Queen Sugar: A Novel (7 page)

It had been a week since Denton said no, and Charley still hadn’t found a manager. She spent days scouring barbershops and roadside bars, oily garages and smoky pool halls—the places men gathered after work or on weekends to tell jokes, talk about their trouble on the job or with their wives; the places they went to feel like men, and where, if a desperate young woman who was trying to make her father proud happened to wander in, they wouldn’t mind coming to her assistance. But no luck.

Now, exhausted and even more discouraged, Charley rolled over the railroad tracks into the Quarters. On the corner, a group of young men stood on the sidewalk: XXL plaid shirts and baggy jeans like gangsta rappers, hair braided in zigzag cornrows that made their hair look like puzzle pieces. They smoked pot and drank from brown paper bags, and as Charley rolled past and waved, they jerked their chins a tiny bit, like guards at a security checkpoint, and she debated whether to pull over and ask if any of them wanted a job.

Miss Honey’s house was quiet. Must be at church, Charley thought, and went to her room to change out of her farm clothes—jeans, a plain short-sleeve blouse, and work boots—which made her look older and possibly a little butch, but which she believed helped make a good first impression, showed that she was serious, responsible, and not just some kid playing in the dirt. After a long day like today, it would feel good to sit out on the porch and watch the people pass, and maybe, for a minute, let her mind wander.

But when Charley stepped out of her bedroom into the living room, she saw Micah on the sofa. Micah's back was turned, her bare feet drawn up under her so that when she moved, the plastic slipcovers crackled. Micah pressed her ear to Miss Honey’s phone, wrapped the cord around her finger, and at first Charley thought she was talking to a friend back home. But then she heard Micah say, “Hello, Lorna? Are you there?” Charley froze.

“It’s me,” Micah said. “Please pick up . . .” She waited, and when no one answered, her shoulders slumped with disappointment. “I’m just calling to tell you we made it. It’s okay so far. Miss Honey says I can have a Coke anytime I want. She gave me Grandpa Ernest’s old camera and is teaching me how to cook.” Another pause. Thinking. “Mom went a little psycho the other day, but it wasn’t her fault.” Micah stopped talking, pushed the prongs on the cradle.
“Merde
.
”
Hung up and redialed.

Charley held still. Last night after she bid Micah good night, her breath caught when the phone rang. She thought it might be Lorna. She waited for Miss Honey to call, heard Miss Honey’s voice over the canned television laughter followed by the sound of the receiver being returned to the cradle. Charley had not spoken to her mother in two months, not since she stopped by her mother’s house to outline her final plans, and the fact of not having her mother to consult felt like losing a limb.

“But it’s the South,” Lorna had said, as though moving to Louisiana were the same as moving to Siberia.

They stood in Lorna’s newly remodeled kitchen. Charley looked around at the glistening travertine floors and polished marble countertops, the imported Italian tiles arranged in a swirling pattern behind the stove, the refrigerator large enough to store a whole side of beef, and she thought it was a kitchen she could never cook in. She took a sterling spoon from the drawer, stared into its silvery bowl at her upside-down face. “What’s wrong with the South?” Her mother gave a little laugh that made Charley feel stupid for asking. Of course, she knew what was wrong. She had followed news coverage of the man dragged to his death behind a pickup truck in Texas, and the six black teenagers jailed in Louisiana on trumped-up charges.

“Come home,” her mother had said. “Micah can take your old room. She can go to your old school. Fine, if you insist on circling around that hellhole, but it’s not fair to Micah.”

“It’s not a hellhole, Mother. It’s an art program. And if I didn’t work with those kids, no one would.”

“I’m touched, but I’m not amused. I know your father thought it was noble, but I don’t see anything noble about it. You’ve wasted enough time doing good for other people at your own expense.”

“We’re fine.”

“You’re not fine,” her mother said. “You’re a tenant. A tenant with a disconnected phone—don’t even bother, I heard the recording. You drive a car I can hear two blocks away. How late is your rent? One month?
Two?
Fine, don’t answer. But send Micah to me. I’ll pay off those loans. I’ll even buy you a new car. But only if she lives here.”

Charley considered what Lorna could show Micah—the Louvre, the Met, safaris in Kenya. She considered the one thing, perhaps the only thing, she could now give her daughter, who was aching to stay in Los Angeles: the chance to see that even a woman in desperate straits could pull her own survival out of the ruddy earth.

“It’s a generous offer, Mother, but we’re going to Saint Josephine. I’m not changing my mind.”

“How can you be so selfish?” Lorna grabbed the spoon from Charley and returned it to the drawer.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s time to grow up, Charlotte. The child has been scarred once. Why drag her away from everyone she loves? Why drag her down to Louisiana, where she’ll only suffer again?”

“That’s not fair.”

Now Charley waited to see if Lorna would answer the telephone.

“It’s me again,” Micah said. “I’d send you an e-mail, but Miss Honey doesn’t have a computer. Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. I miss you. I don’t have any friends yet. Okay, I think that’s all. I love you.” She replaced the receiver.

Part of Charley wanted to pounce on Micah for reporting back, wanted to grab her by the collar and shake her. But part of her understood how her daughter felt, so far from home. So, instead of scolding Micah about the call, Charley stepped into the room, said, “Hey there,” brightly, as though she’d just ridden in on a Carolina breeze. She cleared a space next to Micah on the couch. “You get enough to eat? Because I can fix you something if you’re hungry.”

“I’m okay.”

Miss Honey’s couch was cluttered with cheap plush stuffed animals, the kind you won at a carnival. Charley picked up Tweety Bird, whose orange feet had faded and whose yellow plush rubbed off on her fingers. “I look at you sometimes and I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” she said.

Micah shrugged.

For a minute, Charley struggled to think of more to say. Then, thankfully, she heard steps on the porch, the screen door squeaking open.

“Mother? Is anybody there?”

It was Violet, Charley’s aunt, her father’s only sister. Charley hadn’t seen Violet since her dad’s funeral.

“Well, it’s about time,” Charley said, going to the door. “I’d started thinking you were avoiding me.”

Taller than Miss Honey, though not by much, hair slicked back into a cluster of lacquered curls more glamorous than Miss Honey’s well-oiled ringlets; the same full figure and smooth butterscotch complexion. There was no mistaking Violet was Miss Honey’s daughter.

“I’ve been helping out with Vacation Bible School,” Violet said. She kicked off her shoes. “Rev’s been working overtime since we got the new church. It’s been all hands on deck. I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in weeks.” She took a breath. “But look at you! Turn around, girl. Let me get a good look.”

Charley spun in a small circle, happy to let Violet examine every inch of her. For the last ten months, she had lived almost entirely in her head, making plans, weighing her options, without anyone to act as a sounding board or confidante.

They embraced, and when they parted, Violet took Charley’s face in her hands. “And your hair,” she said, turning Charley’s head to the side. “Girl, I love it.”

“Miss Honey hates it,” Micah said from the sofa.

“Well, I think it’s wonderful. I say, good for you.” Violet fingered her curls self-consciously. “I’d cut mine off if I had the face for it.”

“God, I’m glad you’re here,” Charley said.

“And you,” Violet said, pulling Micah to her feet. “Like a little woman. I think you’ve grown a foot taller. You like Saint Josephine so far?”

“I like Miss Honey’s movies.”

There were plenty of modern conveniences Miss Honey didn’t have. She didn’t have a computer. She didn’t have a cell phone, or call waiting, or caller ID. She didn’t have a coffeemaker or a blender, or cable or a satellite dish. But she did have a DVD player and enough old movies to fill the Library of Congress: war pictures (
The Bridge on the River Kwai
,
Battle of the Bulge
), westerns (
Escape from Fort Bravo
,
Saddle in the Wind
,
The Alamo
), and the deluxe twelve-pack box set of Shirley Temple classics.

Violet winked at Micah. “Well, she’s got enough of them, that’s for sure. But you can’t stay inside all the time. Why don’t you come to Vacation Bible School with me next week?”

Micah glanced at Charley. “No, thanks. I’m making a garden.”

“A garden?” said Charley, and thought,
This from the kid who didn’t like the feeling of Play-Doh between her fingers in preschool. This from the kid who won’t squeeze toothpaste from the middle of the tube
. “Where did you get that idea?

“Miss Honey,” Micah said. “She said I can use part of the empty lot next door.”

“Well, that’s creative,” Violet said. “But I warn you, folks down here take their gardens very seriously.”

Micah beamed.

“It’s a terrific idea,” Charley said, wishing she’d been the first one to offer encouragement. On warm summer evenings when she was a girl, she gardened for hours beside her father in the small yard behind his condo. There was nothing finer than the smell of fresh dirt and the feel of her bare feet in the warm grass. Sometimes, they gardened till it got dark, and Charley held the heavy-duty flashlight with its car-size battery and beam like a Broadway spotlight, while he bent over clay pots and raised beds. “Marigolds are on sale down at the hardware store,” Charley said, remembering the ad in the morning’s paper.

“I don’t want flowers,” Micah said. Her tone was matter-of-fact but she averted her eyes. “I’m having vegetables.”

“Okay, vegetables then. Vegetables are good. We can start next weekend.”

Micah hesitated. “I kinda want to do this myself.”

“Oh. Well—of course,” Charley said. “That’s good. It’ll give you something to do every day while I’m at the farm.” She tried to ignore the little stab of pain under her breastbone and gave Micah’s shoulder a congratulatory squeeze. But when she glanced at Violet, Violet offered her a sympathetic smile, one that said,
Don’t worry, she still needs you.
Charley wondered how Violet, childless since her only daughter was killed in a car accident years ago, managed to get through the days.

Pots clanged in the kitchen.

“Mother?” Violet called, and they all filed out of the living room.

•   •   •

At the kitchen table, Miss Honey spooned leftovers onto plates. “Y’all come and eat. I can warm up some green beans if you don’t think this is enough.” The table was set for three.

“Hey, Mother,” Violet said, and kissed Miss Honey’s cheek. She washed her hands, then took the water pitcher from the refrigerator, and another place mat from the drawer. “Mother, I was just telling Charley how much I love her hair.”

Miss Honey grunted. “She looks like a man.”

“That’s terrible,” Violet said. “Now why would you say such a thing?” She stepped behind Miss Honey and swept the candy curls away from her face. “How ’bout it, Mother? You want a style like Charley’s? We can do it right now. Quick, Micah, hand me some scissors.” She winked at Charley.

“Get away from me with all that foolishness,” Miss Honey said, batting Violet’s hand away. “Go sit down.”

They each pulled out a chair, Violet said grace, and after spreading her napkin across her lap, she reached across the table for Charley’s hand and squeezed it.
“Beams of heaven, as I go. Through this wilderness below,”
she sang. Her voice was strong and warm, and she closed her eyes, gently rocked in her chair as she sang the chorus. When she stopped, a quietness and sense of lasting peace hung in the air.

“It’s good to be here.” Tears stung Charley’s eyes as she bathed in the fading glow of Violet’s voice. She could soak up Violet’s warmth for a lifetime. She was the buttermilk pancakes to Violet’s maple syrup, the white bread to Violet’s bacon grease, and if she had a thousand more awful days like she’d had today, at least she had Violet to balance things out. “So what’s this about a new church?” Charley said, wiping the corners of her eyes. She passed the French salad dressing to Violet.

“Girl, we finally did it. Found a place over on Chalmette, just off Third Street. It used to be a pool hall, but you’d never know it now. We’ve got new pews, new lights. Did most of the work ourselves. And the Rev? Charley, he’s a new man. BP tried to talk him into staying, but you know what it’s like when you hear the call.”

“That’s right,” Miss Honey said, passing the rice dressing. “When God calls, you’d better answer.”

“I guess that makes you First Lady of the church,” Charley said.