Queen Sugar: A Novel (17 page)

“Blue!”

As the barge passed, the whole earth seemed to shake. The horn sounded and, for a few seconds, it felt to Ralph Angel as though he were standing at a railroad crossing as a train thundered past. He looked again and saw that Blue had climbed off the barge slip into water that was shallow now because of the barge passing by; he saw that Blue was inching around the far edge, out toward the bayou, holding on to the wooden slats that lined the slip’s perimeter, and he seemed to be reaching for something.

Ralph Angel ran to the barge slip. He called Blue’s name, just as the horn sounded again. He looked and saw what Blue was reaching for—Zach, bobbing like a twig on the water, carried away by the current, out into the bayou. The back end of the barge was coming up quicker than Ralph Angel had anticipated and he could see the dark water churning out of the hull, the gushing wake rolling back toward the bank.

Ralph Angel stepped to the edge. He looked down into the water and felt gripped by an old terror as he tried to judge its depth. He couldn’t swim. Had never learned. In all the years he’d come out here as a kid, he’d never dipped in as much as a toe. But now the thought of losing Blue—he’d already lost Gwenna, couldn’t rely on Hollywood—no, he couldn’t imagine. He forced the thought from his mind. And so, before he could talk himself out of it, he held his nose and jumped. The water came to his hips as it flowed out toward the bayou, but when his feet touched bottom, the grasses and sludge held for only a second before giving way and his feet sank into the mud. And suddenly the water was at his waist, then up to his chest as he crept farther out. He slid his fingers between the slip’s wooden slats, which were not just wet but slimy from having been submerged for a century, and with every step, his feet sank deeper until it was as though hundred-pound weights were strapped to his ankles each time he took a step.

Blue had inched all the way to the edge of the slip where it opened into the bayou. He still gripped the slats, but only with one hand now as he reached for Zach with the other, his small arm straining, his fingers spread wide. The back end of the barge had almost passed. Another few seconds, Ralph Angel knew, and the wave would gush back into the slip. He remembered the alligator and felt a clench in his chest as he scanned the water’s surface.

And then the water was coming toward him, curling over itself in a frothy wake, the swell looking much bigger at eye level than it did from up on the bank, the water hyacinths and lilies rolling at him like a dark carpet. Water splashed in Ralph Angel’s face, washed up his nose and down his throat; he tasted the bayou’s earthiness, felt himself lifted as the water level rose, heard the wave splash against the slip’s bulkhead, and a fresh panic ripped through him. The world went black. He was drowning for sure.

“Pop!” a small voice called.

Ralph Angel gasped for breath, wiped water from his face. He saw Blue dog-paddling toward him, his little body fighting to stay upright in the swirling current.

“This way, buddy,” Ralph Angel called. He stretched his arm as far as he could. “Swim this way.”

“Pop!”

“I’m right here.” Ralph Angel leaned out even farther because he couldn’t live alone in this world. “Just keep going, buddy. That’s right, swim to me.” He heard his voice catch in his throat. Water splashed in his face again and he wiped it away, and knew he wiped tears with it.

Blue was closer now and Ralph Angel was surprised by the look of fear, yes, but also determination on his son’s face. He hadn’t been able to save Gwenna because he was afraid, but he would save his son. Ralph Angel wiped his face again and reached across the water. “That’s it, buddy. I’m right here. Just a little farther.”

Mid-July now, Friday, and after the rainy false start, summer asserted its full magnificence with velvety morning air and peachy skies that turned glacier blue by noon, then a brilliant marbled red and purple at dusk. Laid-by and borer-free, the cane grew lustily, the swordlike leaves thickened, the roots deepened, the stalks pushed eagerly upward in the generous sunlight until they stood eleven notches high. And as Charley rolled along the northbound highway—the
Polyester Power Hour,
sixty uninterrupted minutes of seventies funk played on radio K-AJN, a glass of Tang nested in the cup holder, and two buttered slices of raisin bread wrapped in paper towel on the dash—she marveled at how far she’d come. A month ago, she hadn’t known the difference between a combine and a chisel plow. Now she read the
Louisiana Sugar Bulletin
like it was
the
New York Times
and tuned in to Ag call-in shows with the same regularity she used to reserve for NPR’s
Morning Edition.
And while she still couldn’t spout the yield potential of 384 versus 321, she could eyeball a stand of cane and determine whether a wild boar had been in it; could tell the difference between Roundup and Paraquat. As the Kisatchie’s piney woods studded the horizon ahead, and Saint Josephine’s emerald cane fields shrank in her rearview, Charley thought she might be an honest-to-goodness cane farmer after all. It was enough to make a girl want to sing.

The auction was Denton’s idea. So far, they had gotten by on his ingenuity and a few pieces of jerry-rigged machinery, but the serious work of grinding was still ahead of them, and at eighty thousand dollars for a new tractor, two hundred fifty thousand for a combine, new equipment was out of the question. On their measly operating budget, used equipment was all they could afford.

Turning off the highway, Charley followed the trail of neon flyers down the service road and pulled in beside Denton’s pickup. She had assumed the auction would be held in some kind of warehouse or possibly an airplane hangar, but this place was no more than an open lot with patches of Saint Augustine grass forcing its way up through the gravel. Ahead of her, Charley saw rusted spray rigs and ditch diggers, fertilizer tanks and tires, tractors and level liners all arranged more or less by size and stretching out in long, ragged rows. The place looked like an enormous archaeological dig, the farm equipment like dinosaur bones baking under the unforgiving sun.

There must have been two hundred farmers in attendance, Charley guessed, as she got out of her car. She maneuvered through the roiling sea of men in cowboy hats and baseball caps, men whose necks and arms tanned a deep, brick red, and whose creased faces bore out their years of struggle and worry. She’d never seen so many discouraged and defeated white men; it was like Shiloh, Gettysburg, Antietam, and Verdun all rolled into one. She moved among them, nodding when her eyes met theirs. She passed a farmer who looked like he’d just learned his house had burned down with his entire family inside, while a beady-eyed man with a hyena’s skulking posture stared into faces as if trying to identify the weakest in the herd. Strings of multicolored flags wagged limply in the morning heat, country music wafted over the sound system, and the air smelled faintly of hot dogs, but it was impossible to ignore the gloom underlying the carnival excitement.

At the far end of the lot, Denton, dressed in yet another pair of Liberty overalls, leaned under the hood of a battered John Deere 4840—a make of tractor Charley recognized from pictures at the Blue Bowl.

She knocked on the chassis. “You didn’t tell me it would be so crowded.”

“I’m surprised as you.” Denton yanked an oily cloth from his back pocket and wiped his hands. “It’s late in the season, but I guess everyone’s looking for a deal. Got a lot of good equipment out here, but most of it’ll go for a fraction of what they paid.” He handed her a catalog. “Might want to flip through this before the bidding starts.”

CHESTER GROVELAND AUCTIONS

Liquidations, Bankruptcies, Asset Recovery

“‘We believe our commitment to God, ethics, and integrity can help turn your assets into cash,’” Charley read. She opened the catalog and studied photos of tractors and forklifts, sleek quarter horses and stocky Texas longhorns. “At least we can buy some cattle if we’re outbid on everything else.” It was a bad joke, Charley knew, but it was all she could manage. Truth was, she was nervous about their chances. They had budgeted thirty thousand for equipment, which was like strolling up to the high rollers’ table in Vegas with a dollar in your pocket. God help them if they were outbid.

Every few minutes, a farmer recognized Denton, called out to him across the yard or came over to say hello. The men shook hands, slapped each other’s shoulders. They exchanged news about other auctions, shrugged over interest-rate hikes for production and equipment loans, shook their heads mournfully over news of farmers who’d gotten out or gone under. Charley was surprised at how many people Denton knew. The younger farmers addressed him with respect, even admiration, while the older men greeted him like a brother. Though he was the only black farmer on the lot, he seemed at ease, Charley thought, carried himself with the quiet confidence of a diplomat, and while she couldn’t quite forget the story Denton told about the sealed bid and inside baseball, she guessed that in the end, every man there was just struggling to survive.

“You register yet?” Denton asked, when the last man moved away.

“I wanted to find you first.”

Denton stuffed his oily cloth in his pocket. “Well, hurry up. Things move pretty fast once the bidding starts.”

Inside the office, a woman in floral capris and a flip-flop-wearing teenage girl—the only other women Charley had seen all morning—sat behind a card table sipping Big Gulps and fanning their necks with paper plates. Over the roar of the industrial fan, the older woman explained the buyer’s premium and the 4 percent parish tax while the girl recorded Charley’s license number and handed her a bidder’s card.

Charley was on her way back through the crowd with twin cups of Community Coffee when she saw Denton a few feet from where she’d left him, talking to two men. She recognized Jacques Landry just as Denton saw her, waved her over.

“Good morning.” Charley handed Denton a coffee.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Bordelon,” Landry said. He flashed a big white Pepsodent smile.

“You, too,” Charley said, coolly.

“I’d like you to meet my boss, Samuel T. Baron. He’s the head of Saint Mary’s.”

Baron was twenty years Landry’s senior. His hair was spun sugar. The skin on his neck hung loose like a Brahman bull’s. “Welcome to Louisiana,” Baron said.

“Well, gentlemen,” Charley said, sipping her coffee, “if I’d known you were coming, I’d have baked a cake.”

Baron and Landry laughed, but Denton stayed quiet. Charley glanced at him, struck by the change in his demeanor. Fifteen minutes ago he was shaking hands, slapping men’s backs, now he stood with rounded shoulders and seemed to have taken a step back from the conversation. She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

Landry turned to Charley. “I understand you’ve hired ol’ Prosper here. You’ve got a fine employee, Miss Bordelon. Worked for my daddy for many years.” He laid a heavy hand on Denton’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Denton said. “Your daddy was a fine man.”

Charley’s heart jolted. She stole a glance at Denton, whose expression had gone vacant, as though the man she’d been working with the last three weeks, the man who could recite every cane variety produced since 1957, and just yesterday had fashioned an oil filter from mesh screen and duct tape, had slipped out the back way.

“Hell, Prosper,” Landry said, “if I’d known it was this easy to lure you out of retirement, I’d have asked you to come back to us. But to tell the truth, I’m a little disappointed. Of all people, I’d have thought you knew better than to mislead this lovely lady into thinking she could be a cane farmer.”

Charley imagined Denton’s wife in their tidy kitchen, where all the dish towels were folded neatly into thirds and the counters were clear. She imagined Mrs. Denton fixing her husband’s dinner, arranging the food just the way he liked it, placing it on the table set with water in a pink Depression glass pitcher. She imagined her leaning through the side window and calling out to the garden,
Prosper, time to come in. Quick, before supper gets cold
,
saw Denton raise a hand to let her know he’d heard as he staked the last tomato plant. And then Charley imagined the two of them—two decent, hardworking people—sitting down together as they’d done every evening for the last fifty years: napkins spread over their laps as they bowed their heads in prayer, eating and talking quietly, and maybe even laughing as the radio played.

“It’s
Mr.
Denton,” Charley said. She stepped closer to Denton, hoping to jar him out of his stupor.

Landry blinked.

The temperature was in the low nineties, but with the heat index it felt over one hundred. Charley poured the rest of her coffee in the grass, and when she wiped her forehead, Landry suggested they move into the shade.

“So, Miss Bordelon . . .” Landry squinted out over the crowd. “You sure are a long way from Los Angeles. You do much surfing when you were young?”

“Some,” Charley managed. Her hands felt pasty. Sweat trickled down her back, into the waistband of her jeans.

“Well, now.” Landry squared his class ring on his finger and looked right at her. “A black surfer chick.” His gaze slid down to her breast and then down to her crotch and he grinned. “I’m trying to picture that.”

Charley stood very still. She was hot and cold at the same time. She had wondered when this day would come, because you don’t move to a tiny Louisiana town, way out in the middle of nowhere, and expect life to be a stroll through the park; you couldn’t expect to be the only woman in an industry filled with men and not think someone would eventually say something stupid; you couldn’t ignore the long, dark, tortured history of Southern race relations, or pretend everything would be fixed overnight. And maybe you couldn’t force an old black man to stand up for himself, which was deeply disappointing, and not at all what you would have expected for someone otherwise so dignified, and something you’d think about for a long time. But you could be brave. Even while your heart threatened to split your chest open it was pounding so hard, and your ears were ringing, and the hair on your arms was standing up because you instantly knew, in a way you never knew before, what it meant to be black in the South, and this might as well be 1945 with Jim Crow and lynchings, and Ku Kluxers burning down black merchants’ stores and running families out of town. Even then, you could draw a line in the sand. You could do that. Because it was like your father said,
You have to bring ass to kick ass.

Charley pulled her shoulders back. “And I’m trying to imagine your tiny pink prick.”

Landry’s head jerked and for a moment it looked like Charley had won. Then the color came back to his face.

But before Landry could respond, Baron cleared his throat and stepped forward. “It appears we’ve gotten off to a rocky start,” he said, in a deep buttery voice. He spoke slowly, as though he didn’t have anywhere in particular he needed to be. “Please excuse us, Miss Bordelon. My apologies for Mr. Landry’s behavior. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by that last comment, and I suspect he was only praising Mr. Denton’s work ethic. But I’m sure you’re already aware of Mr. Denton’s stellar reputation.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Charley said. “I’m honored to have Mr. Denton as a partner.”

“Partner?” Baron gave Denton a congratulatory nod. “Splendid. Then I hope you’ll both accept my apology, our apology, and allow me to propose we start over.” He offered his hand.

Charley stared at Baron then looked away. All around her, men were inspecting equipment, raising side panels, kicking tires. A few spoke in hushed tones as if they were in a university library. “Accepted,” Charley said.

And suddenly, Denton was back. He took Charley by the elbow, said, quietly, “We should go.”

But before she could follow, Baron cleared his throat again. “I’m sure Mr. Denton’s already told you, Miss Bordelon, that cane farming is a tough business. Every day, there’s a report of another farm going under, another mill shutting down. It’s depressing after a while.” For an instant, he looked genuinely mournful.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Baron,” Charley said. “We have a good idea what we’re up against.”

“I beg your pardon, but I don’t think you do.”

Denton leaned over. “You don’t have to put a dog in this fight.”

Charley ignored him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Baron.”

Baron’s laugh had a serrated quality to it. “I tell you what. I’m going to make you an offer. I want you and Mr. Denton to go at this cane farming hard as you can. Give it everything you’ve got. And if there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, I want you to feel free to come to me. But I also want you to make me a promise.”

“I’m fresh out of promises.”

“Promise that when it gets to be too much for you, you’ll come to us first. Mr. Landry was right about one thing, Miss Bordelon, you’ve got a fine spread. But it’s like anything else. One can only exploit an opportunity with the right resources.