Queen Sugar: A Novel (34 page)

•   •   •

While Violet walked Miss Honey and Blue back to the car, Charley dumped the last of the cooler’s ice in the gutter then went to fetch Micah from the staging area. Micah was waiting for her. She still wore the banner across her chest just like all the other princesses, and Charley knew it would be weeks before she would be able to pry it from Micah’s shoulders.

“You ready?”

Together, they turned away from the rush of activity, people congratulating them as they passed. And that was when Charley saw Remy Newell across the parking lot, talking and then hugging Queen Sugar. “What’s Queen Sugar’s last name again?” Charley asked.

Micah frowned. “Broussard. Something like that.”

Broussard. The singer down at the plaza—Remy’s best friend.
He’s got another one, but she’s older. I’m their godfather.
She hadn’t thought of it until now.

That night, no matter which way she turned, Charley couldn’t find a comfortable position. She threw off the sheet, turned on the light, and was pacing the floor when—what was that? Remy’s hat. The one he’d loaned her in those first days of planting. How could she have overlooked it all this time? It was practically begging her to go home.

•   •   •

“Ralph Angel? Is that you?” Miss Honey looked sleepy and startled.

“It’s just me,” Charley said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She set Remy’s hat on the counter, stepped into the den. Miss Honey’s Bible had fallen on the floor. Charley placed it back in her lap. “Go to bed. You won’t get a good night’s sleep in this chair.”

“I’m fine.” Miss Honey looked at her. “Where are you headed at this ungodly hour?”

“I need to deliver something. I won’t be long.”

•   •   •

At the edge of the cane fields down from Oaklawn Manor, Martin’s Grocery was the shabby country store that, at first glance, looked more like a barn with its cypress doors flung wide. But the Drink Jax sign hanging out front and its shelves of Campbell’s soup, condensed milk, Morton’s salt, creamed corn, cane syrup, and toilet paper, plus the bottles of Jack Daniel’s and Chivas Regal, the meat slicer, the Toledo scale, and the American flag were a signal to come in and sit a while. And if it weren’t for Martin’s Grocery, Charley never would have found the lane leading to Remy Newell’s place. Would have driven right past it. But the little store was where she pulled off the road and bought a pack of gum, just to be polite, then asked the old Cajun who sat at the long wooden table playing chess with a young black man for directions.

“Remy Newell?” The old Cajun pushed his red hat back on his forehead. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and Charley knew he was wondering what she could want with Remy Newell at this time of night. He spoke French to the young black man, who moved his knight twice, lifted a pawn, then led her out to the weather-worn porch and in a singsong accent she never got tired of hearing said, “You gotta go all the way to the end of this road and make a left. Another mile beyond that, make a right. He lives about half a mile down.”

Charley got back in her car, and a few minutes later came upon a house tucked in among the trees, its windows four squares of soft yellow light hovering in the darkness. But it wasn’t till she walked toward the house and noticed the pitched tin roof in silvery moonlight, and caught the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, and stepped onto the porch of wide cypress planks, that Charley wondered if she was in the right place. Even in the dark, she saw it was no ordinary house. For a moment, she stood still, taking everything in: lanterns whose gas flames flickered quietly, red double doors with glass panes like slow-moving water, green shutters flanking windows that ran the length of the porch, potted ferns and a banana plant rising from an antique cane kettle. She got a pleasing sense of order and couldn’t help but marvel at the man who would take that much care.

Charley knocked on the red door. She waited. And waited. And waited some more. And when no one answered, she stepped back and wondered what she must be thinking. What made her think Remy would be home on a night like tonight when there was so much fun to be had? He was probably at Paul’s Café, dancing with someone who recognized a good man when she saw one. Charley could barely hold on to Remy’s hat as she made her way down the steps. But rather than go back to her car, she took a chance and followed the gravel path around the side of the house. A lawn stretched out and away. Somewhere out there, the bayou was sliding past. She smelled it, heard it softly gurgling, felt a breeze rising like a whisper off the water.

One more step and Charley was at the back porch, which stretched the length of the house. Gaslights threw soft yellow light, an old fan circled lazily. And there was Remy, on a swing at the far end of the porch. His head was lowered, and Charley saw that he was reading. It was quiet, peaceful. She moved closer, out of the shadows.

“Remy?”

Remy looked up. He closed his book and stood. “Hello, California.”

“I thought I should return this.” She held up his hat.

“I was just missing that very hat.” He lowered himself onto the swing. Patted the space beside him. “Come sit.”

The steps creaked as Charley climbed them. The whole world seemed to be waiting.

In the yellow light, the wrinkles around Remy’s eyes were more pronounced. His eyes were darker brown than she’d noticed before and there was still that calm in his presence, like the few seconds between one breath and the next.

Charley ran her finger over the hat’s brim. “Thanks for what you did.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It took me awhile to figure out. Broussard. Your best friend Jimmy’s oldest daughter.”

“The three little ones you met yesterday are his. Ashleigh’s real daddy is white, but her mama divorced him when she was a baby. Jimmy’s raised her since she was two years old. It was just a matter of asking.”

“I can never repay you.”

“You just did.”

Charley looked down at Remy’s hands. “What are you reading?”

Remy put the book in her lap. It was about Southern gardens. “I try to plant flowers that would have grown around here when this house was built,” Remy said. “Out there at the base of all the trees—you can’t see them now, of course, since it’s dark—but a whole bunch of oxblood lilies are just coming up. Because of the hurricane and all.”

“Of course,” Charley said, because why wouldn’t something as fragile as a lily come up after a storm? “I love what you’ve done here.”

“I found this land on my twenty-fifth birthday and cleared it myself. Took me almost a year.” He looked embarrassed. “A buddy of mine told me about this old house. It was abandoned, way out in the middle of a cane field, and the mill was about to tear it down. We dragged it over in pieces. It was built in the 1830s.”

Charley shook her head in wonder.

“Would you like to see?”

“Now?”

“Why not?” Remy stood and offered his hand.

Charley closed the book and tucked it under her arm. Then Remy led her into the dimly lit central hall, where an antique clock ticked softly. He escorted her from room to room, drawing her attention to the framed landscape in the dining room, to a mahogany chifforobe from a New Orleans estate sale, to notches in the kitchen door frame where the previous owner stuck his cane knife after long days in the fields. With every step, Charley felt the outside world fall away.

“No television?”

Remy smiled. “Just a radio and a computer.”

Charley laughed. “Micah would hate it here.”

“But I just bought an iPod for my music,” Remy said. “Tell the truth, I don’t know how I lived so long without it.”

“Well, maybe there’s hope for you.”

In the front hallway again, Charley marveled at the sepia portraits. The floorboards creaked as she walked.

“I love the sound of you walking on those old cypress boards,” Remy said.

Charley tried to remember the last time she’d heard footsteps on old wood, any wood. “I didn’t know wood sounded like anything.”

“Oh sure,” Remy said. “Every wood sounds different. It’s like people; every type has a personality. But cypress sounds the best. When I built this place, I used the oldest boards I could find. Spaced them so they’d have room to talk.”

Charley shifted her weight and the boards creaked. “What are they saying now?”

“They’re saying—” Remy cocked his head. “They’re saying, ‘Don’t blow it this time, Newell. Keep your mouth shut and maybe she’ll give you a second chance.’”

“I bet she will,” Charley said.

Remy crossed the hall. When he was standing right in front of her, Charley shifted her weight again. “What about now?”

He looked at her intently. “They’re suggesting that I ask you if you’d like to see the second floor.”

•   •   •

By the glow of a lamp, in a bed made a hundred years earlier, Charley ran her finger along the book’s spine. “A book about gardens. Who’d have thought?”

Remy eased the book out of her hands. “That’s enough.” He turned it facedown on the floor. “I’ve read that book a hundred times. That’s not what I’m interested in now.”

“I bet you know those chapters by heart,” Charley said.

Remy smiled. “I probably do.”

“Well?”

Remy paused. He studied Charley’s face to see if she was kidding, then he ran his finger along her shoulder. “‘In the garden this season should be the climax of bloom. Rich in a beauty of its own.’” He kissed her neck. Then he stared at her.

Charley waited for him to say something about her dark skin, something predictable and disappointing. But he didn’t. He just leaned closer.

“‘After the intense heat diminishes, flowers revive.’” He unbuttoned her blouse. “‘The grass is green again.’” He kissed her collarbone. “‘Colors are deeper.’” He tongued her ear. “‘We should make more of this season than we do.’” He kissed her mouth.

“Lovely,” Charley whispered. Along the roads these last few days, she had seen crimsons and golds and coppers flare up like bursts of flame. How many names were there for red? Carmine, scarlet, rose? How long must one practice peeling back the petals of an oxblood lily? Charley put her hand on Remy’s chest, where she felt the strong and steady
thunk
of his heart beating.

Remy ran his hand over her breasts. All around Saint Josephine Parish, the cane was finally standing tall, the stalks wavering in the faint breeze, the leaves glistening in the sun. He unzipped her pants, eased them off her. His hands roamed over her shoulders, her legs.

Charley closed her eyes. The blue-green ocean of cane, the fields of eager stalks pushing through the dark earth, offering themselves up for harvest. How much patience and tenderness was required to loosen the roots?

Remy slid his hand across her belly, traced the satiny stretch marks beneath her navel, and for a second, Charley’s body seized, fearful that he would be repulsed.

But he was not. “Gorgeous.” He leaned closer still, put his mouth on her pelvic bone.

“Remy,” Charley said, but, overcome, couldn’t say any more. Because who wouldn’t be besotted with the quick color that flared up as suddenly as a flame? Who wouldn’t be enchanted by the rivers of cane flowing across the dark, damp ground? Who could possibly resist the subtle stirrings of new growth or the glorious climax of fall?

The mid-morning glare had turned the sky the color of weak tea, and Charley was late for mass. She was supposed to meet Denton and Alison for the Blessing of the Crops, half an hour ago, but Micah cornered her in the bathroom, blocked the door, and demanded to know where she’d spent the night.

“And don’t tell me you were at Violet’s, because I called.”

“I was at the farm,” Charley lied, taking extra time to floss so she wouldn’t have to talk.

“Hollywood came by looking for you after the dance,” Micah said. “I told him you were on a date.”

•   •   •

Built in the mid-1800s, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows was the fourth-oldest church in Louisiana, and the largest building in Saint Josephine except for City Hall. It rose up from the center of the town square like a gigantic salt lick; although for a Catholic church, its design was decidedly understated: just a modest, two-story structure with a clock tower like stacked shoe boxes, the whole building covered with a layer of creamy-smooth plaster like fondant on a wedding cake. Still, if one was Cajun and had a little money under one’s mattress, Our Lady was the church to belong to; the church where the daughters of all the rich cane farmers got married.

Charley waited in the rear of the sanctuary where the Knights of Columbus, half a dozen wizened old white men—one of whom appeared to be napping on his feet—adjusted their feathered hats and flipped their purple satin capes over their shoulders. They arranged themselves single file, then, on someone’s cue, marched soberly down the aisle as if heading off to battle. When they reached the altar, they drew their swords, touching the blade tips together to form an arch through which Charley expected the entire high school football team to come running.

“Sorry I’m late.” Charley opened the gated pew and slid in next to Denton. “What did I miss?”

Alison, on the other side of Denton, leaned forward. “It’s about time,” he whispered loudly. “I didn’t put on this monkey suit to sit here by myself.”

Denton cut Alison a warning look, then handed Charley an order of service. “You look nice.”

Coughs and shuffles rose up toward the cavernous ceiling. Charley recognized many of the farmers from the Blue Bowl and once again got the feeling that she was the only one who didn’t know the secret password. “Is there a cane farmer in Saint Josephine who
isn’t
Catholic?”

They stood as the priest and altar boys floated down the aisle, trailing a thick cloud of incense.

“Man, I wish they’d hurry up,” Alison said, coughing and waving his hand.

“Quit complaining,” Denton said. “This was your idea, remember?”

“Jesus Christ, Denton, can you blame me? I’d eat my shoe if it meant we’d pull through this.”

Denton turned to Charley. “You sure you don’t want us to come with you to New Orleans?”

According to Dupry, Brown & Associates, the auction house Charley chose,
The Cane Cutter
was worth forty-five thousand dollars and would likely fetch more. Denton’s tone was relaxed, but his expression was less certain; as though he doubted she could pull this off.

“I’ll be fine.” Charley patted Denton’s arm and offered a weak smile. When her father left the statue on her mantle, he hadn’t left a note but she hadn’t needed one. She knew what
The Cane Cutter
represented. It was more than a family heirloom; more than a rare piece of art. It symbolized generations of struggle and perseverance in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Yes, it told her family’s story but it could just as well have told the story of any other family—black, white, brown, yellow, or whatever—whose forefathers (
and mothers
) had stayed the course. He’d meant for her to have it, to own it, to be inspired by it, and to pass it on. And here she was selling it like a quaint collectible at a tag sale. But grinding season started
tomorrow
. The auction was scheduled for Wednesday, three days from now, at one o’clock sharp. And the only way they’d know if her scheme worked, whether their ship would float or sink, would be if she followed through on her plan. Meanwhile, with the John Deere 4840 still out of commission, the crews were planting cane by hand. It was slow work, horribly inefficient, and the men seemed to be losing their morale. In three days, they’d planted only twenty acres. The 4840 would have covered four times as much ground. She had to sell or they were sunk.

The priest motioned for the congregation to sit, then welcomed everyone in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He wasn’t so much thin as soft, with wisps of dull brown hair and oversize glasses that made him look gooberish. As he shook holy water over a bundle of cane stalks leaning against the wall, Charley wondered if his blessing would be powerful enough, because from where she sat, it looked like he’d have trouble asking for extra mayo on his sandwich.

“I’ll call you as soon as it sells,” Charley said, the thought of the auction once again making her insides churn.

Denton looked at her.

“What?” Charley said.

“You look different. Your skin’s shiny.”

“Shiny?” Charley touched her cheek, wondering whether Denton had picked up Remy’s scent. Until a couple hours ago, a part of her still refused to believe she had spent the night with him. Even this morning, when the sun came up and she looked down into Remy’s yard, where, indeed, bunches of oxblood lilies were erupting beneath the trees—even then she didn’t believe it. Only when Remy walked her to her car and leaned in through the window to kiss her again did Charley know for sure.

Watching from the pew as Denton and Alison stood in line for communion, Charley sensed their anxiety—about the farm, about the future, about nature’s hand in how well they did. They were like her, their fears were her fears, but they didn’t show them. As she sat there, Charley said a prayer for her partners.
Lord, if you can hear me, please bless Mr. Denton and Alison, who have already done more for me than I could have ever asked for. Bless them and keep them strong.

•   •   •

Outside, after the service, Alison lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the little cemetery where the first Acadian pioneers were buried. A fine layer of lichen coated the oldest vaults, which pitched sideways after decades of sinking into the soft ground.

“Well, thank God that’s over,” Alison said, smoke streaming through his nostrils. “I better get back before my grandkids set my neighbor’s house on fire.”

“You might want to take Highway 90 on the way back from New Orleans tomorrow,” Denton said. “It’s prettier than the interstate and it’s not that much longer.”

“I’ll try to remember.” Charley looked at Denton and thought he would be a better priest than that other guy. Even with uncertainty in his eyes, the way he held himself suggested an old battleship pushing through deep water. She dug through her purse until she found her checkbook, then scribbled a check for six thousand dollars. Now she was not only maxed out on her credit, she was officially broke. She folded the check and handed it to Denton. “That should take some of the pressure off. Tell the crews we’ll square up in January after the numbers are in. There’s enough there for you and Alison to pay yourselves, too.”

Denton protested and tried to hand back the check.

“Absolutely not,” Charley insisted. “In your wallet.” She noticed, at the far end of the cemetery, a statue of the Virgin Mary that someone had vandalized. The side of the Virgin’s shapely stone head had been bashed in; part of her face was missing. “I think maybe Alison was right.”

“About what?”

“I thought the Blessing of the Crops would help, but I feel exactly the same.”
Maybe worse.

Denton leaned against the wrought-iron fence. “This is a long walk in a dark wood, Miss Bordelon. Don’t psych yourself out just yet.”

•   •   •

Back at Miss Honey’s, Ralph Angel’s car was parked along the gully. Inside, though, there was no sign of him. Micah and Blue, still in their church clothes, sat at the kitchen table eating large wedges of Micah’s crawfish cake.

“I didn’t win,” Micah said, glumly.

“I’m sorry, sweat pea. I know how hard you worked.” Charley kissed the top of Micah’s head, then, in a moment of sheer zaniness, grabbed Micah’s fork, broke off a chunk of cake, and stuffed it in her mouth, saying, “But now there’s more cake for us.”

Blue and Micah stared at her, then Micah said, “You’re nuts,” and smiled even as she rolled her eyes. And for the next few minutes, Charley sat at the table with the children, listening as they recapped the day’s Sunday school lesson and trying not to think about Remy Newell or the auction.

“Y’all take your cake outside. I need to talk to your mama,” said Miss Honey, stepping from the den into the kitchen. When the children were gone, she pulled out a chair and sat down—something she rarely did in the kitchen unless she was eating. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Ralph Angel is home.” She tilted her head toward the back room.

“I saw his car.”

“He’s in a foul mood.”

Charley thought, but did not say,
What else is new?
and instead patted Miss Honey’s hand. As much as she wished she could sit longer, she had come home only long enough to change, then she needed to get out to the farm, check on how the crews were doing with planting.

“He’s in a real bad place,” Miss Honey said. “Worse than I’ve seen in a long time.” Before Charley could ask, she added, “The boss let him go.”

“Oh no.” Even without the specifics, Charley knew what this meant: more sulking, more flare-ups, all of them walking on eggshells.

“Something about him being overqualified,” Miss Honey said, rubbing her knuckles distractedly. “You know how that is. Some of these white folks don’t like to see a black man get ahead.” She looked at Charley for confirmation. “I knew something was wrong when he stopped coming home. I’ve been praying every night for the good Lord to keep him safe. You don’t know how hard I’ve been praying.”

Charley took Miss Honey’s hand, which was warm and soft, like it had been marinating in buttermilk. “It’ll all work out. Don’t worry. You’ll see.” But when she started to rise, Miss Honey tightened her grip, and pulled her back down into the chair.

“I want you to give Ralph Angel a job.”

“A what?”

“On your farm.”

Charley dropped her grandmother’s hand. “No. No, no, no, no. Bad idea.”

“There’s got to be something he can do, Charley.” Miss Honey’s tone seemed too controlled, too practiced. “Just to tide him over till he finds something else.”

Charley pulled her hand away from Miss Honey’s and stood. “I know you’re worried. And don’t get me wrong—I’d like to—it’s just that—” She backed away from the table.

“Come back here. It’s just
what
?”

“It’s just.” Charley took a breath and started over. “It’s just, I can’t even pay the men I’ve got. Even if I could pay Ralph Angel, he doesn’t want to work for me. He doesn’t
do
manual labor. He said so himself.”

“What about a job in the office?”

Charley pictured the shop. The broken-down sofa, the piles of telephone books they hadn’t had time to throw away, the refrigerator that sent a tingling current of electricity through her fingers every time she touched the handle. “There
is no
office.” The suggestion was so absurd, she laughed before she could catch herself.

Miss Honey gave Charley the look she reserved for people who bumped into her shopping cart without apologizing. “You mean to tell me—you mean to tell me you got all those Mexicans and that crazy white man out there working for you and you can’t find a way to help your own?”

“With what money?”

“You mean to tell me, you got your own flesh and blood right under this roof, and you can’t find a way to lend a hand?”

“Miss Honey, please listen. Alison isn’t working
for
me, he’s one of my partners. He’s made a huge investment. His time, his equipment.” Charley felt her argument dissipate like smoke. Nothing she said would make sense now.

“Last spring when you called to say you were coming down here, you remember what I told you?”

Tears flooded Charley’s eyes. “You offered to let us stay here. You said it was silly to rent a house when we had family.”

“That’s right. Family. This is about family. Ralph Angel is smart. All he needs is a chance. I know you can find something for him.”

“Miss Honey, please. Things are tight. I’m on the verge of losing the farm.” Charley took her checkbook out of her purse and flipped to the register. “Look. It says thirteen dollars. I just wrote Denton a check for the last of it. I’m broke.”

Miss Honey drew herself erect. Her eyes bored into Charley. “‘And the Lord said unto Cain, where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not. Am I my brother’s keeper? And he said, what hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.’”

Charley felt something slip inside her. “Maybe once grinding starts, if I need some extra help. That would be better.”

“Charlotte Bordelon, I never thought I’d hear these things coming out of your mouth. That farm isn’t just yours. Yes, Ernest bought it, and yes, he left it to you, but you’re part of this family. Have I charged you rent?” Miss Honey leaned forward in her chair, but Charley could not speak. “When someone in a family needs help, it’s up to everyone to see that he gets what he needs. I know Ralph Angel would do the same for you.”