“I’m responsible for that boy.”
Charley turned. “Ralph Angel is a grown man.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Miss Honey sat on the edge of the couch. She closed her eyes, and for a moment Charley thought she was praying. “Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done,” she said.
Charley walked back into the living room and sat down. Outside, the sun had set, and beyond the sheer curtain, twilight, soft and purply, pressed against the window.
They sat in the silence as the living room grew darker, until finally, Miss Honey said, “Ernest felt guilty for getting that girl pregnant and causing her to lose her scholarship,” and it took Charley a few seconds to figure out that Miss Honey was talking about Emily, the girl Ernest had dated in high school, Ralph Angel’s mother. “He wanted to marry her and stay here in Saint Josephine, but I wouldn’t allow it,” Miss Honey said. “I couldn’t bear the idea of Ernest giving up his dream, especially after what LeJeune did to him. I told him to leave Emily, go out to California like he planned, and when the baby was born, I’d help her take care of it.” Miss Honey dabbed her nose. “Ernest wanted to take Emily with him. But I knew she’d weigh him down. Something about her wasn’t right—she was smart, but fragile as a little bird. Ernest needed a fighter, a woman strong enough to stand with him against the world. So I offered Emily’s family two thousand dollars—all the money I had—to keep her away until Ernest left town. Emily’s parents were sharecroppers. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money.” Miss Honey stopped talking and stared out the window. “I think the strain of taking care of a child made Emily’s condition worse.”
“If you knew she was struggling, why didn’t you help her?”
“I tried,” Miss Honey said. “I wanted to keep my promise. But her folks told her what I did, how I sent Ernest away and paid them, and she was so angry with me, she wouldn’t let me near Ralph Angel when he was born. Not for two whole years, and by then, she was having all kinds of trouble. They put her in Charity Hospital for a while and that helped, but she wouldn’t stay. The only way I got to see Ralph Angel was when Ernest came home to visit. He brought Ralph Angel over here every day—such a pretty little boy. I’d hold him and rock him like he was my own. But when Ernest went back to college, he had to take Ralph Angel back to Emily, and I wouldn’t see him again until the next summer. I heard about all the jobs Emily lost, how she struggled. It weighed on my heart. But she was Ralph Angel’s mama. I didn’t have custody.”
“Does Ralph Angel know what you did?”
“No.”
“Do Violet and Uncle Brother know?”
Miss Honey shook her head. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told. Back then, they were all too young to understand, and when they got older, well—I was too ashamed.” She paused for a long moment, struggling to fight off the tears. “Besides, after Ernest and Lorna sent Ralph Angel back from California he came to live with us. All the reasons why and how didn’t matter.” Miss Honey looked at Charley, almost pleadingly, then reached for her hand. “So, you see, Ralph Angel is my responsibility. Whatever happened to him all those years he was with Emily, happened because of me. Whatever troubles he has now, he comes by them honest.”
Charley looked at her grandmother, then she rose and stood by the window.
“I only wanted Ernest to have a chance,” Miss Honey said.
Charley nodded, because part of her understood exactly why Miss Honey did what she did. If Micah fell in love with someone too frail or weak to help her stand against the world, would she interfere? She probably would. And yet, and yet. How many lives had Miss Honey ruined, and if not ruined, altered in a way that couldn’t be fixed? Charley felt a small burst of fury, like a match being struck within her. Sometimes there was no fixing a life once it was broken; love, devotion, shortsightedness, ignorance—none of it mattered. Sometimes it was too late.
• • •
Charley woke early the next morning with a sick feeling. Her first instinct last night after hearing Miss Honey’s confession had been to call Violet, but Violet wasn’t home, and Charley had only said, in the message she left on Violet’s voice mail, that she needed to talk.
The sun had barely risen as Charley climbed behind the wheel. She’d just turned out of the Quarters when she spotted Hollywood ambling along the road’s shoulder, pushing his mower in her direction. The sight of him in his fatigues and baseball cap instantly lifted her spirits. She honked and pulled over.
“You think your regular customers would mind if I hired you for a couple hours?” Three days since the hurricane and Miss Honey’s yard was still a mess. The sunroom wasn’t flooded anymore—what water hadn’t evaporated, she’d mopped up or pushed out last night before she went to bed—but underneath the half inch of sludge, the floor had buckled. “I have to get to the farm, but I’ll drop you off so you can get started. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Before she could ask how much he’d charge, Hollywood had lifted the Volvo’s back hatch, tossed in his mower, and slid into the passenger seat.
• • •
Now it was later that evening and Charley, back home after a full day with Denton and Alison, leaned the push broom against the doorjamb, wiped her face on a strip of old bedsheet. Miss Honey’s sunroom opened onto the side yard where just weeks before all the family had gathered for the reunion. It felt like ages ago. Charley stepped out into the warm evening. “Maybe Walmart sells linoleum squares,” she called.
Hollywood had spent the entire day at Miss Honey’s and Charley couldn’t believe the progress he’d made. By the time she got home, he’d hauled all sunroom furniture into the yard so it could air out, pulled up all the waterlogged linoleum flooring—an enormous task—so the sunroom’s pine plank floors could dry. Now he tossed another tree limb on the burn pile—a smoldering heap of trash and leaves and splintered branches—he’d made in the yard’s far corner. “I reckon,” Hollywood said. “They sell everything else.”
Only now was Miss Honey’s yard beginning to look normal. Charley glanced at her watch. Almost seven o’clock.
“If you’re tired, I can finish up here,” Hollywood said, walking over. “Walmart’s open till midnight. I’ll go over there later to see what kind of flooring they got.”
Charley pictured Hollywood struggling to push a basket of linoleum squares all the way back to Miss Honey’s. “Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll drive together, then I’ll buy you dinner. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done today.” She looked at Hollywood standing there in fatigues now stained with sludge and ash. “Where would you like to go?”
“We could go to Sonic?”
“I’d rather take you someplace you’ve never been. You’ve gone above and beyond.”
Hollywood looked at Charley then back at the burn pile. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I’ve always wanted to go to Shoney’s in Morgan City. I’ve heard folks talk about the all-you-can-eat buffet. They say it’s real nice. I’ve seen the commercials on TV.”
“You got it,” Charley said, and imagined the family restaurant just off the four-lane. There were at least three restaurants between here and there that served better food, but oh well. “We can take the highway or the back roads. You pick.”
“I don’t know.” Hollywood’s face darkened. “I’ve never been to Morgan City.”
“Never been to Morgan City?” Charley laughed. “But that’s just down the road; couldn’t be more than twenty miles.”
Hollywood slid his hands into his pockets and Charley knew he was reaching for the comfort of his movie magazine. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not making fun of you. I guess I’m just surprised.”
Her apology was enough to set Hollywood at ease again. His face blossomed. “That’s okay. I know you’d never do that.”
• • •
At Shoney’s, Hollywood spent fifteen minutes surveying the buffet cho
ices, then joined Charley at the booth by the window. He tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and bowed his head to say grace. Charley put her fork down and bowed her head too, and when she opened her eyes, she watched with quiet amusement as Hollywood stared in wonder at the mashed potatoes, meat loaf, fried chicken, string beans, pasta salad, and fried catfish he’d piled on his plate.
“I think something’s wrong with Miss Honey,” Hollywood said, and took a sip of his Mello Yello. “She usually comes out to talk to me when I’m working. Today she hardly said a word.”
And because Hollywood sounded genuinely worried, and because Violet still hadn’t called her back, and she needed someone to talk to, Charley confided in Hollywood. She knew she was betraying Miss Honey’s confidence, but she repeated Miss Honey’s story anyway, including the part about paying Emily’s family. “I know she loved my dad, but I can’t believe what she did.”
“I remember Miss Emily,” Hollywood said. “She lived in a little house on Saint Bernard, right before you get to the boat ramp. Liked to sit on her front porch and smoke cigarettes.”
Charley sat forward. All these years and she’d never really thought about Ralph Angel’s mother. “Ralph Angel never talks about her. Maybe one day you could take me to meet her. Or if you don’t feel comfortable, just tell me where she lives and I’ll go. She’s part of the family. Miss Honey should have invited her to the reunion.”
Hollywood set his fork on the table. “Miss Emily’s dead.”
Charley gasped.
“She killed herself,” Hollywood said. “Jumped off the bridge. I remember ’cause she did it the same summer Ralph Angel went to live with his daddy in California. It was in the paper.”
• • •
Half a dozen small children, snaggle-toothed and barefoot, ran up to the gate and stared at Charley’s car as she pulled up to Hollywood’s family compound.
“I had a fine time,” Hollywood said. “Thank you. It’s gonna be a long time before I have that much fun again.”
“I’m glad we went,” Charley said.
“Shoney’s is even better than it looks on TV. Maman’s gonna be jealous.”
“Then it’s a good thing you brought something back for her.” Charley handed Hollywood the bag of takeout. “And thanks again for today. That was a lot of work to do all by yourself. You’re a good friend to Miss Honey, Hollywood—and to me.”
Hollywood wiped his hands on his fatigues. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” Charley said, and braced herself. Hollywood was looking at her with such urgency, such earnestness, she was afraid of what he might be about to confess.
“You know how I said I’d never been to Morgan City before?”
Charley nodded.
“Truth is, before today, I’d never been out of Saint Josephine.”
SEPTEMBER
21
Thirty days of dry weather, that’s what they needed. Thirty days with little or no rain, a whole lot of sun to bake the fields, an infusion of cash, and maybe, just maybe, they could save the farm—or at least that’s what Denton told Charley when she arrived at the shop. Debris still littered the fields, new ruts needed filling, drains needed redigging, johnsongrass needed cutting where it had grown tall and thick amid the cane, and so, for the first few days of September, Charley, Denton, Alison, Romero, and the crew spread out across the farm. They worked from seven in the morning until seven at night with a quick break for lunch. In the evenings, Charley staggered into Miss Honey’s to eat whatever she found in the fridge or whatever Miss Honey left for her under a covered dish by the stove. She showered before bed only because her own smell drove her to it.
After the first week, to Charley’s astonishment, the cane in the nearest quadrants actually righted itself, stretching toward the sun as if pulled by invisible wires, and they were able to assess how much they could salvage for planting. By the end of the second week, over in Micah’s Corner, the water had all but drained off the fields. Mud still made new planting impossible, though, and between the salt and the standing water, it was pretty clear the cane they’d planted earlier was ruined.
“Be glad we only dropped seventy-five acres’ worth,” Denton said as they ate lunch one afternoon, their sandwich papers smoothed out on the hood of Denton’s pickup. He balled his napkin and tossed it on the dashboard. “Farmers who started planting before we did lost everything. The Dugas brothers lost a thousand acres.”
Mid-September and still the weather held, with each day seeming a little better than the last. The humidity lessened, the nighttime temperature hovered in the mid-fifties, and for the first time, Charley thought she felt a hint of autumn in the air. Every day, she monitored their expenses, questioned each purchase, and sat on bills until the very last minute. She hadn’t found a bank that would lend her money, but they were scraping by. The Cane Cutter, meanwhile, rested on her dresser, frozen in his labor, but she no longer lifted the T-shirt draped over him; she could barely stand to look.
And then, in the third week of September, Denton announced he had good news and bad news. The mills had postponed the start of grinding until the middle of October—that was the good news, because it meant they had two more weeks to plant and maybe a couple days to catch their breath. The bad news was that the 4840’s engine had blown out, and since he couldn’t find used replacement parts, they would have to order new ones; the cheapest estimate was eight thousand dollars.
“We can’t plant without that tractor,” Denton said. He picked through the crumpled papers stuffed above his sun visor and handed Charley the estimate. “Time for you to pull that rabbit out of your hat.”
In her bedroom that evening, Charley folded the T-shirt Micah had thrown over The Cane Cutter and looked directly into his eyes. A braver woman would go ahead and sell, Charley thought; a more practical woman would add up the ongoing expenses and the unpaid invoices, consider the look of despair on Denton’s face every time he scribbled figures on the yellow pad, and there would be no question. But Charley didn’t think of herself as practical and she certainly didn’t feel brave. She slipped under the covers, pulled the sheet over her head, and curled into a ball, but she couldn’t get Denton’s face out of her mind. On the phone the next morning, Charley asked the operator for the numbers of all the New Orleans auction houses. A queasy feeling settled over her as she dialed.
• • •
Friday evening now, and Charley eyed the pile of clothes on her bed—the black wool suit she wore to her father’s memorial, the jeans skirt she’d owned since grad school, the yellow checked blouse with the Peter Pan collar that made her look too much like a schoolgirl. Everything she owned was too wrinkled, too heavy for the weather, or out of style. She stepped into her only pair of jeans that didn’t have oil on the knees.
On the air mattress, Micah picked through Charley’s makeup case, tested a lipstick on the back of her hand. “A date,” she said, “that’s gross.”
“It’s not a date.” Charley shed the jeans and peeled a green halter dress from its wire hanger.
“If you’re wearing that dress, it’s a date, Mom.” Micah drew a black line along her eyelid. “Are you gonna flirt?”
“Flirting is for cheerleaders,” Charley said. “God, this dress makes me look pregnant.”
“Then how’d you get a date?” Micah widened her eyes. The mascara wand licked the tips of her lashes. “Are you gonna go to second base?”
“Second—what? Okay, that’s it. No more PG-thirteen movies.”
In the end, Charley decided on a plain black skirt she used to teach in, and the blouse she wore when she visited Mr. Denton the first time. She looked at her reflection and sighed.
“Those shoes make your feet look huge,” Micah said.
Charley snapped eye shadow pallets shut, scooped up lip pencils and pots of blush she hadn’t worn in years. Other than the li
ght coat of gloss on her lips, her face was bare.
“How late can we stay up?” Micah asked. She’d made two friends at school and had invited them over to watch movies.
“Ten thirty,” Charley said. “But you have to help Miss Honey with the dishes.”
Micah rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on a pillow. “Moms shouldn’t date. It should be illegal.”
“And don’t call unless it’s an emergency. I’m not kidding,” Charley said, and thought, I’m too old for this. But on her way out of the room, she touched the The Cane Cutter for good luck.
• • •
Remy Newell took a road that snaked lazily along the bayou where lily pads the size of elephant ears grew in clumps on the banks, and tree branches, willow and tupelo, dipped down to touch the slow-moving current. As the bayou turned, Charley caught a glimpse of a small aluminum boat anchored a few feet from shore and a fisherman gently lifting his pole and letting it fall as he tested his line. They passed plantation homes, old and grand, with sweeping verandas, tin-roofed Cajun cabins made of cypress, Creole cottages with gingerbread around the windows, and as the day’s light waned, Charley leaned back, content just to ride.
“Your place is looking better,” Remy said, breaking the silence. “That second quadrant is coming back real strong.”
Charley looked at Remy. He’d traded his T-shirt for a striped oxford rolled to his wrists, his dusty Wranglers for a new pair, stiff and lightly creased down the front, but he still wore his work boots, which was sort of reassuring because it meant they weren’t on a date after all. Just two farmers blowing off steam over a couple of beers. Still, he cleaned up well.
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