“I’m four,” Annabel said, holding up her small hand. She had olive skin like her brothers, and her hair was divided into two long braids.
“Four years old means you’re a big girl,” Charley said. She smiled at the boys. If Remy said these children belonged to his new girlfriend, even though he was entitled to date whomever he wanted and she was the one who dumped him, Charley knew she would have to excuse herself politely and walk away. Her heart squeezed a little as she held her breath and waited for him to say more. But he didn’t. “So,” she floundered.
Remy hesitated. “Y’all getting through planting okay?” He looked thinner, tired. But that easy way—it practically rose off his body like vapor.
“More or less,” Charley said. Thought, More like less.
The woman at the window called Remy’s order. He ignored her. “That’s good. You’re lucky.” He seemed genuinely relieved. “Lot of farmers lost half of what they planted.”
“Lucky. Yeah, that’s me.” Charley looked away. “And you? How are you doing? How are your fields?”
“I’m okay,” Remy said. He paused and they looked at each other across the awkward silence. “Hey, look. There’s something I want to—”
But the woman at the window was calling again—angrily, this time—and Remy reluctantly stepped forward. Charley watched as he handed drinks to the boys, balanced the food tray in one hand and clasped Annabel’s ankle with the other. Wobbling, he turned back to her, gesturing to his full load. “I’d better go. It’s good to see you, Charley.” He tried to smile. “Tell Mr. D. I said hello.”
Charley stepped aside so Remy could pass. “You, too,” she said, and forced herself to watch as he moved through the crowd, looking, with Annabel on his shoulders, like a stilt figure in a parade, the two boys following behind. She hoped he would turn around. Just one glance to show the door was still open. But he didn’t. The woman at the window called for another pickup, and Charley realized she’d never ordered, and now the line for crawfish pies stretched on forever.
• • •
Pulling up to Miss Honey’s, Charley’s mind raced with all the things she could have said, should have said, to Remy: that while she didn’t like what he’d said—no, she didn’t like it at all—she’d been too quick to judge. Because who in this life was perfect? Who said everything right, did everything right all the time?
“Bedtime,” she said, turning off the ignition. “No fooling around. Lights out in ten minutes.” The words came out in the sharp tone of a drill sergeant. “Blue, honey, you can sleep in one of my T-shirts. And don’t forget to brush your teeth.” When no response came from the backseat, Charley turned to look and saw that both kids were asleep. Micah slumped against the door with her mouth hanging open. In the plastic bag in her lap, the goldfish she won at the Ping-Pong toss swam in frantic circles. Blue, curled up like a kitten beside her, clutched his bag of cotton candy now crushed to a hard pink wad the size of a baseball.
• • •
Charley came home the next evening and stopped short when she stepped into the kitchen. At one end of the table, Blue sprinkled bread crumbs into the coffee can he’d converted into a fishbowl, and at the other, Violet, yes Violet, helped Micah frost a cake shaped like a crawfish. For a moment, Charley just stood and looked.
“You should have seen how high up we were,” Micah was saying. She dipped her spatula into a bowl of red frosting. “And then they dropped us. I almost barfed.”
At the sink, Miss Honey scowled. “Barfed?”
Violet wiped food coloring off her hands. “That’s California talk for vomit, Mother.”
“Hallelujah!” Charley walked around the table and hugged Violet tightly, whispered, “Welcome back,” in Violet’s ear.
“We’d better hurry, Micah,” Violet said when she and Charley let go. “Judging starts in an hour and we still have to decorate the base. And Blue, baby, that’s enough bread crumbs. You’re gonna kill that little fish.”
“Judging for what?” Charley said.
“The baking contest,” said Violet. “You can bake anything, long as you use Louisiana sugar. I told Mother she should make her pralines.”
“And I told Violet, baking contests are for white ladies,” Miss Honey said.
“Micah, don’t listen to your great-grandmother.” Violet opened the festival guide. “It says here, ‘community invited,’ Mother. That means you.”
“Say what you want, Violet, but I’ve seen those garden club ladies with their matchy-matchy suits and not one of them is black.”
“Grandmother Lorna wears matchy-matchy suits,” Micah said.
“I don’t say anything about joining, Mother,” Violet said. “Besides, once they see Micah’s crawfish cake, they won’t care if she’s green with purple stripes.”
“Keep living, Violet,” Miss Honey said. “You’ll see what I’m talking about.” And though her tone was harsh as always, Charley saw Miss Honey smile after she spoke and knew that for all her blustering, Miss Honey was happy Violet was back.
Violet turned to Charley. “How about we take the kids to the boat parade after we drop off Micah’s cake? It starts at seven.” She leaned closer. “Then you and I can go to the fais do-do on the plaza. Jimmy Broussard Jr. comes on at nine.”
• • •
All along Main Street for as far as Charley could see, green sugarcane stalks tied with bright red bandannas festooned every light post and telephone pole. At Beads and Baubles, the Dew Drop, and the other boutiques lining the square, proprietors had decorated their big picture windows with shiny red wagons, hay bales, and scarecrows dressed in overalls and straw hats looking neater than most farmers in town. Even the side streets were packed with people. Zydeco music blared from the speakers in the plaza, and over at Evangeline’s, Saint Josephine’s fanciest restaurant, the bartender handed out free frozen margaritas from a sidewalk bar. The sky above the bayou glowed pink from all the spotlights and the sun dropping down to make way for evening.
Charley, Violet, and the kids fell in with the throngs. They staked out a spot near the drawbridge just as the boat parade began, and watched as old wooden pirogues, motor boats, and party barges trimmed with colored streamers and strings of lights, their reflection on the water like a thousand fallen stars, drifted down the bayou. Along the banks, where people’s backyards opened onto the water, folks cheered and hurled fistfuls of candy at the boats.
The last boat was a slick, double-decker cabin cruiser. As it approached, everyone cheered louder, and Charley couldn’t figure out why until she saw Queen Sugar and her court—all young white women dressed in heels and baby-doll dresses, their legs perfectly tanned—smiling their biggest debutante smiles and waving giddily from the deck. This was the best day of their lives, their smiles seemed to say. Queen Sugar wore a massive crown of green rhinestones fashioned into a ring of sugarcane stalks, and as she passed the spot where Charley, Violet, and the kids stood, she waved with one hand and pressed the other to her head to keep her crown from toppling.
“That’s quite a crown,” Charley shouted over the cheering.
“Honey, that’s nothing,” Violet shouted back. “Last year, the Shrimp Queen from Cameron wore a crown that was twenty-four inches tall. Must have weighed five pounds. It’s like they say, ‘the smaller the town, the bigger the crown.’”
For all the excitement, Blue couldn’t care less, it seemed. For most of the parade, he searched the ground for loose candy and stuffed it in his pockets. But when Queen Sugar waved again and blew a kiss, Micah waved back, her face bright, then she leaned over the rail and pointed her camera.
Half an hour later, the boats had circled around and were chugging back toward the drawbridge. Charley looked at Micah’s narrow back as Micah studied the Polaroids she’d taken of Queen Sugar, and thought she’d grown strangely quiet.
“So what do you think of all thi
s?” Charley said. “Is this what you wanted to see?”
Micah looked up from her pictures. “They’d never let me be Queen Sugar here, would they?”
Let? Charley’s heart sank. Why, in God’s name, hadn’t she seen this coming? She looked out at the bayou where the cabin cruiser, with its streamers and strings of lights, was gliding past. Couldn’t there have been at least one black girl on that boat?
“Child, you don’t miss a thing, do you?” Violet said.
Charley laid her hand on Micah’s shoulder. “Some things take a long time to change. But you know, you’d make a great Queen Sugar.”
“That’s right,” Violet added, defiantly. “With all you got going for you? By the time you’re seventeen, you’ll be a terrific Queen Sugar, if that’s what you want. You’ll knock ’em dead.”
Micah sighed. She sifted through her stack of Polaroids again, then flicked the picture of Queen Sugar over the rail. They all watched it flutter down to the water and disappear under the drawbridge.
• • •
On the stage, as strobe lights pulsed and trumpets blared and drums rolled, Jimmy Broussard Jr. adjusted his cowboy hat, flipped his long black braids over his shoulder, and stepped to the microphone. “Are you ready?” he shouted, and the crowd erupted in applause. Broussard waved his hand toward the audience like he was sprinkling holy water, then, as the band launched into song, the guitar and horns, harmonica and accordion wound up the melody, he attacked the washboard hanging from his broad brown shoulders, raking spoons over its corrugated ridges. Within seconds, everyone on the plaza was dancing. Violet grabbed Blue and spun him ’round. Charley dipped Micah then kissed her sweaty cheek. And when it seemed as though the energy level couldn’t go any higher, the crowd couldn’t get any more excited, Broussard dropped his washboard and shimmied, gyrating and shaking his high firm behind as the guitar player strutted across the stage.
As the next song began, everyone switched partners. Charley danced with Violet and Micah danced with Blue.
“I didn’t know you had all this in you,” Charley shouted.
“Just ’cause I’m a preacher’s wife doesn’t mean I can’t get funky.” Violet broke out a dance move involving quick pelvic thrusts that made Charley clutch her sides, she laughed so hard. Which was why she wasn’t paying attention when Remy Newell stepped up and asked Violet if he could cut in.
This time, there was nothing reserved or uncertain about Remy. He looked directly into Charley’s face, and then down into the depths of her soul, where she had stuffed every bit of hurt and pain and disappointment and even the self-loathing, and it was as though he saw it all and wasn’t afraid of any of it. He took her hand and guided her deeper into the crowd. And just as at Paul’s Café, he placed his hand on the small of her back and pulled her into him, leading her through the music.
“You’ve been practicing,” Remy said.
“No, I just had a good teacher.”
And that was it. They didn’t talk about farming or the coincidence of bumping into each other at the fair. They just danced.
Eventually, Violet appeared to say she was taking the children home.
Micah looked from Remy to her mother. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No, she’s not,” Violet said, before Charley could answer. “Your mother’s staying out a while longer.” She winked at Charley. “Just call when you’re ready and I’ll come back.”
“I’ll take you home,” Remy said.
“Mom?”
“I won’t be long,” Charley managed.
“But Mom?”
And then it was just the two of them.
• • •
Across the plaza, in front of Evangeline’s, Remy ordered two frozen margaritas and they found a spot on the curb.
“You must be a big fan of Jimmy Broussard to come all the way down here by yourself,” Charley said, but it was the only thing she could think to say that sounded nonchalant, and not at all like someone who’d spent every last minute of the last twenty-four hours cursing herself and praying she’d have a chance to say what she should have said.
“He’s my best friend,” Remy said. “We were in college together. Those were his kids with me yesterday. He’s got another one, but she’s older. I’m their godfather.”
“Your best friend’s kids,” Charley said, and felt the door swing open again.
A group of college boys, laughing loudly, stumbled out of the bar next door.
“Your daughter’s beautiful,” Remy said. “Looks just like you.”
Charley smiled and said that if it weren’t for Micah, she would have missed the entire festival. “She would have driven herself down here if I’d let her,” Charley said, then added, “I haven’t spent much time with her lately.” She told Remy about Micah chopping up her pumpkin and how she threw her photo of Queen Sugar off the drawbridge.
Remy nodded. “It’s hard with a farm. But don’t worry. It’ll be easier once grinding’s over.” He placed his hand on Charley’s knee. “You’re a great mother. The way y’all were dancing together, I could tell.” Remy consulted his watch and stood up, saying, regretfully, “It’s late. I should get you home.”
The concert ended and people spilled out of the plaza onto the street. Police lights flashed, the sour odor of beer rose up from the asphalt, trampled cups and food wrappers littered the sidewalk, and Charley couldn’t think of a place she’d rather be.
• • •
The porch light was on when Remy pulled up in front of Miss Honey’s. He walked around and opened her door.
“It really is good to see you, California. Excuse me, I mean, Charley.” He helped her down. “Maybe we could have lunch sometime, once grinding’s over.”
“Lunch. That would be nice. And really, California is okay.”
“One last thing.” Remy searched Charley’s face. “I wanted to say it when I saw you yesterday.” He took her hand. “I owe you an apology. For what I said. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not. I was an ass.”
“Yeah,” Charley said, “you were. But then again, all men are.”
They both laughed. How could they not?
Then Remy’s smile faded. “But seriously, I’m sorry. I was a fool. I got to live with that.” He stepped closer and kissed Charley. One light kiss on the corner of her mouth. “Well, good night.”
“Good night,” Charley said. “Thanks for the dance.” Miss Honey’s walk never seemed so long.
“California?”
Charley turned.
“See you soon.”
Charley looked at Remy, standing by his truck looking wistful and forlorn. “I hope so,” she said, and meant it.
• • •
In the den, Miss Honey sat in her recliner reading her Bible.
“What are you doing up?” Charley said.
“Waiting for Ralph Angel.” Miss Honey took a moment to mark her page. “That job must be working him hard, ’cause he still ain’t home.”
“Must be.”
“Violet said you bumped into a fella at the plaza.”
“I did,” Charley said. “Just a friend.”
• • •
“Y’all hurry up!” Violet called, “or we won’t get good seats!” It was only seven thirty in the morning. The sugarcane parade didn’t start till ten. But yesterday evening after the concert, Charley noticed how people had already staked out their spots along Main Street, set out their folding chairs, assembled their Weber grills, and roped off sections of the sidewalk like a presidential motorcade was coming through. On the sprawling lawns of the stately mansions on East Main, the owners had already erected pristine white tents and set out rows of white wooden chairs, and black caterers in black aprons and white toques were unfolding tablecloths and arranging regiment
s of chafing dishes.
Charley had just dumped a second bag of ice in the cooler when there was a knock at the door. She and Micah got to the living room at the same time. Micah lunged for the knob. A young white woman stood on the other side of the screen. She wore a flowing white gown covered in pearls and Belgian lace, opera-length white gloves, and a crystal necklace with matching crystal earrings that dangled from her ears like a trail of stars. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant chignon. Charley recognized her crown. Now that she was close enough to get a good look at it, Charley appreciated the intricate design. Three rows of emerald rhinestones made up each sugarcane stalk. The leaves, also made of emerald rhinestones, bent gracefully, touching only at the tips, and were inlaid against a field of clear rhinestones so brilliant that the light bouncing off them cast tiny sparkles that shimmered and danced over Miss Honey’s porch every time the girl moved her head.
“Good morning. My name is Ashleigh Marie Broussard,” the young woman said, like this was the final round of pageant judging and it all came down to this moment. “I’m the reigning Queen Sugar. Does Miss Micah Bordelon live here?”
Micah gasped. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She gazed up at Queen Sugar. “I’m Micah.”
Violet, more impatient than ever, came marching through the living room and up behind Charley. “Girl, why’s it so quiet up here? I’m telling y’all we got to go if we want good seats. What’s going—?” She stopped when she saw Queen Sugar. “Oh my Lord.”
Queen Sugar smiled like Glenda the Good Witch. Somehow, she managed to balance her crown as she bent down to talk to Micah. “I’m here to see if you’d like to be my special guest in the Sugarcane Festival Parade. I’d like you to ride on my float and be an honorary member of my court.”
Something like a squeal leaked from Micah’s throat. She ran in a circle, then grabbed Charley’s hand. “Oh, Mom, please, please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.”
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