Queen Sugar: A Novel

by Baszile, Natalie

  “Lot one twenty-four,” the auctioneer called. “We’ll start the bidding at eighty-five hundred. Eight five. Eighty-five in the back. Eight five, who’ll show me nine?”

  Without looking at her, Denton tapped Charley’s leg. “Put up your card.”

  “But it’s an Allis Chalmers,” Charley whispered, consulting her catalog.

  “Nine. Nine. Do I hear nine five?” The auctioneer’s voice drove the crowd forward. “Nine five down in front. Who’ll give me ten? Anyone gonna elbow in?”

  “I know what it is,” Denton said. “Raise your card.”

  “Ten down in front. Who’ll give me ten five? How ’bout ten and a quarter?” Ten and a quarter, ten and a quarter for lot one twenty-four. Ten and a quarter in the second row. Let’s have ten five.”

  Charley started to raise her card, then hesitated.

  “Please, Miss Bordelon. Do like I’m telling you. Remember what you promised at the Blue Bowl?” The force of Denton’s tone stung her. Charley raised her card.

  The auctioneer nodded. “Ten five in the back. Who’ll give me eleven? Eleven on the side, thank you, sir. Eleven for the Allis Chalmers. Can I get eleven five?”

  “Keep going,” Denton said.

  Charley raised her card again. “But we don’t want—”

  “Eleven five in the back. Thank you, madam. Do I have twelve? Twelve on the side again.”

  Charley saw Denton glance over at the last bidder, a man standing on the far side of the lot with his arms folded. He didn’t look in their direction, but something in his manner, the way he stared straight ahead, told Charley he was watching them.

  “That’s the rainmaker,” Denton said.

  “What the hell is a rainmaker?”

  “Someone who bids just to drive the price up,” Denton explained, and went on to say most times, they worked for the auction house, but sometimes for the person who was selling. “I wanted to put some bait out there, see what we caught.”

  “What did we catch?”

  “Baron. Riding your tail. Bidding you up.” Denton ran his hand over his face. “Give me a second to think.”

  The bidding was at thirteen thousand. The auctioneer scanned the crowd. “What y’all thinking, boys?”

  Denton nudged Charley. “Sit tight.”

  He was gone before Charley could ask where he was going, and the Allis Chalmers sold while she waited patiently. The I.H. would be up soon. Charley tried not to look at the rainmaker, but when she glanced around for Denton, their eyes met. He nodded and touched the brim of his cap, a small gesture, one that could be mistaken for a bid if a person didn’t know better, but Charley felt certain it was a signal for her—a threat, or worse, a promise—and for a moment, she couldn’t decide who was more terrifying: Baron and Landry in their corporate uniforms, wielding their power in her face, or the rainmaker, looking like a KGB agent in his dark glasses and devil’s goatee. And then Charley’s mind cleared and she was annoyed with herself for being afraid. Maybe Denton had jumped to conclusions. Maybe the man wasn’t a rainmaker. Maybe he was just being polite.

  Denton reappeared. “We’re changing up the plan,” he said, slightly winded. “We’re not bidding on the I.H. anymore.”

  “Not—what?” Charley said. The auctioneer was calling for lot one thirty-five now. The I.H. was lot one thirty-six. “You said it’s the best tractor here. We need it.”

  “Next up, lot one thirty-six,” the auctioneer called. “An I.H. 1066. Crank it up, Billy. All right, boys. Let’s put a little money up. We’ll start at seven thousand.”

  A man climbed up into the I.H. and started the engine. It was the closest thing Charley had heard to a machine purring. She got her card ready. Denton grabbed her wrist. “Just hold on.” He leaned forward and stared at the ground as though he were trying to hide.

  And suddenly, Charley disliked him. The slight hump in his back—his old man’s back—as he leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees; his fingers with their wrinkled knuckles and nails like rinds of parmesan; his ridiculous pressed overalls and his old-fashioned shoes. They needed that tractor, she needed that tractor if she wanted anything close to a chance of making it, and she’d be damned if she sat back while some old man who was afraid of his shadow told her what to do. This wasn’t 1945, Charley wanted to say. There was nothing to be afraid of. No wonder her father hated the South. No wonder he ran for his life.

  “Eight thousand for the I.H.,” the auctioneer called. “Who’ll elbow in? Eight. Can I get eight and a half?”

  “Here.” Charley raised her card as all heads turned to look.

  “Eight and a half, right there. Thank you, madam. Who’ll show me nine?”

  Denton glared at her. “What are you doing?”

  “That guy’s not the rainmaker.”

  “Nine down in front,” the auctioneer said.

  “There, you see,” Charley whispered. “He didn’t bid.”

  The auctioneer called for nine and a half. A man the next row over gave a signal.

  “Nine and a half. Can I get ten?”

  The auctioneer called for nine five again. The man in the next row bid. Charley raised her bidder’s card. Denton grabbed her arm. “I’m trying to tell you,” he said, but she ignored him. Denton never swore, but Charley heard him swear under his breath. “I’ll be g’all damned.”

  “Ten five,” the auctioneer said.

  Charley kept her card raised. The tractor wasn’t worth more than thirteen, that’s what Denton said. Anything over thirteen, they’d agreed they’d walk away. The man in front dropped out of the bidding; it was just her and the man in the next row. Maybe she’d get it at ten five. Maybe eleven. The rainmaker hadn’t made a peep. Charley turned to him. She stared him right in the eye, dared him to jump in. He seemed not to see her, didn’t move or look in her direction, and she was flushed with relief. She was right. He was just another farmer, an ordinary man. The auctioneer asked for eleven and Charley’s card was still raised. Another few seconds and the tractor would be hers. She’d show Denton that times had changed.

  “Eleven, going once.”

  The rainmaker signaled—two fingers.

  “Thirteen!” the auctioneer cried.

  For a moment, Charley couldn’t move. When she did turn her head, the rainmaker met her gaze and she saw that thing in his expression that Denton must have seen earlier: a coldness, a steely indifference that made her shudder, and she understood she’d done exactly what he knew all along she’d do.

  “Thirteen.” The auctioneer looked at Charley. “Do I have fourteen?”

  If she continued, she’d be over her limit. She’d have paid more than Denton swore the tractor was worth. If she dropped out, Baron and Landry would have won.

  Charley raised her card.

  Fourteen. Fourteen five. Each time she bid, the rainmaker bid higher. Fifteen. Fifteen five. Denton leaned over and whispered something to her, something hot and blistering, though she couldn’t make out the words for the rushing in her ears. Then he pushed his way through the crowd. And though she panicked to realize Denton was gone, Charley reasoned, somewhere in the back of her brain, that when it was all over and the tractor was theirs, he’d understand and agree she’d done the right thing. It all would have been worth it. She’d won.

  “Sixteen thousand.”

  The auctioneer seemed to spot someone far behind her. “Seventeen thousand in the back. Come on, boys, somebody put me in the money. Can I get seventeen five?”

  Charley stole a glance at the rainmaker. He didn’t move or look her way, but she knew he was waiting for her, ready to pounce if she kept bidding. Now someone else had thrown his hat in the ring. For all she knew, it was another of Baron’s cronies. Silence hung over the crowd. It lasted only a few seconds—but it was enough for Charley to realize the harm she’d done, the damage she’d cause if
she continued this ridiculous game. She had no idea where Denton was, what he was doing, but she was pretty sure he’d given up on her. And who wouldn’t? Who’d want to work with someone who refused to listen, refused to learn? Who had that kind of time to waste?

  “Seventeen, going once. Twice.”

  Charley folded her bidder’s card and shoved it deep in her pocket. There would be other tractors.

  “Last call for lot one thirty-six. Sold! For seventeen thousand.”

  • • •

  After the fiasco with the I.H., Charley tore up her bidder’s card, then watched through a fog of humiliation and distress as the rest of the equipment, tractors included, sold for a fraction of what she bid. She barely noticed who bought what and stayed only because she would rather have slept on a bed of nails than walk through that crowd. Denton was right about one thing: one’s heart went out to the farmer who once owned all that stuff. It was tough seeing a three-row chopper, probably eight or nine thousand dollars new, go for two hundred bucks. A whole life’s work, years of struggling to make ends meet. How could farmers stand it?

  Behind the office, the people at the hot dog booth were packing up. Someone had slashed through the prices with a red marker and hot dogs were only a quarter. Charley was not thirsty, but she bought a Coke, hoping the carbonation would settle her stomach. The air had that heavy, expectant feel, as though at any moment someone would shout or fire a gun. In a couple hours the regular afternoon showers would turn the sky a steely gray, and crooked fingers of lightning would illuminate the horizon. The storm would only last half an hour, Charley thought, but by the time she got back to Saint Josephine, it would be too wet and maybe too dark to do anything on the farm. Better to go back to Miss Honey and Micah, lick her wounds tonight and crawl back to Denton tomorrow.

  • • •

  The rainmaker, Landry, and Baron were long gone. Up and down the rows, farmers loaded air compressors, old sinks, and batteries into their trucks. Standing alone in the shade of a shabby oak, Charley was afraid to check the parking lot for Denton’s truck. Just the thought that he’d quit made her light-headed with shame. She’d acted foolishly. Now she had to go home and tell Micah and Miss Honey how badly she’d blown it. She’d have to sit there while Ralph Angel laughed in her face.

  The empty Coke can still in her hand, Charley walked toward the parking lot, braced for the sight of the empty spot where Denton’s truck had been. But his truck was there, and yes, thank God, there he was, leaning against its door as he flipped through a stack of receipts, the ones, Charley recalled, he stuffed above his visor. She had never been so happy to see those Liberty overalls, the bald head, or that raggedy old truck, as she was right now. Her first impulse was to run over, hurl herself on the ground, and beg for forgiveness. She would apologize for everything: the bidding, the money, all the stupid questions she’d ever asked—all of it—if he’d just give her another chance. And she was just about to when Denton looked up, noticed her, and she saw something in his expression. Disgust? Disappointment? All Charley knew was that she had never seen him look so unfriendly. Denton stared at her for a moment, then went back to his receipts.

  “I was afraid you’d gone,” Charley said, chastened, and then, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. You were right about the rainmaker. No. You were right about everything and I don’t blame you for quitting.” If she thought Denton wouldn’t find it girly and manipulative, she’d cry. And for an instant, she thought she might. Her head was buzzing and there was that tightness again, like some gigantic, soggy wool sock was being wrung out inside her. But then it lifted. Just enough for her to say one word. “Please.”

  Nothing. No reaction at all. Denton turned away as though he hadn’t seen or heard her, as though her plea was nothing more than an atmospheric disturbance. He leaned over the wheel and stuffed the receipts back onto the sun visor, then lifted himself into the seat, slammed the door, started the engine.

  Well, Charley thought, that’s it. It’s over. She stood clear as Denton backed up and swung around. A furious spray of gravel flew out from the tires and there was that awful grating sound, the sound of spinning tires over loose rocks and dirt, the sound of someone who couldn’t get away fast enough. She could barely see Denton’s truck for all the dust and dry grass that blew up in her face, and she listened for the roar of his engine, wondering if she could hold off crying until he was gone. But the sound never came, and when Charley opened her eyes, Denton’s truck was idling right there in front of her and he was leaning across the seat. And now he was reaching for the handle, and the door was swinging open. It wouldn’t be until later that night, when she was at Miss Honey’s and had time to think back on it, that Charley would understand there was a difference between kowtowing and letting people’s assumptions work against them; that there was a beauty and honor in the Japanese bough that bent but didn’t break, and she finally, truly, appreciated what a decent man Denton was. That just when she thought her life was over, just when she thought she’d screwed things up (again), forgiveness and grace would be bestowed upon her with two simple words: “Get in.”

  • • •

  Given all that had happened, Charley knew better than to ask questions. For once, she was grateful Denton wasn’t much of a talker, and barely dared to breathe as he threw the truck into drive. She had no idea where they were headed or how long they would be gone, and frankly, she was too tired to care. Normally, she hated not knowing the plan, but right now, she didn’t want to think. As long as Denton didn’t put her out of the truck, she was satisfied.

  The drive turned out to be short—just a few hundred yards. Denton pulled around to the other side of the office, parked, then went over to talk with a white man who was busy strapping equipment down on a long goose-neck trailer. Charley couldn’t see the man’s face, just his two tanned arms sticking out from his faded red T-shirt, but she knew he was another farmer simply by the way he was dressed: the requisite baseball cap, Wrangler jeans stuffed sloppily into the tops of his work boots.

  From the way he and Denton talked, the way they both nodded and stood back to admire the equipment, they must be friends. It was nice to see, Charley thought, the pleasure Denton could take in someone else’s success; clearly the guy had done well. Just look at all the equipment he’d managed to buy: the Ampco flat chopper she and Denton had looked at, a shaver, and a ditch digger. Why, there was even the cultivator that went for one hundred and seventy bucks. Denton seemed genuinely happy despite the fact he was walking away empty-handed, and Charley wondered whether this wasn’t part of his secret, the reason he’d lasted all these years. Because you would have to be forgiving. You’d have to have a huge heart. You’d have to insist on seeing the good in people to deal with all the Landrys and Barons and who knew who else, and not go a little nuts down here.

  Eventually, Denton waved her over. “So it ought to run real good,” he was saying by the time Charley joined him. “Something wrong, it’d be smoking in idle. A new hose and it’ll run up and down the rows for a long time.”

  “Still can’t believe I got that chisel plow for four seventy-five,” Denton’s friend said, wedging his thumbs through his belt loops. “The way it rakes up roots, turns them around? Oh, man. It’ll be just like combing hair.”

  It was such a relief to see Denton in a good mood that Charley felt a surge of gratitude for his friend. Thank God. You’re a lifesaver. You really have no idea, she wanted to say. But instead, she offered her hand and said, simply, “Congratulations.”

  “This here’s Remy Newell,” Denton said, a smile brightening his face.

  Remy Newell looked at Charley strangely. “Congratulations for what?”

  Charley looked from Remy to Denton, who gave a little shrug. “She never gave me a chance to tell her.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “You mean she doesn’t know?” Remy Newell shook his head and laughed. “G
ood Lord, Mr. D.”

  Denton massaged his forehead. “You mighta noticed she’s not too good at listening, so I stopped talking.”

  “Tell me what? What’s going on?” Charley stared at Denton.

  “Like I was trying to tell you earlier. When I saw what Baron was doing with the rainmaker, I had to go to Plan C.” He stepped aside. “I had Remy here bid for us. That’s where I went after you bid on the Allis Chalmers. Congratulations, Miss Bordelon. All this equipment is yours.”

  14

  Evening. From his place on the ratty sofa, Ralph Angel watched Blue, on hands and knees, march Zach over a fortress of old Reader’s Digests and stacked cans of string beans.

  “Got my Glock,” Blue chanted, imitating a grown man’s voice, “gotta get some money,” and Ralph Angel thought he’d have to mix more pop radio, maybe some jazz, in with the rap music. Blue looked up at him. “My stomach hurts.”

  “Well, I warned you not to eat so much ice cream.”

  Across the room, planted at Miss Honey’s feet, Micah looked up from her mystery and said, “When my stomach hurts, my mom gives me tea with lemon.”

  Ralph Angel blinked at Micah, thought she looked exactly like Charley when she was that age. And for a moment, as it had so many times since he arrived, time pretzeled back on itself and he was nineteen again. He had given Charley a Christmas present he couldn’t afford—a chemistry set—along with a ten-dollar bill. He would never forget the way she’d looked up at him, her face aglow with gratitude and admiration, bright as the little white lights on the tree. The best gift ever, she’d said. A lot of good it had done him. Where was the gratitude now? Where was the admiration? All this time and Charley still hadn’t gotten back to him about working on the farm. He purposely didn’t come on like gangbusters with a lot of demands and accusations, even though the entire time they talked, he struggled against the darkness gathering like a storm inside him. He was polite. Have some cereal. Reasonable. Of course you should talk to Denton. Promised to be patient. Take your time. And for a few days, he’d thought the strategy worked. But lately, he’d begun to think Charley was avoiding him. She never had time to talk. Was always rushing out, saying she had to get back to the farm. And when she was around, usually for a few minutes in the morning, he overheard her telling ’Da what she’d learned. It was always, “Mr. Denton showed me how to do this” or “Now I know how to do that,” like he wasn’t sitting around all day, killing time, going crazy waiting for an answer.