Queen Sugar: A Novel

by Baszile, Natalie

  Charley handed the envelope back and listened to Denton and Alison estimate what it would cost to repair the fields, the figure jumping by the thousands. “So, you’re saying we’re screwed,” she said, and reached for Alison’s cigarette. God knew what she would do with the damn thing since she’d never smoked before, but it felt good to hold something in her hand. She was down to twenty thousand dollars, which she needed to cover payroll and buy fertilizer, and every day more invoices arrived with the afternoon mail.

  “Let’s hope Micah’s Corner didn’t get the worst of it,” Denton said. “If there’s water hung up out there—” His voice trailed off.

  “Just say it.” Charley sucked on the cigarette, coughed and choked.

  Denton shook his head. “Let’s wait and see.”

  “Hell, I’ll say it,” Alison said. “Close as that quadrant is to the bay, it’s bound to have some water on it. You heard about the tidal surge, didn’t you? Everything south of Patterson is underwater. And don’t get me started about the damage out at the Point.”

  Denton punched Alison’s shoulder. “Shut up, Alison.”

  “Why you barking at me, Denton? Hell, I didn’t do it. I’m just telling her what she’s in for.” Alison turned to Charley. “Brace yourself.”

  But there was no bracing herself for the way the tidal surge, the great wall of rushing water blown in from the Gulf, had had its way with Micah’s Corner. Half the quadrant was under hip-deep water. Where it had receded, a thick layer of sludge and grit coated the fields, as though someone had dredged the Mississippi and smeared its sediment across her land. For a long time, the three of them could only stare.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Alison said, a match trembling in his hand. “I thought this was a category two.”

  “It wasn’t the wind,” Denton said. “It was the water. Storms are getting wetter every year.”

  Neither man, normally strong-willed and confident in his own way, had the courage to look at Charley. And standing between her two partners, a peculiar coolness settled over her, a sensation similar to the calm she figured most people experienced just before they died. “I don’t see any point in kidding myself,” Charley said. She looked out over her fields and thought how her mother always accused her of being a dreamer. Well, she wasn’t a dreamer anymore. “It’s over. I’m ruined.”

  • • •

  Yet, back at the shop, Denton insisted it wasn’t over. While Charley wondered how she’d tell the crews she couldn’t afford to keep them on, Denton retreated to her office.

  “An extra twenty-eight thousand,” Denton announced an hour later, tossing the yellow pad on the desk. They’d need pumps to drain the water, money for extra diesel and overtime, and a petty cash fund for spare parts since they’d be running equipment twice as hard. “We’ll have to cut more premium cane to replant Micah’s Corner, so that’s less we’ll have to sell come grinding. You’ll have to include those lost dollars in your costs.”

  Charley looked at him blankly. “You know I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Got anything you can sell?”

  For one criminal instant, Charley saw The Cane Cutter’s broad back and steady gaze. If she sold him, she’d be selling her father’s memory; she’d have sold everything he cared about. “I’ve got nothing,” she said. “I’m telling you, it’s over.” Denton pushed the yellow pad toward her. Without looking at it, Charley tore off the top sheet where he’d made his calculations and jammed it in her back pocket, saying, “I’ll take care of it.” She waited till Denton left the office, then she walked calmly behind the shop where no one could see, planted her hand on the side of the building, and vomited on her boots.

  Tapped out. Finished. Done. That was what Charley thought as she slid into the Volvo and drove away from her farm without another word to Denton or Alison. In minutes, she was out on the road still littered with branches and debris. But for the devastation, it was a beautiful day with the blue sky wide open, the big yolky sun overhead, the dark trees lengthening along on the horizon. Charley increased her speed and felt the wind’s moist breath on her face. She could drive out to San Francisco or New York, assume a new identity and start over. But what about Micah? How would she explain that they were leaving again, and not just leaving but running away? How could she look Micah in the eye and tell her she’d given up because cane farming was too hard; because she was exhausted and afraid and out of ideas; because the life she’d dreamed of wasn’t turning out as she expected?

  • • •

  The gently rolling hills and golden pastures dotted with hay bales and the wide dry riverbeds of the East Felicianas looked nothing like the south Louisiana Charley had come to know, and as she crossed into the parish, northeast of Saint Josephine and an hour’s drive from Baton Rouge, her eyes drank up the scenery. She followed the country road through Slaughter, where the ragtime legend Buddy Bolden lived before he moved to New Orleans and lost his mind, and less than an hour from the Mississippi state line, she stopped at the gas station in Clinton and bought a Coke, then sat in her car for a long time, watching people come and go from the courthouse in the tidy town square. The courthouse, made in the Greek Revival style and painted a crisp, gleaming white, matched the row of lawyers’ offices across the street, their columns looking like matchsticks, the way they lined up so perfectly. The whole town looked like a picture postcard, Charley thought, so serene and unblemished, having never been touched by the storm; nothing at all like the wreckage she’d left behind in Saint Josephine. Why was it that some places had escaped nature’s wrath while her small corner of the world seemed constantly tormented by misfortune? It didn’t seem fair.

  When Charley finished her Coke, she checked her watch—almost three o’clock, which meant it was almost one o’clock in Los Angeles. She took out her cell phone and dialed her mother’s number.

  Lorna answered on the first ring. “Charlotte?”

  Charley heard glasses clinking in the background, silverware tapping delicately against bone china plates, the echoey voice of a woman speaking into a microphone followed by applause, and guessed that her mother was at a fund-raising luncheon for one of her charities. Until that moment, Charley had decided, stubbornly, not to call, reminding herself every time she was tempted that her mother had mocked her decision to move to the South. But Lorna’s voice was like warm milk, and hearing it now, all of Charley’s defenses and justifications fell away and all the rawness she’d worked so hard to ignore came right to the surface. Her eyes filled immediately with tears, her chest tingled with a silvery tightness, and just like that, she was five years old again, aching to be held and comforted.

  Charley took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Where are you? Where’s Micah? I’ve been watching the news. Please tell me you’re okay.”

  “We’re all fine,” Charley said, thinking nothing could be less true, and heard Lorna sigh with relief. “John boarded up Miss Honey’s windows, which I think made all the difference.” She went on for a few minutes, but at some point it seemed pointless trying to describe what the hurricane had been like. It wasn’t something you could sum up with words. It was like Mr. Denton said, you had to live it.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” Lorna said. “I was worried. People here have been asking and I didn’t know what to tell them,” which Charley understood was Lorna’s way of chiding her for not calling.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “I should have called before now. It’s just I’ve been so busy since we got here. There’s so much to do. But you can tell everyone we’re fine. A little shaken and there’s a lot to clean up, but I think we were lucky.”

  “That’s very good,” Lorna said. “I’m so relieved, because from here the news reports looked so frightening—all that rain, and the flooding, goodness. I really can’t imagine.”

  “I know,” Charley said, and swallowed a
gainst the tightening she felt in her throat. She pictured her fields, which looked like nothing more than a big brown pond now with the cane stalks barely poking through. “You have to see it to understand.”

  There was a long pause, which seemed to stretch out endlessly, and as she searched for something to say, Charley mourned that things between her and her mother had become so awkward and strange. The whole conversation made her feel antsy and agitated, as though she were trying to fit into a sweater whose sleeves were tight.

  “And how are you, Mom?” Charley said, finally. “How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, Charlotte, you know me. I always have a thousand things on my plate. Busy, busy, busy, all the time.”

  “That’s good.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m at a function right now.”

  “Yes,” Charley said. “I can hear.”

  When she dialed her mother’s number, Charley had not planned to ask for a loan—not exactly. She’d only wanted to hear her mother’s voice and feel a little bit of the warmth she’d felt when she was young enough to sit on her mother’s lap. Had she hoped her mother would ask about the farm? Yes, she had, and maybe even offer to help. But it seemed Lorna had no intention of asking or offering anything.

  “Actually, things aren’t good,” Charley said. “I’ve had a setback on the farm. The hurricane flattened everything. My crop is probably ruined, three of the four quadrants, anyway, and Mr. Denton—that’s my manager, I don’t know what I’d do without him—anyway, Mr. Denton says even if we’re lucky enough to salvage a few acres, we’ll need additional capital to make it to grinding. Even more than we needed before.” Charley paused.

  “My goodness, listen to you,” Lorna said. “Quadrants? Capital? Grinding? Good heavens, Charlotte, you sound like a real farmer.”

  “I guess I do,” Charley said, and felt a small burst of warmth spread over her. “I told Mr. Denton I’d find the money, and I wondered—you know I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate—but I wondered if you’d help me. I need a hundred and two thousand dollars total, but I’ll take whatever you can spare.”

  Charley waited.

  “My goodness, dear, that’s an awful lot of money.”

  “Yes, it is.” Charley thought of her father. He’d always told her she should never make assumptions about other people’s time or their money, and that’s the way she’d tried to live. The moment she asked her mother, she regretted it, but the question was out there now. “It would be a loan, not a gift.”

  “I’ll take Micah,” Lorna said, finally.

  “You’ll what?”

  “Send Micah to me. That way you can focus all your attention on your farm without distraction. You can get a second job without worrying who’ll take care of her.”

  In the late-afternoon sun, the courthouse cast off warm yellow light and looked even more stately than it had an hour before, with the row of columns throwing long shadows across the grass and the sky blue as a robin’s egg. The air was warm and the breeze carried with it the faint fragrance of willow and pine.

  “That’s very generous of you,” Charley said, biting back tears, “but Micah’s fine right here.”

  “Very well,” Lorna said, “but if you change your mind, you know I’ll always take her.”

  Through the receiver, Charley heard another round of applause and the clatter of dishes being cleared. “I should let you get you back to your lunch.”

  “Yes,” Lorna said. She sighed again, and Charley pictured her sipping coffee from the china cup, her lips barely touching the rim. “I almost forgot,” Lorna said, “I sent Micah a party dress. You can tell her it’s an early Christmas present. I hope it fits.”

  “I’m sure it will. I’ll make sure she calls when it arrives.”

  “Very well,” Lorna said. “I’m glad you called. And don’t worry, Charlotte, you’re resourceful, just like your father. I know you’ll figure out something.”

  • • •

  The loan officer at First Bank of Baton Rouge had hair plugs, and Charley, sitting at the corner of his desk in his padded cubicle, couldn’t stop staring at the fine hairs, like chick fuzz, and the constellation of tiny punch holes laid out in even rows. The irony of the situation was not lost on her, and she almost laughed out loud because there was as much chance those plugs would take as there was of her getting the loan. Charley knew, because this was the tenth loan she had applied for in the last two days; the tenth time she’d sat across from a loan officer in a bad suit and pleaded her case, and it would likely be the tenth time she would be turned away.

  As if on cue, the loan officer glanced up from her application. His skin was pale under the fluorescent lights, his expression grim as an undertaker’s. He tapped his pen against his chin.

  “And you’re sure you don’t have any collateral?”

  “I’m sure,” Charley said.

  “Anyone willing to co-sign?”

  Charley thought again of her mother. “No.”

  The loan officer flipped the pages and frowned.

  “My credit is decent,” Charley said, massaging her ring finger. “Not perfect, but certainly not the worst. I just need enough money to get through grinding.”

  But the loan officer closed her file. “I’m sorry, Miss Bordelon. Since the meltdown, banks are more cautious than they used to be. I’ll do everything I can, but I can’t see how underwriting is going to approve this without you at least putting up some collateral. I’m afraid you present—”

  “I know,” Charley interrupted. “Too much of a risk.” Every banker she had talked to from Saint Josephine to Baton Rouge had used that phrase. She gathered her backpack. She had begged the first three loan officers to reconsider; she was tired. “Thanks very much for your time.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” the man said. “Good luck to you. And if you find a co-signer, I’d be happy to resubmit your application. My dad farmed sugarcane in the eighties, so I know what you’re up against.”

  “I appreciate you saying that.”

  He held the door open for her. “Well, be careful out there. The roads are still pretty dangerous.”

  On the drive back to Miss Honey’s, staring out over fields that only three days before looked almost tropical in their lushness, Charley knew she should be grateful. She had the best two business partners anyone could ask for; she had her family; she had her health; and yet she was overcome with a sorrow so great she feared her chest would crack open. She pulled over to the side of the road and laid her head against the wheel. If only her father or Davis were there to tell her to keep going, or better yet, say it was all right to stop and rest for a while.

  By the time Charley got back to Saint Josephine, it was evening, and the Quarters, buzzing with neighborly activity all summer, were quiet, Miss Honey’s street hushed now that school had started and folks had shifted into their autumn routines. Charley pulled up alongside the gully and parked. The yard was still a mess. Miss Honey stood in the window. By the time Charley reached the porch, she had opened the door.

  “I thought you were Ralph Angel,” Miss Honey said, standing there in her faded housedress and slippers.

  “Nope,” Charley said. “It’s just me.” Miss Honey looked tired. Her eyes weren’t bright as usual, her complexion washed out, her shoulders slumped. She tucked a wadded Kleenex in her pocket and Charley wondered if she’d been crying. “He hasn’t been home?”

  “No,” Miss Honey said, sharply.

  Two days since the storm and no sign of Ralph Angel; that was strange for a person who seemed interested in little more than hanging around the house. Driving home, Charley had noticed all the boarded-up stores and restaurants along Main Street, the owners still busy dragging tables and dishes, computers and racks of soggy clothes out to the sidewalk. Only the Winn-Dixie had opened for business. Charley set her backpack on the couch. �
�Where could he have gone?”

  “How should I know?” Miss Honey snapped. “Do I look like a fortune-teller?” She took the Kleenex from her pocket and twisted it.

  Stung, Charley stepped back. “I’m sorry.” In all the months she’d lived under Miss Honey’s roof, Miss Honey had never spoken harshly to her. Charley watched as Miss Honey went to the window again, pulled the curtains open, and peered out at the street. A little sigh of worry, almost a whisper, escaped her lips as she pressed her face to the glass.

  “I know you’re worried about Ralph Angel, but I’m sure he’s fine,” Charley said. “He’s probably safe in a hotel somewhere, or he might even be driving home right now. I-10 is still jammed with all the people trying to get back from Arkansas and Mississippi. I should know—it took me twice as long to get back from Baton Rouge just now. How about if I call Hollywood? I’m sure he’d come over to clean up the yard.”

  “The yard ain’t the problem! Can’t you see that?” Miss Honey flicked the curtains closed and turned toward Charley. “Ralph Angel is out there alone. He could be hurt or dead, for all we know. It’s time you starting thinking about someone other than yourself, girl. You’re not the only one who has problems, so stop all that whining.”

  Charley was stunned. As many evenings as she’d come home from the farm with stories about her day, she’d never thought of it as complaining. If anything, she’d always thought Miss Honey was interested in her progress. “I didn’t realize I was whining. I apologize.”

  “Well, you were,” Miss Honey said. “And I’m not in the mood for it. Not tonight.”

  “Then I’ll get out of your hair,” Charley said, coolly, and thought of Violet, who twice had walked out of Miss Honey’s house. Now, she understood more than ever what Violet must have felt—the hurt, the anger, the deep sadness at being treated so badly for no reason she could see. Charley picked up her backpack. She’d clearly overstayed her welcome. It was like her father said: Never make people glad twice—glad to see you come, and glad to see you go. Charley walked through the dining room, past the china cabinet filled with cut-glass figurines and milky green cups and saucers, the ones Miss Honey collected from oatmeal boxes decades ago, and was almost at the kitchen door when Miss Honey called out.