Queen Sugar: A Novel (32 page)

“Just hear me out.”

“Get off my farm before I fucking kill you.” He grabbed Ralph Angel by his shirt and dragged him to the bank. “You piece of shit. I knew you were trouble. You have any idea how much you’ve cost me?” He took a wad of bills from his pocket, peeled off two twenties and a ten, and tossed them on the ground. “I’m making an exception. Consider yourself paid,” the German said, then turned and walked away.

Ralph Angel knelt in the muddy grass, which was still wet with morning dew. He gathered the bills. Across the pond, morning fog had burned away, revealing storm-ravaged woods. Leafless branches, splintered tree trunks, underbrush littered with trash from the surge. At last, Ralph Angel stood up and walked to his car. He laid his head on the wheel. He felt himself falling through the blanket of damp leaves and steamy humus; through the horizons of loam, through clay and bedrock, and finally, through the fire.

Still warm the first week of October. But it was the light, Charley thought, that had changed more than anything. Every edge was crisper, as if she were seeing the world through a freshly washed window. She loved how the sunlight cartwheeled through the leafy canopy along the Old Spanish Trail, how it made the cane fields glisten, so green now they looked to Charley like money in the bank. The seasons were changing, the light confirmed; grinding was about to begin. Which only made Charley more anxious to be finished, more desperate to get the tractor fixed and the men paid so she could be done with planting. She was almost there; just one hundred acres to go. Almost across the finish line. But they couldn’t move forward in a real way, Charley knew, until
The Cane Cutter
sold at auction. Even if it sold for half what she knew her father had paid, she’d have most of the money she needed.

Late Thursday afternoon now, and as Charley turned into the Quarters she saw Micah and Blue waiting on the corner. They ran alongside her car, shrieking and laughing and waving pieces of paper, all the way down the block to Miss Honey’s. She’d barely pulled the keys from the ignition before Micah pushed a flyer through the car window.

“It’s for the Sugarcane Festival,” Micah said, gasping. “It’s only here until Sunday. Please, Mom. Please, please, please say we can go.”

Downtown, on the nicer end of Main Street, Charley had noticed, in a back-of-the-brain sort of way, every marquee and billboard boldly announced, “Hey, Sugar!” or “Thank You, Sugar!” Now she knew why.

“There’s a boat parade on the bayou,” Micah added, trying to close the sale. “We can meet Queen Sugar.”

“Yeah,” Blue chimed in, barely able to stand still. His little body vibrated like a small pot on the brink of bubbling over.

“Queen Sugar,” Charley said, trying to imagine. She handed the flyer back to Micah. “I wish I could, sweetheart, but—”

“I know, I know. Don’t tell me,” Micah said. “You have to work on the farm.”

“That’s right.”

“But you promised we’d spend more time together,” Micah said, bright tears pooling. “Why did you say that if you didn’t mean it? I hate when you do that. You’re such a liar.” She tore the flyer to pieces and ran around the side of the house.

Blue clapped his hand over his mouth and stared at Charley.

“Yes, I know, sweetheart. She said a bad word.” Charley gathered the pieces of flyer, then put her hand on Blue’s slim shoulder. “Go inside. We’ll be there in a sec.”

Micah, thankfully, had not gone far. In her garden, using one of Miss Honey’s old hoes, she hacked at the weeds around the lone soccer-ball-size pumpkin that had survived the storm. With every swing, she gave a small, furious grunt.

“Micah.” Charley stepped closer then paused. She wouldn’t lecture. She wouldn’t press. Instead, she grabbed a rake and gathered the grass and weeds into a pile.

“I don’t need your help.”

But Charley kept raking. “A couple more weeks, it’ll be perfect for Halloween,” she said.

“Leave me alone. I told you. I can do this by myself.”

“Sweetheart.” Charley knelt beside the pumpkin and brushed dirt off the coarse orange skin, warm after a full day in the sun. She felt the urge to draw the pumpkin to her and let the heat seep into her bones. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard. Just give me—”

Micah stopped hoeing and glared at her. Then, without another word, she raised her hoe and chopped the pumpkin to bits.

•   •   •

By Los Angeles standards, the carnival was almost shabby with its rickety rides and crummy gaming booths and shady food stalls lining the perimeter. But there was something about it, too—the sound of folks screaming as the roller coaster clattered over the tracks, the bells ringing, the buzzers at the shooting range wheezing, the smell of funnel cakes and fried crawfish tails—that felt like pure magic, and Charley thought again,
yes
, this was exactly the distraction she needed.

She had not seen this many people in one place since she’d arrived in Saint Josephine. Teenagers moved about in clusters, laughing too loudly. Thin young men and their plump, soft-armed wives pushed strollers loaded with the oversize plush toys they won at the ring toss. A hodgepodge of people, black and white, Asian and Latino. Charley loved the rich mix of their voices, the lilting, sensuous phrases and singsong dialects. It was as though she were meandering through a tropical garden, a riot of color and sound, and she was grateful to be able to claim south Louisiana with its strange and extraordinary people.

•   •   •

Charley was Blue and Micah’s age, maybe younger, the last time she went down a giant carnival slide, but she stepped into the burlap sack and scooted forward on her rear end anyway; and when Blue declared he would beat them to the bottom, Charley raised the stakes and said the winner got to choose the next ride; and all of a sudden, she wanted to win more than anything. And maybe it was because so many people had used the burlap sack before her that its coarseness had been worn away, or maybe it was because the slide was freshly waxed, but the speed took Charley by surprise and she screamed at the top of her voice. Micah and Blue screamed too, and Micah swore in French, which Charley heard but didn’t scold her for because it was all in good fun and hilarious besides. At the bottom, they laughed so hard Charley almost wet her pants and they forgot to declare a winner, and then Charley tore three more tickets from the roll and said, “Who wants to go again?” Eventually, though, as the evening wore on, Charley surrendered: no more rides that spun or twisted or flipped. “I’ll get the food,” she said, and agreed to meet the kids at the exit from the Tilt-A-Whirl.

The crawfish pie line was the longest, which meant, she hoped, their food was the best. Charley listened to the conversations around her as she waited. Behind her, a couple argued about how they’d stretch their Christmas budget and still get their car fixed. One person ahead of her, Charley watched a man carry a small girl on his shoulders while doing his best to hold the hands of two little dark-haired boys. The boys were Blue’s age—five or six—and just like Blue, they couldn’t stand still. Charley noticed how patient and gentle the man was as the line inched forward. He didn’t scold the little boys when they kicked up dust with their cowboy boots; he didn’t raise his voice at the little girl when she whined that she was getting hungry. Charley was tempted to tell him how nice it was to see a father take time with his children.

“Y’all want to get something for your mama?” the man asked. “What would she like?”

His voice was steady and warm and strangely familiar. How did she know that voice? Charley watched as they stepped up to the window; how, with one easy movement, the man swung the little girl down from his shoulder; how he peeled the boys’ small hands off the ledge as they tried to peer into the booth as he placed his order, which took a while, since the little boys kept changing their minds. Finally, the man stepped aside.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, apologizing to the man standing behind him, and when he looked back, Charley saw his face. It was Remy.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Charley stared at Remy while the children squirmed and the woman at the window shouted for people to pick up their orders. Then Remy seemed to draw himself up, discomfort replacing the surprise in his expression.

“Hello, Charley.”

“Remy,” Charley fumbled. “I didn’t see you—I mean, I’m surprised—what are you—”

The man in front of Charley placed his order.

“Step up, please,” said the woman at the window. “Who’s next? Please, ma’am, step up to the window or move to the side so the people behind you can order.” Charley heard the woman, but didn’t move until Remy took her gently by the elbow, easing her out of line.

“How’ve you been?” He held her elbow for a moment longer than he needed to, then released her, but it was enough to remind Charley of the way he’d held her at Paul’s Café.

Charley blinked. “How’ve I been?”
Not so good. Terrible, in fact. Don’t get me started.
“I’m okay—I mean, I’m fine—busy.” She looked down at the boys, then back at Remy. “How are you?”

“Good,” Remy said. The boys started bickering and he ruffled their soft curls. “Y’all stop fooling around and say hello to Miss Charley.” He patted their heads. “This is Trevor and this is Braxton.” The little girl yanked Remy’s pant leg and he lifted her onto his shoulders again. She held on by a tuft of his hair, which was longer than Charley remembered. “And this is Annabel.”

“I’m four,” Annabel said, holding up her small hand. She had olive skin like her brothers, and her hair was divided into two long braids.

“Four years old means you’re a big girl,” Charley said. She smiled at the boys. If Remy said these children belonged to his new girlfriend, even though he was entitled to date whomever he wanted and she was the one who dumped him, Charley knew she would have to excuse herself politely and walk away. Her heart squeezed a little as she held her breath and waited for him to say more. But he didn’t. “So,” she floundered.

Remy hesitated. “Y’all getting through planting okay?” He looked thinner, tired. But that easy way—it practically rose off his body like vapor.

“More or less,” Charley said. Thought,
More like less
.

The woman at the window called Remy’s order. He ignored her. “That’s good. You’re lucky.” He seemed genuinely relieved. “Lot of farmers lost half of what they planted.”

“Lucky. Yeah, that’s me.” Charley looked away. “And you? How are you doing? How are your fields?”

“I’m okay,” Remy said. He paused and they looked at each other across the awkward silence. “Hey, look. There’s something I want to—”

But the woman at the window was calling again—angrily, this time—and Remy reluctantly stepped forward. Charley watched as he handed drinks to the boys, balanced the food tray in one hand and clasped Annabel’s ankle with the other. Wobbling, he turned back to her, gesturing to his full load. “I’d better go. It’s good to see you, Charley.” He tried to smile. “Tell Mr. D. I said hello.”

Charley stepped aside so Remy could pass. “You, too,” she said, and forced herself to watch as he moved through the crowd, looking, with Annabel on his shoulders, like a stilt figure in a parade, the two boys following behind. She hoped he would turn around. Just one glance to show the door was still open. But he didn’t. The woman at the window called for another pickup, and Charley realized she’d never ordered, and now the line for crawfish pies stretched on forever.

•   •   •

Pulling up to Miss Honey’s, Charley’s mind raced with all the things she could have said,
should
have said, to Remy: that while she didn’t like what he’d said—no, she didn’t like it at all—she’d been too quick to judge. Because who in this life was perfect? Who said everything right,
did
everything right all the time?

“Bedtime,” she said, turning off the ignition. “No fooling around. Lights out in ten minutes.” The words came out in the sharp tone of a drill sergeant. “Blue, honey, you can sleep in one of my T-shirts. And don’t forget to brush your teeth.” When no response came from the backseat, Charley turned to look and saw that both kids were asleep. Micah slumped against the door with her mouth hanging open. In the plastic bag in her lap, the goldfish she won at the Ping-Pong toss swam in frantic circles. Blue, curled up like a kitten beside her, clutched his bag of cotton candy now crushed to a hard pink wad the size of a baseball.

•   •   •

Charley came home the next evening and stopped short when she stepped into the kitchen. At one end of the table, Blue sprinkled bread crumbs into the coffee can he’d converted into a fishbowl, and at the other, Violet, yes Violet, helped Micah frost a cake shaped like a crawfish. For a moment, Charley just stood and looked.

“You should have seen how high up we were,” Micah was saying. She dipped her spatula into a bowl of red frosting. “And then they dropped us. I almost barfed.”

At the sink, Miss Honey scowled. “Barfed?”

Violet wiped food coloring off her hands. “That’s California talk for vomit, Mother.”

“Hallelujah!” Charley walked around the table and hugged Violet tightly, whispered, “Welcome back,” in Violet’s ear.

“We’d better hurry, Micah,” Violet said when she and Charley let go. “Judging starts in an hour and we still have to decorate the base. And Blue, baby, that’s enough bread crumbs. You’re gonna kill that little fish.”

“Judging for what?” Charley said.

“The baking contest,” said Violet. “You can bake anything, long as you use Louisiana sugar. I told Mother she should make her pralines.”

“And I told Violet, baking contests are for white ladies,” Miss Honey said.

“Micah, don’t listen to your great-grandmother.” Violet opened the festival guide. “It says here, ‘community invited,’ Mother. That means you.”

“Say what you want, Violet, but I’ve seen those garden club ladies with their matchy-matchy suits and not one of them is black.”

“Grandmother Lorna wears matchy-matchy suits,” Micah said.

“I don’t say anything about joining, Mother,” Violet said. “Besides, once they see Micah’s crawfish cake, they won’t care if she’s green with purple stripes.”