my gardener, the one who’s gonna clean the back room, lives there,” and she’d gone on to explain that the Arnauds were a clan of Creoles—a mix of African, Spanish, French, and Anglo—who stuck to themselves and intermarried to preserve their fair skin; had for generations. They owned a cemetery back in the woods where all of the black folks in town were buried, where she’d be buried when her time came. “Miss Honey won’t like it if you leave without saying hello.”

“Well, okay. I guess,” Hollywood said, following her into the yard. “You know my
maman
don’t like that I’m always over here in the Quarters, cutting grass for black folks, but I tell her I love spending time over here.” He gazed at Miss Honey’s house. “I can’t imagine a day without seeing Miss Honey. She’s more like a
maman
to me than my own.”

In the kitchen, Charley tugged the cord that sent the fan blades whirling. The sink was filled with dishes and plastic trays, the counters cluttered with Barq’s root beer cans, brown paper sacks of cracklins, and the remains of crawfish boudin that Joe Black brought all the way from Hackett’s Cajun Kitchen in Lake Charles. While Hollywood sat at the table, Charley fixed his plate, tucked the last wedge of Violet’s lemon pound cake on the side, and wrapped the whole thing in foil.

“Most days, by the time I get home,
Maman
’n them have already ate,” Hollywood offered. “I eat over at my brother’s sometimes.”

Charley nodded, wondering again what it was about Hollywood that struck her as odd. Something was missing; some small thing, like a bearing in his mower, but definitely something.

“Hello.” Micah, barefoot but still wearing her party dress, stepped into the kitchen. She held an empty bowl and a spoon. “Seconds,” she said. “Miss Honey said I could.”

“Go tell Miss Honey Hollywood is here,” Charley said.

“Okay.” Micah moved toward the freezer. “Ice cream first.”

“No,” Charley said. “Miss Honey first. Do it now, then you can come back.”

Micah rolled her eyes.
“Tu me rends dingue. Va je foutre.”

“Translation,” Charley said. “I’m being snotty and rude and I don’t want any ice cream.”

“But I didn’t say—”

Hollywood sat forward, said, calmly,
“
Tu ne devrais pas parles à ta maman comme ça
.
”

Micah froze. She gawked at Hollywood. Charley did too.

“Une gentile fille dit pas de gros mots. T’es grande fille maintenant—tu peux plus faire comme ça! T’as pas honte? Dis-elle pardon
.
”

Micah turned to Charley. “I’m sorry.” She glanced at Hollywood, who nodded with stern approval. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or be impolite.”

“Now,” Hollywood said, gravely, and pointed toward the den, “go tell
Miss Honey
I’m here.”

When Micah was gone, Charley gaped at Hollywood, asked, “What was
that
?” Micah’s stunned expression still playing through her mind.

Hollywood shrugged. “I told her nice girls don’t swear. And then I told her she was too grown to act that way, that she was embarrassing herself.”

“Well, I owe you one,” Charley said. “She’s given me hell lately.” She felt a sisterly affection for him, though she barely knew him, and hoped they could be friends.

Hollywood pulled a glossy movie magazine from his back pocket, set it on the table, and smoothed the cover. “Miss Honey says y’all lived in Hollywood.”

“Not exactly,” Charley said, and thought of the little Spanish bungalow south of Pico, not too far from the Jewish deli where elderly waitresses wore pink uniforms and wigs stiff with spray. There’d been nothing glamorous about it.

“I’m gonna get out there one of these days,” Hollywood said, and gazed through the kitchen window. “Take one of them buses that goes around to all the movie stars’ houses. I’m gonna find Marvin Gaye’s house first.” He flipped to a dog-eared article and read haltingly, running his finger beneath each word. “‘On April first, nineteen eighty-four, at eleven thirty-eight a.m., the world lost a musical genius when Rhythm and Blues legend Marvin Gaye was shot at point-blank range by his father after a heated argument.’” He paused, stared at the article, then looked up at Charley. “Marvin Gaye was a great singer. He had everything a man could want, but he was still unhappy. Made everyone around him unhappy. I wonder if that’s what his daddy was thinking when he shot him?”

“I wonder,” Charley said, and couldn’t help but think about Ralph Angel, who—if Violet’s story was true, and why wouldn’t it be?—seemed to be haunted by his own demons. Maybe he still was. A current of regret rippled through Charley for not knowing.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Look who’s here.” Ralph Angel stepped into the kitchen.

Hollywood’s face flushed as he turned toward the sound of Ralph Angel’s voice. He pushed back from the table, stood up. “Ralph Angel. Where’d you come from?”

His question made Charley think back on the afternoon, how Ralph Angel had materialized at the gate as if out of thin air.

“Rolled in a couple hours ago,” Ralph Angel said. He set his beer on the counter, walked over to Hollywood, and pulled him close. “Glad to see you, Peanut. What’s going on, man?”

But Hollywood stood stiffly, and Charley remembered how he had hesitated, earlier, when Miss Honey said he and Ralph Angel were like brothers. He had the same uneasy look on his face.

Ralph Angel must have noticed too, because he said, “Relax, Peanut. It’s just me,” and laughed nervously. “Jesus Christ. You’re as bad as the rest of ’em. Everyone’s acting like I’ve got the plague or something.”

“I’m just surprised, is all,” Hollywood said.

Ralph Angel looked from Hollywood to Charley. “I see you met my best friend.”

“I was just fixing Hollywood a plate,” Charley said. “Join us.”

Ralph Angel went to the refrigerator for another beer, then slid into a chair. He picked up Hollywood’s magazine. “
Highlife
?”

“It tells what all the celebrities are doing,” Hollywood said. “Miss Loretta down at the library gives me the old copies when the new ones come in. Just a little something to keep me busy.” He watched as Ralph Angel flipped the pages, then added, tentatively, “I didn’t know you were home.”

Ralph Angel tossed the magazine back on the table. “Don’t tell me you actually believe the stuff they write.”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s from the library.”

Ralph Angel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. But you can’t go around with your head in the clouds. You’ve gotta learn to think for yourself.” He took a sip of beer. “So, how you doing, Peanut? Seriously. What’s new?”

“Please don’t call me that, Ralph Angel.”

“I’m just messing with you, man. All in good fun. Say, are you still cutting grass with that funny mower?”

“Yeah.”

Ralph Angel gestured to Charley. “That’s one of the things you’ll find down here, little sister; things never change. I come back after all this time, and Hollywood here is still pushing that same goddamned mower. Unbelievable.”

“Who’s swearing in my house? I thought I heard swearing.” Miss Honey pushed into the kitchen, and Charley saw that she’d changed into her housedress and slippers. Miss Honey looked at Hollywood. “Well, I’m glad to see you finally made it. Folks were asking for you.”

“Miss Honey, you didn’t tell me Ralph Angel was coming home,” Hollywood said, but Miss Honey waved the statement away as she moved to the sink and started washing dishes.

“So, how much you charging these days?” Ralph Angel said. “Ten dollars?”

Hollywood blinked. “Five dollars. That’s what I charge. Five’s fair.”

“
Five dollars?
Holy shit!” Ralph Angel put his hand to his forehead. “Listen here, Peanut. Don’t you know minimum wage is around seven fifty? Hey, Charley, what are you paying the guys who work for you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t hired anyone yet.”

“Well, be sure to put Hollywood on your payroll. He’s a steal. I’m telling you, man, you ought to raise your price. Better yet, you should expand your operation. Seriously. Get some guys to work for you. You could rake in the big bucks.”

“I don’t know,” Hollywood said. “I sort of like working by myself.”

“Boy, I tell you,” Ralph Angel said, and stared into his beer can. “That’s the goddamned South for you. That’s another thing you’ll find down here, Charley. Folks bend over backwards to be polite, even when it’s killing them. Why, this nigger here only charges five measly dollars to cut a whole yard. How long does it take you? An hour?”

Hollywood shrugged. “About that.”

“Five measly dollars an hour,” Ralph Angel said, glancing quickly at Charley. “Ain’t that some shit?”

Hollywood winced, and Charley—seeing how he just sat there, looking as though his shoes were two sizes too small, picking at the threads of his army fatigues like the new kid on the first day of school—thought she should say something. But she didn’t. Because she was trying to reconcile the Ralph Angel from Violet’s story with what she wanted to believe about her brother: that a lot of terrible things could happen to a person in twenty years; a person could run off the rails, and that sometimes it was easier to pick on someone else’s weaknesses rather than face the weakness in yourself. And she also understood, from the way Ralph Angel glanced at her as he spoke, that in his own awkward way, he was trying to impress her, make a good impression.

“Ralph Angel, watch your mouth,” Miss Honey said. “Hollywood’s built a nice business. Folks depend on him. Now, let the man be. He wants to charge five dollars, let him charge it.”

“I’m just talking to him, ’Da. Offering constructive criticism. Ain’t that right, Hollywood? We’re just talking, man to man. And I’m trying to show Charley what she can expect down here.”

Miss Honey glanced at Hollywood. “How you feeling,
chère
?”

“I’m okay,” Hollywood said, feebly. “But I don’t want to talk about cutting grass no more.”

Ralph Angel nodded. “Fine by me. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” Hollywood said. He picked at the aluminum foil covering his plate. “I’d better get on.
Maman
’s gonna be worried.”

“You sure?” Ralph Angel said. He sounded surprised, and a little hurt. “You don’t want to stick around and have a beer?”

“Naw,” Hollywood said, standing. He went to the sink and kissed Miss Honey.

“Hey, we should go hunting like when we were kids,” Ralph Angel said, excitedly. “Been years since I fired a gun.”

Hollywood frowned. “It ain’t hunting season. They’ll arrest you.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Charley said, and closed Hollywood’s magazine, relieved to have an excuse to escape.

Outside, the air was cooler, the street filled with sounds of a summer evening in the Quarter’s winding to a close: the easy groove of an R&B tune wafting from a nearby radio, the chime of people’s laughter as they relaxed on their porches, the occasional crack of a screen door closing, the cicadas’ manic winding up and winding down.

“Well, thanks for the eats.” Hollywood started down the steps.

“God, Hollywood. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he’d act that way.”

Hollywood blanched. “It’s all right. Me and Ralph Angel go way back. I’m kinda used to it.” He took his magazine from Charley, slapped it against his palm, then slid it into his back pocket. “You got a good girl there. Don’t worry. She was just being a kid.”

Charley stood by the gate as Hollywood made his way down the sidewalk. She thought he looked lost without his mower. The sun had dropped below the tree line, the sky pinking around the edges, and up and down the street, people’s porch lights were coming on so that every few feet, the aluminum foil covering his plate glowed like a faint star.

•   •   •

Miss Honey’s den was already cozy with her La-Z-Boy, and the sectional upholstered in faded blue plaid, the étagère overrun with her collection of salt and pepper shakers, and the framed pictures hanging askance above the TV, but now it was downright crowded. Stretched out on the couch, Blue slept with his feet in Ralph Angel’s lap, while Micah, changed into shorts now, perched on the arm of Miss Honey’s recliner.

“It’s late, Micah,” Charley said in a hushed voice. “Time for bed.”

Micah groaned.

“So, Charley.” Ralph Angel eased Blue’s legs off his lap and sat forward. “Last time I saw you, you were stuffing Kleenex into your training bra and picking lettuce out of your braces. Now look at you.”

“Yeah, well. Here I am,” Charley said dryly.

Ralph Angel leaned back into the cushion. “Micah here’s been telling me about your farm. Eight hundred acres. Congratulations. Aren’t you the lucky one.”

“I don’t know about lucky,” Charley said. “It’s a lot of work. It could all come crashing down.”

“I bet,” Ralph Angel said. “But it must be nice knowing our daddy loved you enough to leave you a whole plantation. Something to fall back on, know what I mean?”

Charley wasn’t sure what to make of his question. She glanced at the television, where trumpets blared and snare drums
rat-a-tat-tatted
as Shirley Temple sang the closing number of
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

“Guess that makes you the star of the family,” Ralph Angel went on. “I mean, you got ’Da here throwing a whole reunion in your honor, people coming in from Houston and Baton Rouge just to get a look at you; my best friend fawning over you. You must feel pretty special.”

“Miss Honey did a generous thing,” Charley said. “I’m grateful. I said
right now
, Micah. Time for bed.”

“If you’d come when I called,” Miss Honey said, “you could’ve enjoyed the reunion for yourself.”