Behind her, the crew was crumpling up sandwich wrappers, beginning to reassemble, slipping on hats and gloves. Charley consulted her watch. “I’d better get back to it. Thanks again for the hat—and the Energy Cane.” She shook his hand, which didn’t feel like enough.
Remy climbed into his truck and started the engine. Then he paused. “Hey, California.”
Yes, California, Charley thought, that was who she was; that far-off place her father, still a boy then, dreamed of as he lugged those water buckets; the address he made up—6608 Sunset Drive—and practiced writing in the corner of his homework papers until he was seventeen and old enough to escape. California. The place her dad had asked to buried, in a plot facing the Pacific, rather than the red clay of his youth. She was all those things. Always would be. Charley turned to look at Remy, who sat in his truck with one arm on the open window.
“I know it’s planting and all,” Remy said, “but you can’t work every minute of every day.”
“Is that so?”
“Those beers you owe me.” And here he hesitated ever so slightly, a look of doubt, as though it was occurring to him that he was being hasty, too forward, swept quickly across his face, but then it passed. “There’s this zydeco place. They book some decent bands.”
“Keep talking.”
“You like to dance?”
“Will it help me lose my accent?”
“Maybe, maybe not. You’d have to give it a try.”
“Sounds tempting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Remy smiled. “Couple of beers, some good zydeco, you’ll be talking like a Louisiana girl in no time.” He turned the key.
Charley caught the last bars of the All Things Considered theme song before the local news began. “NPR?”
“What?” Remy said, smiling. “Cane farmers can’t listen to public radio?”
• • •
On the fourth day of planting, the hurricane moved into the Gulf of Mexico, and though it wouldn’t make landfall for two days, the outer rainbank would reach Saint Josephine in twenty-four hours. Charley and her team had planted seventy-five acres, but they still had one hundred twenty-five to go. She’d given the crews the option of evacuating, but Romero and the others insisted on working until the last minute. In the morning, they managed to plant fifteen acres, but by noon, Charley was nervous. The weather was disturbingly good; the clouds white as chalk, the sky blue as a gas flame.
“Time to pack it in,” Denton ordered over the walkie-talkie. There was no mistaking the concern in his tone.
Once they were all back at the shop, Charley, Denton, and Alison gathered around the old Zenith TV in her office. The forecasters downgraded the hurricane from a category four to a category three, which meant evacuation was optional. Still, there was no way of knowing where the storm might hit, whether it would swerve up the eastern seaboard or hover in the Gulf, gaining force; and in the meantime, they had to decide what to do with Romero and his men.
“I’m not sure that house out there will hold,” Denton said. “We ought to think about letting them head up to Arkansas. They can stay at the apple farmer’s place till this thing blows over. We might lose a couple days on the back end, but I think it’s worth it. At least they’d be safe.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to pay to get them up there?” Alison said. “Even if we could afford their tickets, every Greyhound headed north is sold out.”
“We could rent a van,” Charley suggested.
“Can’t afford the liability,” Denton said.
“Look, Romero’s offering to stay,” Alison said. “He swears they all know the risk. I say, let ’em stay. They want plywood, food, lanterns, and they’ll ride it out; we can do that. Hurricane passes, they’ll be here, ready to work.”
Eventually, they reached a compromise: If the hurricane rating stayed at three, Charley would loan them her car and they would drive to Arkansas; if it was downgraded to a two, they would stay.
For the rest of the afternoon, they went about strapping down equipment and securing the shop’s doors and windows. Denton went out for plywood while Charley boxed up bills and receipts, mourning all the work she’d put into organizing her file cabinets. Alison brought over his portable generator. “It ain’t fancy,” he said, “but it’ll run a fridge, a couple of lights, and a TV.”
• • •
It was almost five when Charley got back to Miss Honey’s, and the wind had just begun to disturb the trees behind the house. Micah’s garden was in full flower, and before she went inside, Charley walked through it, inspecting the cucumbers and green beans almost ready for the taking, okra and tomatoes baking in the unwaving heat; the sunflowers with faces broad as a baby’s nodding along the fence. Micah had even planted pumpkins, not bulbous yet, just long, groping vines beneath hooding leaves, and as Charley walked the last row then climbed the porch steps, her arms loaded with groceries they’d need whether they evacuated or not, her heart broke for her daughter. It would be a shame if Micah lost everything she’d worked so hard to plant.
The sky was still gloriously blue half an hour later. Charley was struggling to tie the porch swing to the railing when, to her great surprise, cousin John eased the Bronco along the gulley.
“What are you doing here?” Charley asked. John had called to check in on her a couple times since the reunion, but she hadn’t actually set eyes on him, which meant she’d never seen him in his prison guard uniform. Now Charley hugged him, and smelled something institutional—Lysol, maybe—rising off his starched gray shirt.
“I brought y’all some plywood,” John said. “Thought you could use some help putting it up.” He held out a cordless screwdriver and a box of screws.
“Oh, John. With this traffic?” But Charley was grateful. With so much of her attention devoted to getting Romero and his men settled and securing the farm, she’d imagined how she, Miss Honey, and the kids would spend the long hours waiting for the storm to pass but hadn’t considered the physical damage the hurricane might do to Miss Honey’s house. Now here was John, thoughtful as always, coming to her rescue. And for the first time in a very long time, Charley was aware of what it meant not to have a man around the house. For all the time she spent with Denton and Alison, there was a limit to what she could expect from them. They were her partners, and yes, even her friends, but they weren’t her family, they weren’t her husband.
“As long as I’m back before they start the contra flow I’m okay,” John said.
Just then, the screen door creaked, and when Charley looked up she saw Ralph Angel standing on the porch. He paused for a moment with his hands in his sweat suit pockets, then planted himself in the middle of the top step, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Well, if it isn’t Little John.”
“Hello, Ralph Angel,” John said.
Ralph Angel frowned. “Since when did you start calling me by my given name, boy? Show some respect.”
Hot as it was, Charley shivered. She hadn’t seen much of Ralph Angel since they’d argued over the farm, and to be honest, since then she had avoided him. It hadn’t been difficult. Most mornings, she left before dawn, returning home in just enough time to talk to Micah while she worked in the garden before eating whatever dinner Miss Honey left out for her and retiring to her room, where she promptly fell into a deep and much-needed sleep. As best she could tell, Ralph Angel spent his time barricaded in the back room, doing what, exactly, she could only guess; that, or watching old war movies with Miss Honey.
“All right,” John said and sighed. “Hello, cousin. How are you?”
Ralph Angel took a toothpick from his pocket and slid it into his mouth. “You’ve got the nerve to look like a real officer. What kind of uniform is that?”
“Texas Department of Criminal Justice.”
“No shit. A real-life prison guard. Bet you can kick some ass when you feel like it, c
an’t you, boy?”
“Only when I have to.”
Ralph Angel motioned to Charley. “What do you think, sis? Think John here can kick my ass?”
“I’m not having this conversation,” Charley said.
“Want to try?” Ralph Angel said. His body seemed to inflate inside his sweat suit.
“No, sir,” John said. “I don’t.”
“Is that a real gun? Let me see it.”
“No, sir. I can’t do that.”
Charley looked at Ralph Angel and thought she could track the anger coursing through him.
“Ah, shit, boy. I’ve held a gun before. Let me see it. I’m not going to fire it.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not giving you my gun.”
“Well, fight me, then.” Ralph Angel stood up.
“I didn’t come here to fight.” John pulled himself up to his full height, and Charley thought, this was the man the prisoners at Huntsville saw. This was the correctional officer. His voice remained steady and calm. “I just came to help Cousin Charley cover the windows. Make sure y’all are boarded up and ready for the storm.”
“Yeah, right,” Ralph Angel said. “You came around to make sure I’m not causing trouble. Did I pass the test? ’Cause I know you’ve been spreading rumors about me, talking about me behind my back.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, cut the shit, John. I know y’all told Charley about my last visit. Told her I broke ’Da’s arm. You and Violet and Brother, all running your mouths. I should kick your ass right now.”
John took a step forward. “That’s up to you, cousin. I’ll play this thing any way you want.”
“John, please.” Charley pulled on John’s arm. “Let’s get this wood up before it gets dark.”
• • •
The first sheet of plywood was screwed against the window and they were moving to the second when John said, “Lucky for him Daddy made me promise to stay calm, otherwise I would kick his ass. I don’t care if he is my cousin.”
The wind had picked up and every few seconds, Charley felt a smattering of rain against her face. She told John about the day Ralph Angel recited the Bible verses and negotiated Micah and Blue’s bickering over the Polaroids, how he’d admired The Cane Cutter, how he treated Blue so tenderly. “It’s like he’s two different people,” she said, and looked at the big sheet of plywood nailed against the window. She’d wanted so much to like Ralph Angel. She’d actually sort of resented Violet for not giving him a chance, thought, privately, that Violet was being judgmental, maybe even a little self-righteous. But she’d been the fool, not Violet. And after she and Ralph Angel argued, she called Uncle Brother to say he’d been right when he warned her. She called Violet, too, and apologized for ever doubting her.
John put his arm around Charley’s shoulder and she felt how solid he was. “Be careful, cuz. That’s the first thing they teach us in training. The charming ones are the ones you have to watch. They’ll play you every time.”
20
At seven o’clock the next morning, the forecasters downgraded the hurricane to a category two. Good news, but they still had to be cautious. In Miss Honey’s den, Micah and Blue broke into the games Charley had purchased when she shopped for groceries, spreading Monopoly money and Uno cards over the floor.
“I’m going out,” Ralph Angel announced, appearing in the doorway.
“But it’s still too dangerous,” Miss Honey said.
Ralph Angel looked past her to Blue. “Mind your grandmother.” And when Blue asked where he was going, whether he could go too, Ralph Angel refused without explanation, which was something Charley had never heard him do. The front door slammed and she could just hear the Impala’s engine below the wind.
By afternoon, the sky was a gray slab filled with a confusion of churning clouds. Wind flurries worried the trees, tossing leaves and small branches across the yard. The outer rainband dumped showers on Saint Josephine in twenty-minute bursts, and when Charley couldn’t stand to watch one more newscast with its high-definition graphics and endless loops of storm footage, she retreated to her dark bedroom, where every few seconds the wind rattled the plywood she and John had nailed over the windows. She lay on the bed, listening to the wind. It really did whistle, she marveled, trying not to imagine how much havoc the hurricane was wreaking in her fields.
The storm made landfall in the dead of night. And though it was much weaker than first predicted, there was no doubting its power to destroy. For eight hours, it tore trees up by their roots, peeled roofs off stores and churches, shredded trailers like tissue boxes, and flooded the streets downtown with dark gray water. Out in the country, sediment churned in the rising tide, and hundred-mile-an-hour winds battered the cane fields until the proud stocks lay flat in submission.
At Miss Honey’s, while she listened to the wind’s high whine as it sliced across the yard, and a downpour that sounded like a thousand coins spilling on the roof, Charley said a prayer. Please God, protect my family. Leave something behind on the farm so I’m not completely ruined. Let me have one chance to see what I can do before you take it all away. As she whispered the words, Charley felt a sense of peace settle over the room.
By morning, the winds had died. The rains had ceased. Sun broke through the clouds in bold rays. Charley unbolted the front door and stepped out onto Miss Honey’s porch to survey the damage
It was as if someone had plucked all the leaves from the trees, then systematically plastered them across the lawn and pasted them to the side of Miss Honey’s house. Branches thicker than a grown man’s arm hung perilously or lay cracked and twisted every few feet, from the woods all the way out to the street. In Micah’s garden, all the plants had been ripped up by their roots. It was an awesome sight, proof of nature’s ferocity and indifference, and standing in the yard, Charley knew she would remember this day for as long as she lived. The wind had torn the metal flashing off one side of Miss Honey’s house and sections of the sunroom were flooded. All in all, though, they came through the hurricane intact. Or so Charley thought until the phone rang and Miss Honey shouted for her that Denton was on the line.
“Are you at the farm?” Charley mashed the phone to her ear and closed her eyes. “How’d we do?”
Silence. Then Denton sighed. “How quick can you get out here?”
• • •
On her drive out to the farm, Charley began to grasp the full extent of the destruction and appreciated, for the first time, why storms were named after the Carib god of evil, Hurican. Folks had already started piling their waterlogged possessions—splintered furniture and mattresses, sheets of soggy drywall and chunks of ravaged insulation, dead washing machines, sopping curtains, and parts of swing sets—in heaps along the roadside. To hear some people talk, Charley thought, you’d think only black folks lived in the buckled trailers and shotgun shacks with abandoned cars askew in the front yards, but no; as many poor whites scraped by on the back roads as poor blacks. Maybe that was the hidden blessing: the hurricane was the great equalizer; its wrath indiscriminate. In the end, the blessing, if there were one, was that for a short time, everyone would come together in order to survive.
Less than six hours since the storm passed, and Charley was amazed to see all the animal carcasses—raccoons, possums, and armadillos run over by last-minute evacuees, no doubt—that littered the roads. In the black bayous, fish were bloated into silvery balloons that reflected the morning’s light. The air reeked of death, even with her window rolled up.
• • •
Heart punching, Charley turned onto what was once the dirt road leading to her shop but was now an obstacle course of branches and twisted metal scraps, and finally pulled up in front to find Denton and Alison waiting.
“Your houses?” Charley asked, looking from one tired face to the other as she slid out of her car. “Your fam
ilies? Please tell me no one was hurt.”
Alison stubbed out his cigarette. “A tree branch took out our bedroom window,” he said, “which really burns me up because I was going to prune it this weekend. But the boys are fine.”
Charley looked at Denton.
Ever the stoic, Denton wiped his glasses on his shirttail. “Nothing broke I can’t repair.” He opened his pickup door. “Get in. Let’s take a drive.”
Neither man had much to say as they rolled past fields where the cane lay flat as a bad comb-over against the ground, but Charley gasped at the sight, shook her head in disbelief, saying, over and over, into her palm, “Oh my God. This can’t be happening.” Two days ago, she couldn’t see the trees across her fields, the cane was so high, but now she had a clear view. For the first time since that day Frasier quit and she’d looked out over the expanse of earth, she was struck by how much land she actually owned.
“I know it looks bad,” Denton said, soberly. “But as long as the wind hasn’t dislodged the stalks from their root boxes, we can get the combine through. All it needs to stand up again is a week’s worth of sun. But we won’t know for a day or two how bad it’s bent.”
“Bent or straight, what difference does it make?” Charley said, still grappling with the notion of six hundred trampled acres.
“Makes a huge difference,” Denton said. “We’re using some of this as plant cane over in Micah’s Corner. Crooked stalks are harder to plant. How’re you gonna plant a crooked stalk in a straight row?”
Alison scribbled on the back of an envelope to illustrate Denton’s point. “Even if you can get most of each stalk in the row,” he said, thrusting the envelope at her, “the ends stick up, which means the eyes on ’em won’t sprout.” Charley looked at his drawing: two parallel lines with squiggles jutting out from both sides. “Which means we’ve got to cut more cane to compensate, which means our diesel and labor costs are higher. Plus, any cane that’s not covered with dirt dies soon as it gets cold, and that affects next year’s yield.”
Queen Sugar: A Novel Page 26