Queen Sugar: A Novel (5 page)

“Mom!” Micah called from the road’s shoulder. “I can’t see you.” She sounded scared.

Charley imagined Micah scanning fields that must’ve seemed to have swallowed her mother. “Go back to the car!” she yelled.

“But I’m scared.” Micah’s voice frayed. “I don’t like it here.”

Charley crawled deeper into the field.

“Please!” Micah begged.

“Get back in the car!” Charley was being cruel, she knew, and withholding. If Davis were there, he’d have told her as much. It was only a ring, he’d say. They could buy another some day, and even if they couldn’t, it wasn’t worth punishing their child. She was being like her mother, he’d say, attentive when she approved, cold as a stone when she didn’t, and he’d challenge her to remember how it had felt to live with that kind of uncertainty. But Davis was gone. She was alone, and right now, cruelty felt deeply satisfying. Better than a back massage. Better than sex. The cane swayed above her and the sound of the rustling leaves was strangely soothing. Charley sat between the rows and buried her face in her hands. When the tears came, they flowed easily and she didn’t try to stop them. Because it wasn’t just the ring, or her dad, or Frasier; it wasn’t Davis, or Denton, or even Micah. It was everything.

At last, Charley dried her face and waded back through the cane. She was shocked to see how far she was from the car. The road, in both directions, was empty. An image of the two white boys in the pickup flashed in her mind.

“Micah!” She ran to the car and was relieved to find Micah hiding in the small space behind the passenger seat, her head down and her arms raised above her head as if practicing for an earthquake drill. Charley opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. “Come on,” she said. Her voice was still hoarse from crying. “Let’s go.”

“Did you find it?”

“No.”

Micah stayed tucked.

“Come on,” Charley said, and rested her hand lightly on Micah’s back.

For a while they drove in silence. Gathering clouds cast shadows over the cane, and Micah, back in the passenger seat, sat with her head against the door, her eyes closed although Charley knew she wasn’t sleeping.

“Mom?” Micah said, finally. She rubbed her own index finger. “I’m sorry.”

•   •   •

Later that evening, Charley surveyed the bedroom, which wasn’t much bigger than a pantry and felt even smaller with the double bed, their suitcases, and everything else they brought with them stuffed in Hefty bags dumped in the middle of the floor.

Micah flipped the switch, the motor kicked in, and the new air mattress they purchased from Fred’s crackled to life and inflated in slow motion. When it was full, Micah said, “I’m going to find Miss Honey,” and stepped across the mattress, bouncing like the first girl on the moon.

“Not too long,” Charley said. “It’s getting late.”

Just over the threshold, Micah turned. “Mom, I’m really sorry about your ring.”

“Me too.”

“And Mom?”

“What?”

“You’re not a fish.”

In a moment, the screen door slammed, then slammed again. Charley pulled the curtain and saw the two of them on the swing—Miss Honey in her housedress and slippers, and Micah, snug beside her. In a few minutes, Micah’s hair was loose and Miss Honey was brushing it—long strokes and quick gathering. There was a rhythm to it, and watching, Charley remembered the feel of Miss Honey’s hands in her own hair all those years ago, the smell of Miss Honey’s talcum powder, Cashmere Bouquet, which smelled of wood, and roses and maraschino cherries. She knew exactly how Micah felt. Charley watched awhile longer, then let the curtain fall. She wished she’d caught Micah by the elbow and pulled her close before she left the room. Wished she’d been able to say,
I’m sorry. I won’t fail you twice.

Charley’s workshop—two thousand square feet of corrugated steel—sat on a patch of cleared ground just off the road that separated her north and south fields. An old John Deere tractor with a blown-out windshield and weeds twisting though the fender hulked out front. Rust-pocked chemical drums and stacks of cracked tires littered the side yard. The place had a postapocalyptic feel. It was a miracle the shop hadn’t been bulldozed and hauled to the scrap yard. Inside, under brittle fluorescent lights, it was cool, a nice break from the heat, but the air reeked of diesel fuel with bitter undertones of dried grass and the slightly acrid scent of rat droppings.

In the tiny office, Charley sat at a desk piled high with farm bulletins and equipment manuals. She sorted through folders brimming with crumpled receipts and unpaid invoices. How Frasier managed to hold this ship together as long as he did was a mystery, Charley thought, and she guessed his departure was a small blessing. But she didn’t know what half the bills were for, and even if she could identify the purchases, she couldn’t find them in the shop.

“What the hell’s Paraquat?” Charley said out loud. She balled the receipt and tossed it to the floor.

Around eleven o’clock, a sleek sedan with tinted windows and gleaming tires cruised up and parked. Charley heard the
ping, ping, ping
as the driver’s door opened, and she was just stepping out of the office as a smooth-looking white man in crisp pale clothing rapped on the shop’s metal door.

“Good morning,” Charley said. “Can I help you?”

“Welcome to Saint Josephine, Miss Bordelon.” He flashed a country-club smile and offered his hand, which sported a gold chunk of a class ring, then pulled a business card from his breast pocket. “I’m Jacques Landry.”

“‘Saint Mary’s Sugar Cooperative,’” Charley read. She had driven past Saint Mary’s sugar mill on her way to her farm and seen the original brick smokestacks draped with kudzu and the new, gleaming sugar warehouse. But other than noting that the air around Saint Mary’s always smelled like malt balls, Charley hadn’t paid much attention. She invited him in.

“So, you’re the lucky owner of LeJeune’s plantation,” Landry said. “Congratulations. That’s some fine land you’ve got out there.” Landry was handsome the way a Chris-Craft motorboat was handsome—all good lines and varnished teak.

“Thank you,” Charley said. “It’s very—exciting.”

“You’re the name on everyone’s lips,” Landry said. He looked around the shop with bright-eyed interest, as if paintings, not tools, hung on the pegboard. “Miss Honey’s granddaughter, all the way from Los Angeles to rescue LeJeune’s plantation from ruin.”

Landry was charming. The longer they talked, the more Charley felt like she was at a cocktail party. He laughed, asked her where she’d gone to college, what she’d majored in, when she’d married Davis, and what her mother did for a living. Slowly, it occurred to Charley that he was asking all the questions, and that she, tired of feeling desperate and alone on a sinking ship, was happy to answer him.

“So, how
are
things going for you, Miss Bordelon?” Landry sat on an arm of the beat-up couch and picked up an invoice, which Charley suddenly wanted to snatch back. “You doing all right? Have everything you need?”

No, she wanted to say. She had nothing. Please help. But she had already said too much: mentioned her student loans, her daughter’s name and age. Landry was grilling her, wasn’t he? And she had missed all the cues. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s pretty quiet around here,” Landry said, shrugging. “Sort of unusual this time of year. Most farmers are out cultivating their fields but it looks like you’re barely finished laying-by.” He sat with one foot crossed over the opposite knee, like a CEO in a boardroom, and now he wiggled his foot casually. “I noticed you’ve got some water hung up out near the back quadrant. Should probably get that pumped out soon. But listen to me, making suggestions. You probably know that already.”

“You’ve been out in my fields?” Charley said.

“Took a little drive.”

“Yes, well. I’ve had a few setbacks.”

Landry picked up another invoice and scanned it. “Wayne Frasier. Yeah, I heard about that. Tough break.”

“But I’ll be fine,” Charley said. “I’ve got some good leads.”

Landry looked skeptical, but said, “I’m glad to hear it. Good people are hard to find, as I’m sure you know.” He put the invoice down and stood.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

“No. I was just passing by. Saw your car out front, thought I’d stop in, see how you were doing.” He scanned the shop once more, then turned to Charley with a broad grin. “I remember when old man LeJeune was still alive. Talk about a man who was suited to this business. Folks used to say he had cane syrup in his veins. I tell you, he poured his heart into this operation. Shame his kids didn’t take better care of it.”

“You’re right,” Charley said. She walked toward the metal door and slid it open.

“He had this car,” Landry said, like a stand-up comedian about to deliver the punch line. “Great big Lincoln Continental. Had his man wash and wax it every Saturday. But would you believe he hardly drove it? Afternoons, rain or shine, right up till he got sick, he rode out to his fields on the back of a fifteen-hand Tennessee Walker.” Landry sighed, almost dreamily. “I guess some people prefer the old ways.”

His man
, Charley thought.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Charley said in what she hoped was a dry tone, and slid the metal door wider.

“Good luck, Miss Bordelon. You’ll need it.” Landry was almost over the threshold when he turned back. “One more thing. You ever think of selling this place?”

“It hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“Well, if it does, give me a call.”

“And why would I want to sell?”

“Who knows?” Landry pointed to the card she held. “I’m just throwing it out there. You seem like a sensible young woman. It’d be a shame to see you get in over your head.”

•   •   •

NeNee Desonier’s trailer could have been the subject of a Dorothea Lange photograph, with its yellowing newsprint and strips of faded floral wallpaper clinging to the walls. In the places where there was neither newsprint nor wallpaper, gigantic watermarks, like seismographic readouts, stained bare plaster, which, over the years, Charley guessed, had turned from chalky white to burnt sienna. And NeNee herself should have been captured in a gelatin print. Her small dark face, etched with wrinkles, had a sinkhole in the middle where her top four teeth were missing. She was no taller than Micah, Charley thought, and probably ten pounds lighter. A bright green stocking cap swaddled her small head, and her faded housedress was so threadbare, it was a wonder it didn’t disintegrate as she stood there.

But Charley was on a mission. The more she thought about Landry’s intrusive questions, the way he seemed to prophesy her failure, the angrier she got. So when she found NeNee Desonier’s name and address on an old pay stub in the files, she acted without thinking; got in her car and drove all the way out to Four Corners, the sleepy hamlet on the outskirts of the parish.

Now here she was, in NeNee’s living room. “As I was saying.” Charley smiled. NeNee did not. “I found your name on this piece of paper.” She held out the pay stub.

NeNee glanced at it and nodded politely.

“How long did you work for Mr. LeJeune?”

NeNee held up four fingers, which meant either “four years
ago
” or “
for
four years,” Charley couldn’t tell.

“What kind of work did you do?” Charley asked.

NeNee offered another polite smile, but she looked increasingly nervous. Every few minutes she stole a glance at the front door.

Charley knew she should go. But she had driven all this way, was holding tight, like a child on a carousel, to the fantasy that NeNee Desonier was a seasoned manager like Denton, or a young, ambitious field hand on the lookout for an opportunity to run the show. At this point, she would have hired a middle schooler if he or she had worked cane before.

“Ma petite-fille,”
NeNee said.

“What’s that?”

NeNee pointed to the yard. The next second, a woman in her mid-forties, dressed in pink medical scrubs and sneakers, pushed through the front door. She saw Charley and stopped short. “Who are you?”

Charley introduced herself, offered her hand, but the woman regarded it suspiciously, then turned to NeNee and said something in what sounded like French, but wasn’t quite. And suddenly, NeNee came to life. She chattered on, gesturing and occasionally pointing to Charley. The younger woman nodded, frowned, then glared at Charley over her shoulder. Finally, she turned.

“What do you want with my grandmother?”

“I thought—”

“Thought what?”

“I just thought, maybe she’d like to work for me.” Charley started to explain about her farm, thought of explaining about Denton’s refusal, but said only, “I own some acreage off the Old Spanish Trail—” when the woman cut her off.

“My grandmother is seventy-seven years old.”

NeNee hobbled over to the rocker and sat down. She looked from Charley to her granddaughter, who, Charley realized, still hadn’t said her name.

“I can see your grandmother is quite frail,” Charley said. “I didn’t realize until I got here. I was in the office, I mean, the shop, sorting through stacks of papers and I found this.” She held out the pay stub.