Queen Sugar: A Novel

by Baszile, Natalie

  “Who knew laying-by was so involved,” Charley said.

  Denton nodded. “It’s critical. You’re giving the cane your final Amen. You’re saying, ‘That’s it. I’ve done all I can do.’ Everything goes like it should, it’s the last time you’re in your fields till grinding. After laying-by, you stand back and let Mother Nature take over.”

  From the passenger seat, Charley looked at Denton, and for the hundredth time was overcome with relief and gratitude. It wasn’t simply the knowledge that she couldn’t have done any of this without him. No, it wasn’t simply that. It was the feeling she got in his presence, a sense of peace, a quiet calm, as though she were standing in the shadow of an old redwood. They didn’t make them like Denton anymore; she couldn’t have asked for a better mentor. She’d noticed that sometimes, whether it was driving the tractor or operating the drill press or mixing a batch of fertilizer, he seemed to hold himself back, forced himself to step aside so she could learn, rather than doing the work himself. At least three times she’d walked into the office to find him scribbling on a pad, sketching pieces of equipment he planned to make. And was she imagining things, or did he seem to be walking with a newfound lift in his step?

  “So, we run the drains and then we’re finished?” asked Charley. They were approaching the little town of Jeanerette, where LeBlanc’s Bakery on Main Street had been baking French bread and ginger cakes since 1884. Over the front entrance with its big picture windows, the red light glowed brightly, signaling that fresh loaves had just come out of ovens and were ready for sale; all you had to do was walk around to the side door. The air was heavy with a sweet, yeasty aroma and Charley inhaled. She’d have to pick up a couple loaves on her way home.

  “We won’t be sitting around eating bonbons, if that’s what you’re thinking. Still lots to do before grinding.” Denton scratched his forehead thoughtfully. “And that’s if Mother Nature doesn’t throw us a curveball.”

  “What could go wrong?”

  Denton inhaled, as though he, too, was tempted to stop for a loaf and eat it right there in the car, if only they could afford the time. “What could go wrong?” He looked out over the hood then at Charley. “Plenty.”

  • • •

  Charley called Violet on her way home that evening. “So, exactly how long do you plan to boycott your own mother?”

  “Look who’s talking?” Violet said. “When was the last time you talked to Lorna?”

  “Touché.”

  “Besides, Mother is welcome at my house anytime as long as she doesn’t bring you-know-who.”

  “Please come over, Violet,” Charley said. “I miss you. You don’t even have to come in. We can stand on the sidewalk.”

  Violet sighed. “I miss you, too, sweetheart, and I hate not seeing y’all. But if I give in, Mother will think she can always rewrite the rules for Ralph Angel. She never let us get away with half of what she lets him get away with. Someone has to draw the line. Speaking of which, how are you holding up?”

  And so, Charley told Violet what Denton said about needing more money, about her father working sugarcane as a boy. “I never knew Ernest did that,” Violet said, and Charley heard in Violet’s voice the same sorrow she’d heard in Miss Honey’s. And finally, she told Violet about Ralph Angel asking to work on the farm.

  “What are you going to do?” Violet asked.

  “I don’t know,” Charley said, as she pulled up in front of LeBlanc’s bakery. The red light over the door was off but the side door was still open. “That’s why I called. I thought you might have some ideas.”

  Mother Francisca’s eyes looked like peppercorns behind her oversize glasses, the skin of her plump white face as wrinkled as a dried apple. While prices flashed at the bottom of the TV screen, Mother Francisca, beloved host of the Catholic Home Shopping Network, held up plaques, Bible covers and wristwatches, coffee mugs, commemorative plates, and T-shirts, all emblazoned with the image of Padre Pio, the miracle worker, as the seconds to purchase each item ticked down to zero, and Charley, home from the farm late Friday afternoon, was horrified when she stepped into the den and saw Miss Honey sitting in her recliner and Hollywood on the couch, their expressions glazed over, their eyes fixed on the screen as Mother Francisca pawned her wares.

  “It’s about time,” Miss Honey said, at the commercial break. “We were about to send out the National Guard. Where’ve you been?”

  “Take one guess,” Charley said, wearily, dropping her backpack.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re home,” Miss Honey said. “Look who’s here.”

  Hollywood stood, smoothed his hair, then wiped his hands on his army fatigues. “Hey there, Miss Charley.”

  “Well, hello,” Charley said, and felt her spirits rise in spite of the exhausting day she’d had. She and Denton had power-washed the shop windows, and she’d climbed up and down an extension ladder at least thirty times, checking the roof for leaks. She crossed the den and started to shake Hollywood’s hand, then changed her mind and hugged him. She needed a friend, especially now that Violet refused to come around. As they embraced, Charley caught a whiff of Hollywood’s cologne, thick and spicy and a tad too sweet for her taste, but thought it was nice that he’d made the effort. When she stepped back, the scent clung to her clothes. “How’ve you been? How’s business?”

  Hollywood shrugged. “I been okay. Same ol’, same ol’. Cutting grass, helping Maman around the place.” He flushed pink, like a schoolboy, and looked at the floor.

  It would be easy, Charley thought, to mistake his modesty for a lack of confidence, his simplicity for stupidity. But beneath that quirkiness and quiet demeanor, there was a current of strength, a sense of honor and integrity, and in his own special way, a clear-eyed view of the world. Charley thought back to the way Hollywood had talked to Micah, respectfully but firmly, and knew that was true.

  On television, Mother Francisca was pushing Padre Pio salt and pepper shakers now; only ten sets left as the clock counted down.

  “Hollywood finished cleaning the back room,” Miss Honey said.

  Charley nodded. “Then you must be exhausted. What can I get you to drink?” she asked, knowing she had only Coke and water to offer. She’d have to remember to ask Denton how his wife made that lemonade.

  “Water if it’s no trouble,” Hollywood said, and moved to follow her into the kitchen.

  But Charley told him to stay where he was. “No, no,” she said, “sit down, I’ll get it.” When she returned, he was flipping through a new edition of Highlife. She handed the glass to him and watched him take a small, careful sip.

  On television now, Mother Francisca had stopped hawking products and had moved to a different part of her studio. Ensconced in an overstuffed chair like a TV talk-show host, she took calls from listeners, offering tips on how they might avoid purgatory. “And how long have you been unable to feel love?” she asked, her hands clasped together as she stared into the camera.

  “Hollywood’s been waiting for you to get home,” Miss Honey said.

  “Oh,” Charley said.

  Hollywood dabbed his forehead nervously. He closed his magazine.

  “Well?” Miss Honey said.

  “I was gonna ask if—I wondered if you wanted—” He paused, and swallowed. He looked at Charley and blinked, as though waiting for the words.

  But just as he opened his mouth to speak again, Ralph Angel burst into the den. “Man, those kids just about wore me out,” he said, breathing hard. “I forgot how much I hated the park.” He gestured over his shoulder, anticipating Miss Honey’s question. “They’re out front. They collected a bunch of rocks. I told them not to throw them against the house, or at any cars, which I could tell was exactly what they planned to do.” He sat on the arm of the couch, “Hey, sis,” then he saw Hollywood. “Hey, man. How’s it going? I didn’t see your mower.”

  “Hey, Ralph An
gel,” Hollywood said, stiffly.

  “I was gonna call you. I could use a little grown-up playtime, if you know what I mean. I thought maybe we could hit the bars or go fishing tomorrow over at that place we used to go when we were kids. You know, across the bayou, near that barge slip.”

  “I gotta work tomorrow.”

  “How about this weekend? I know you don’t cut grass on Sundays, right? And if I remember correctly, that joint Smitty’s over in Tee Coteau draws a big crowd on Sunday nights.”

  “I don’t know, Ralph Angel,” Hollywood said, “that place is pretty rough. People always getting shot over there.”

  “Well, Jesus, man, when are we going to hang out?”

  “Stop harassing him,” Miss Honey said. “Hollywood didn’t come here to see you anyway. He came to see Charley. He wants to ask her out on a date.”

  “Me?” Charley said.

  “Who else?” Miss Honey said.

  Ralph Angel looked from Hollywood to Charley. “I guess I made a mistake, then. I thought my old buddy dropped by to see me. Excuse me. I didn’t realize.”

  Hollywood slid forward on the couch. “I’m sorry, Ralph Angel. Maybe we can hang out another time.”

  “Yeah, yeah. No problem.” Ralph Angel waved his hand casually. “It’s my fault. You two go ahead.”

  Hollywood looked at Charley as though he were about to propose. “I wondered if you wanted to go over to Sonic for a burger or something. I mean, we don’t have to go there if you don’t like burgers. We can go to Joe’s on the Bayou or anyplace you want. We don’t even have to eat. We could just take a walk.” He rolled up his magazine. Then he unrolled it and smoothed his hand across the cover.

  “That’s sweet of you,” Charley said, noticing now that Hollywood’s hair was recently cut. “I’m flattered, but—”

  Ralph Angel groaned and stood up. “Aw, Jesus, Peanut. You can do better than that. If you’re gonna ask a woman on a date, you need to be more confident. You gotta look her in the eye. Here, let me show you.” He slid between Hollywood and Charley. “Let’s start again, sis. From the top.”

  “Ralph Angel.” Miss Honey sat forward in her recliner. “Let the man be. If he wants to ask Charley out, let him do it his way.”

  “Relax, ’Da.” Ralph Angel turned to Hollywood. “How much is a burger and fries? Three, four dollars? Only costs you an hour’s work. You hear that, Charley? You’re worth a whole lawn.”

  “You should stop,” said Charley. And maybe it was because something in Ralph Angel’s smile reminded Charley of Baron and Landry, but she decided she’d had enough. “You’re being cruel.”

  Ralph Angel stepped back, his arms folded. “Well, look who’s decided to take the moral high ground.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ralph Angel looked at Charley for a long time. “Never mind, sis. Forget about it. But just so we’re square, I’m not the only one who’s being cruel.”

  JULY

  11

  What could go wrong? After twelve straight days of thunderstorms, Charley believed she knew. Each day she woke up and checked the weather report, and each day the meteorologist forecast more rain; not the occasional showers that were a welcomed part of summer in south Louisiana, but a steady downpour, unrelenting, with thunder like cannon fire, lightning strikes that made you wince and duck your head, and flooding that felt biblical. Now Charley stood in the shop door, staring out at rain falling so heavily she couldn’t even see her fields across the road. Just yesterday, she sat in her car in the Winn-Dixie parking lot for twenty-five minutes, waiting for the storm to pass, then got frustrated, took off her shoes, and dashed the few yards to the entrance, only to be soaked to the bone by the time she burst through the automatic doors. What could go wrong? If she were superstitious, she would almost start to believe she’d brought this on herself.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” Charley said, turning to Denton, who was busy soldering the plug on the generator. “Is this much rain normal?”

  “Just be thankful we finished laying-by when we did,” Denton said, matter-of-factly. “We were trying to finish that work now, we’d be up to our ears in mud if we could get out there at all.”

  And so, Charley waited.

  While it rained.

  And rained.

  And rained.

  In New Orleans, streets flooded and power lines went down. The state closed the highway for a time.

  And then, as if it were tired of playing the practical joke, the sun appeared, just for a few hours the first day, shooting rays of weak light through breaks in the clouds before the rain started again, but then growing gradually stronger, so that by the second week in July, it was a bright yellow ball. In her little corner of the world, Charley rejoiced. She was sick of being cooped up in the shop, shuffling papers or playing Monopoly at home with Micah; sick of waking to rain and going to sleep to rain; sick of feeling damp as a cotton sock.

  “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Denton said. They were driving along the far edge of the farm, checking to see how the drains had held up. “All that rain means we’re likely to get more insects. Cross your fingers we don’t have borers.”

  “Borers?” Charley said. The last time she heard Denton mention borers, he was pouring her a glass of lemonade.

  “Little worms that burrow into the cane stalk,” Denton said. “If they get into the heart of the cane, you lose the sucrose; you lose the sucrose, you lose your sugar content. Basically, your crop is worthless.”

  Charley sighed. “How do we know if we have them?”

  “You have to pull down the cane sheath. That’s where the parent lays the eggs. If the eggs have already hatched, you’ll see holes in the cane.”

  “Let’s get started. What do we need? Gloves? A flashlight?”

  “I already sent someone out to check,” Denton said. “Matt Thibodeaux teaches science over at the high school, moonlights as a crop consultant. He’ll walk the fields, then write up a report. Turns out we’ve got an infestation, he’ll draw up a site map and figure out exactly how much we need to spray.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Charley said. “Who’ll do the spraying and how much will it cost?”

  “Bug work normally costs six dollars thirty-five an acre. But I told him we’re on a budget. Best news is, his brother’s a crop duster.”

  • • •

  Thibodeaux’s Flying Service was located in a low metal building beside the landing strip. When Charley and Denton arrived, Bradley Thibodeaux was sitting in a cushiony black office chair fit for a Wall Street executive, behind a big oak desk cluttered with maps and aerial photographs similar to the ones Charley had studied all those months ago. He was talking on the telephone, and at the sight of Charley and Denton, he waved them in and placed a hand over the receiver.

  “Y’all make yourselves comfortable,” he whispered.

  Denton motioned for Charley to take the empty seat by the desk. Another folding chair leaned against the wall, and he brought it over, sat down.

  While she waited, Charley surveyed the office. The décor was spare and functional: linoleum floors, plastic blinds in the windows, a couple card tables and a watercooler in the corner—which lent to the industrial feel. The only object of interest, aside from the maps Scotch-taped to the walls, was a large gilt frame behind Bradley’s desk in which hung a portrait, done in heavy oil brushstrokes, of a man in a blue suit.

  Bradley hung up the phone. “I’m sorry about that, y’all,” he said in a heavy Cajun accent. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  He rose from his chair. “Prosper Denton. Well, hello, stranger,” walked around the desk, and shook Denton’s hand. “I wouldn’t believe this if I weren’t standing here looking with my own two eyes. How are you? It’s been what, three years?”

  �
�About that,” Denton said.

  “What’cha been up to?”

  “Let me introduce you to Miss Charley Bordelon, from California.”

  Bradley shook Charley’s hand and held on to it as he stood back to appraise her. “You look like you just got out of high school. What’cha doing with this old man?”

  “I’m helping Miss Bordelon run her operation,” Denton said, steering the conversation back to business. “After all that rain we just got, I figured I’d have Matt come out and check for borers. He said the report was ready.”

  Bradley nodded. “Just came in.” He sifted through the stack until he found Charley’s, then slipped the rubber band from a piece of rolled paper the size of an architectural blueprint, spread it over the desk, and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. “Let’s see what we got,” Bradley said, studying the field map like a three-star general planning his next attack. The map of Charley’s farm was overlaid with a grid. Each one-inch square represented a section of a quadrant, half of which were highlighted in yellow marker. “Well, you definitely got you some borers,” he said. “Everywhere it’s yellow is infested.”

  Charley sighed.

  “But don’t worry,” said Bradley, rolling up the map, sliding the rubber band down around it. “We’ll hit ’em with a good dose of Intrepid. That’ll stop ’em in their tracks. I’ll write up the ticket today and get on it first thing tomorrow.”

  Charley reached for her checkbook but Bradley caught her by the elbow. “On the house.” And when Charley objected, Bradley assured her this wasn’t the last time they’d be doing business. “You’ll be back come September.”

  “What happens in September?”

  Bradley and Denton looked at each other, the long years of experience passing between them.