“Not fast enough,” she said, and pushed thoughts of her low bank balance out of her mind. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she said, then added, softly, “Well, the second hardest.”
“The first?” Remy said.
“Raising a daughter.”
Remy nodded, and seemed to consider Charley’s answer, but he didn’t probe.
They crossed the bayou again as the road turned, and lost the radio signal. Remy toyed with the dial till he found a zydeco waltz; the melancholic whine of the accordion, the singer’s voice full of resignation and longing, wafted through the speakers.
Remy sang along for a few bars. “You speak French?”
“I wish,” Charley said, thinking of Micah. “Just some high school Spanish, and even that leaves a lot to be desired.”
For a while, they discussed the benefits and challenges of hiring migrant farm labor, the rising price of health insurance and workman’s comp, but eventually, just as Charley knew it would, their conversation turned to the subject of marriage and family.
“You have just one?” Remy asked.
“Just one.” Charley scrounged through her purse for the single picture she carried: Micah leaning against a bright red door, grinning with permanent teeth that looked too big for her mouth. Charley handed the picture over. “She’s eleven.”
Remy steered with one hand as he held the photograph up to the window. “She’s a pistol, I can tell.”
“You have no idea.”
He studied the picture again, then looked at Charley. “Where’s her daddy?”
Remy was so easy to talk to that Charley was surprised the subject of spouses hadn’t come up before now. “He died four years ago,” Charley said. “We were coming back from the movies and two guys tried to mug us. He tried to be the hero but they had guns.”
“I’m sorry.”
Charley slid Micah’s picture back into her wallet. With every passing day, that other world, her old life, felt as though it belonged to someone else. Three and a half months and there was so much about it she’d forgotten. Charley looked at Remy again. His hair was thicker than she’d noticed and the tops of his ears were sunburned. “What about you?”
Remy drummed the wheel with his fingertips. “Divorced,” he said. “Didn’t last long. She said she didn’t get married to be a farmer’s wife.”
“What did she want you to do?”
Remy shrugged. “Business, I guess. Management, sales—hell, even politics, not that I have the stomach for it; I don’t think she cared as long as it didn’t have anything to do with farming.” He looked out the window, forlornly. “But I’ve worked around cane since I was sixteen. You name it, I’ve done it. It’s who I am. Used to come home from college every weekend during grinding just to smell the burned sugar in the air.”
“Kids?”
Remy shook his head then wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Maybe one day, if I’m lucky.”
• • •
Paul’s Café was a tiny joint that sat back from the road. The parking lot was jammed with pickups, and the sign over the door read NO DANCING ON TABLES OR BAR. It looked as if it had always been there.
As they parked, Charley looked at Remy with concern. Music echoed faintly across the parking lot and a cheer went up. Charley frowned. “I have a bad feeling.”
“Trust me, California,” Remy said. He took her hand and gently eased her out of the truck. “All folks in there care about is how much you tip the bartender and how well you dance.”
• • •
Charley was relieved to see that the crowd was a comfortable mix of blacks, whites, and everyone in between. In one corner of the dance floor, a middle-aged colored man of uncertain lineage wearing a cowboy hat with a turtle’s head mounted on the headband swung a white woman whose freckled skin had lovely orange undertones and whose red hair was streaked with silver. An elderly Cajun couple, eyes closed, wrinkled hands pressed together, waltzed gracefully around the edge of the crowd to a melody only the two of them seemed to hear. Men in jeans and vests, girls in short, twirly skirts and boots; husbands and wives, uncles and widows, undergrads and retirees—they were all dancing, everyone shuffling and stomping and two-stepping, their troubles temporarily forgotten.
For a while, Remy and Charley sipped beers at the bar and watched the dancing. Then Remy grabbed her wrist. “Come on,” he said, pulling Charley off her stool, excusing himself and begging people’s pardon as he pushed his way, politely but firmly, to the middle of the dance floor. Remy took Charley’s hand, wrapped his arm around her waist, then patiently guided her through a series of intricate steps, first turning her this way and then the other, then spinning her out on the length of his arm like a fly at the end of a fisherman’s reel before pulling her back.
The band played one upbeat tune after another, and Charley worked to follow the steps. It wasn’t difficult—just step together step, back, then front—but she had to concentrate. The moment she took her mind off what she was doing, looked at another couple, how they moved together, changed it up, she got confused and stumbled.
And then, just as she was getting comfortable, just as she reached the point where she could anticipate Remy’s next move, the band threw her a curveball and downshifted to something slow. It was a sweet, lilting melody with an old-timey feel: Spanish moss, low-hanging mist, and pirogues slipping through the water. The accordion whined and the leader sang in French.
“This here’s my song,” Remy said, starting to sing softly. He took Charley’s hand again, pulled her close. So close that she felt where the front of his shirt was damp from dancing; so close she felt his breath on her ear and neck as he exhaled and she smelled his citrus muskiness.
But every time Remy moved one way, she moved the other.
“Sorry,” Charley said for bumping into him. “Sorry,” she said for stepping on his feet.
“It’s all right. Just relax.”
They knocked knees.
“Oh my God. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll get this.” Charley’s back and shoulders tightened. She started to sweat.
Over and over. She kept messing up and apologizing, until finally, Remy pulled his cheek away from Charley’s just enough to look at her. He caressed her face and gave her that long, careful stare, then, in a calm, steady voice, said, “Listen to me, California. I know you’re a strong woman and all, but you need to let me lead.”
Charley’s heart stopped. Let him lead. Let him lead. Yes. She could do that. For once in her life—okay, for ten minutes—she didn’t have to be the boss or the handyman or the plumber or the activity planner. Or the short order cook, or the chauffeur, or the banker, or the disciplinarian.
“Okay,” Charley said. “I’ll try.”
Remy pulled Charley close again and her shoulders relaxed. He pulled her closer still, so that his face was right against hers, his chest right against hers, and she felt the vibration of his quiet humming. The band played two slow songs in a row, and she tried to let go of everything but the music and the feel of Remy’s body, solid and strong, moving with hers.
The set was over. The band took a break. Remy led Charley to a covered patio where strings of white lights draped like vines and darkness was broken only by a handful of torches staked in the grass. They ordered waters along with their beers, and then, because all the tables were taken, sat on the edge of the patio, where they heard insects chirping and frogs croaking along the bayou.
“Tell me one interesting thing about you,” Remy said. “Something I wouldn’t guess.”
Charley looked at her beer. She had never thought of herself as interesting. Stubborn? Yes. Impulsive? Possibly. Patient? She was trying. But interesting? Charley sipped her beer and wondered if Remy would understand what she found interesting. But Remy was looking at her, waiting, so she gave it a go. “There was a little girl who came to the a
rt class I taught. The neighborhood was pretty scary, but this girl, she was in the sixth grade, she drew like Raphael. You’ve never seen anything like it. Kids would be throwing markers at each other or drawing monsters or coloring the sky blue and the trees green, you know, stuff you expect kids to do in art, and she’d draw cities. Or women sitting on park benches, looking like angels.” Remy was watching her closely, so Charley reeled out a little more trust and said, “You have to be able to see with different eyes to draw pictures like she drew. You have to see past what’s right in front of you.” Charley paused, thinking about the girl.
“And?” Remy said.
Charley shrugged. “And then she stopped coming. I tried to find out where she lived, but I never found her. But I still think about her. I hope she made it.” She picked up her beer and drained the bottle. She looked at Remy, who nodded and seemed to understand. Then Charley laughed, to change the mood back, and remembered Remy’s promise that zydeco dancing would make her sound like a Louisiana girl. “I think I still have my accent.”
Remy stood. He offered his hand and pulled her up. “No problem, California. We’ve got plenty of time.”
They danced through the third set and then the fourth, fast dances and slow ones, releasing each other’s hands only when the band stopped playing and the house manager turned on the lights.
• • •
On the ride back to the Blue Bowl, silence sat easily between them.
The parking lot was empty when they pulled in. Remy shifted into park. “We should do this again. Soon.”
“Soon. Yes.” Charley was still filled with light. “Absolutely.”
Remy gave her that long, careful stare then leaned toward her, and only then did she realize he hadn’t kissed her yet. How could that be, after all the time they spent dancing? After they’d stood so close together?
Remy paused, said, “I have to tell you something.”
“Uh-oh.”
He laughed. “Nothing bad, don’t worry.” He hesitated. “I know we just met. And I may be overstepping my bounds here, but I have to tell you, I like you very much.”
“Good,” Charley said, “because I like you, too.”
Remy shook his head. “I’m not saying it right.” He looked at her again. The long stare. “I think you’re wonderful, California.”
“Thank you.” The light from the dashboard made the gray hair at his temples glow silver.
He tilted his head as though trying to see her more clearly. “You’re so—unusual.”
“Unusual.” Charley looked at her hands. She should have filed her nails. “What do you mean?”
Remy shrugged. “I don’t know. Just different. The things you’re interested in, the places you’ve been, the way you think. I mean, look at you, what you’re doing with your farm. You came down here and jumped in like it was nothing.”
“My farm.” Charley laughed. “That doesn’t make me different. It just proves I’m crazy.”
“No. It doesn’t. It means you’ve got guts. It means you’re smart. It means you won’t let anything stop you.” Remy squeezed her hand. “I don’t know. You’re not like other black people; at least not the black people around here. It’s almost like you’re not black at all.”
It took Charley only a nanosecond to realize what he was saying. Her face grew warm. “Oh.” She felt all the muscles of her face freeze. Her skin was like glass; if she tried to talk it would shatter. But Remy’s face was lit and he smiled tenderly. She should say something. “I see.”
Remy leaned toward Charley and stroked her face with the backs of his fingers. Then he opened his door, walked around to open hers, and Charley knew when he would try to kiss her: outside, standing against the truck, where their bodies could melt together. But as she watched his easy stride through the windshield, she felt as if all the truck’s air was slowly being sucked away. Not like other black people. Not like who? Miss Honey? Her father? Violet? Almost like you’re not black at all. Not like Denton? Or Huey Boy? What did that mean? Where did that leave her?
Remy opened her door, reached for her hand.
“That’s okay. I’ve got it,” Charley said, holding her backpack with both hands and stepping down without his help.
“Hey? You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Remy took Charley’s chin in his hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Charley lifted her chin.
“Did I do something?”
Charley looked out across the parking lot to where she knew the fields stood waiting for morning. She heard the cane stalks rustle. People didn’t change their fundamental beliefs about how the world fit together. Charley knew this. Besides, it was too hard; the problem was too big and she didn’t have that kind of time.
She took out her keys and was about to leave without saying anything. But Remy deserved an explanation.
“Here’s the thing.” Charley took his hand. She pulled her shoulders back, strangely grateful for her mother’s constant reminders about good posture. The words came from some place deep within her but she didn’t raise her voice. “Every morning when I wake up and look in the mirror, I see a black face and I love it. Sure, I’ve been to Paris and grew up surfing, and yes, I speak like I’m in a commercial. But I’m just like the women you see walking on the side of the road with their laundry baskets and their Bibles. I’m just like the old men pedaling their rusty bicycles. I’m no different from the men who drive your tractors or the woman who probably raised you. I’m just like them, no better and no worse. I’m black, Remy, which means everything and nothing.”
Remy looked stricken. “I beg your pardon,” he said, all the ease in his voice drained away. “I apologize, California.”
“My name is Charley.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”
The moon shone through the bunched and graceless clouds. Remy reached for Charley’s arm but she stepped back.
“It’s late,” Charley said. “I should go.”
In her car, KAJN played a zydeco waltz. Charley turned it off.
Remy tapped on her window. “We should talk. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No. Please don’t.” Charley turned her face away, mortified that tears were standing in her eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
• • •
“I don’t care if he’s Robert Redford,” Charley said, pushing past Violet and heading for the darkened family room. She dropped her backpack on the coffee table and collapsed onto the couch.
“Good morning to you, too.” Violet tied the sash on her robe, turning on the lights as she followed Charley. “You mind telling me what Robert Redford has to do with you breaking down my door?”
“Remy Newell.” Charley put her face in her hands. When she looked up, Violet was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, yawning. “Did you hear me?”
“It’s two thirty. I don’t usually start seeing patients till nine.”
“Violet.”
Violet came around and sat next to Charley. “Okay, what happened?”
“I just thought—well, I guess—oh, I don’t know what I thought. I can’t believe I fell for it. Shame on my being charmed by all that Southern gentility bullshit he sprinkled around like powdered sugar.” Charley pinched the bridge of her nose. “I thought he was different from the other rednecks because he listened to NPR.”
“What happened?”
“Remy gave me that ‘you’re not like other black people’ line.”
Violet nodded. “So where’s the news?”
Charley looked down at the shadow box coffee table. Violet had changed the scene beneath the glass top. Last time it was a summer motif—sand, seashells, and a red plastic lobster. Now it was a Mardi Gras theme with masks and beads even though Mardi Gras was still months away. “I guess I wanted to believe—I liked
the possibility—but it’s like there’s an electric fence between us all the time—God! I hate having to be the race police.”
“So don’t,” Violet said.
“You mean let him get away with it?”
“Why not see if he’s capable of learning, if he seems good in every other way?” Violet took Charley’s hand. “Why does a man have to be perfect before Charley Bordelon will date him? What do you care if Remy Newell thinks you’re not black, or that all black people have to play sports to go to school? I’m not saying it’s not troubling, and I’m not even saying you have to overlook it. But if it’s not that, I guarantee, it would be something else. Meanwhile, you’re in a wonderful position. Girl, you’re free, can’t you see that? You’ve got your child, you’ve got your family down here who love you, you’ve got your farm. You don’t have to ask anyone for anything. You know how few women in this world get to say that, black or white?” Violet let go of Charley’s hand, but kept her gaze trained on her. “You know why you’re disappointed in Remy Newell, why you’re so angry with yourself? Because you thought he was the complete package. Southern accent, progressive politics, and all. You forgot he’s just a man. Now, don’t misunderstand, there’s nothing wrong with men; I like having them around. But you’ve already got what you need, sugar.” And here, Violet reached for Charley and hugged her, and Charley felt the softness of Violet’s neck, and smelled the lingering fragrance of her night cream and exhaled. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, Charley,” Violet said. “Take care of your child, get your fields planted, stay right with God, and you’ll be just fine.”
22
Dressed in waist-high waders and flanked by crates of rotting trash fish, Ralph Angel sat on the German’s tailgate, trying to convince himself there was nothing wrong with pulling traps for $7.25 an hour.
The night of the hurricane, he took the last of Gwenna’s check and headed over to Tee Coteau, where he asked around in the seedy bars and dark parking lots until he found what he was looking for. Then, drunk and stoned, he rode out the storm and a few days after in an abandoned house. But when Ralph Angel came to, sobered up, he found that he was plagued by the same dark thoughts as before: how he’d made a fool of himself at the bakery (Go, Johnny had said, bending to pick up all the ruined loaves. Don’t worry about it. Please, just go); how Charley accused him of pushing ’Da on purpose (’Da shouldn’t have gotten in his face like that; why wasn’t anyone talking about that?), stealing his father’s money (How could he steal what should have been his?), that he was jealous of Hollywood (You call that a business? Any idiot could mow a lawn.).
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