Queen Sugar: A Novel (19 page)

•   •   •

The rainmaker, Landry, and Baron were long gone. Up and down the rows, farmers loaded air compressors, old sinks, and batteries into their trucks. Standing alone in the shade of a shabby oak, Charley was afraid to check the parking lot for Denton’s truck. Just the thought that he’d quit made her light-headed with shame. She’d acted foolishly. Now she had to go home and tell Micah and Miss Honey how badly she’d blown it. She’d have to sit there while Ralph Angel laughed in her face.

The empty Coke can still in her hand, Charley walked toward the parking lot, braced for the sight of the empty spot where Denton’s truck had been. But his truck was there, and yes, thank God, there he was, leaning against its door as he flipped through a stack of receipts, the ones, Charley recalled, he stuffed above his visor. She had never been so happy to see those Liberty overalls, the bald head, or that raggedy old truck, as she was right now. Her first impulse was to run over, hurl herself on the ground, and beg for forgiveness. She would apologize for everything: the bidding, the money, all the stupid questions she’d ever asked—all of it—if he’d just give her another chance. And she was just about to when Denton looked up, noticed her, and she saw something in his expression. Disgust? Disappointment? All Charley knew was that she had never seen him look so unfriendly. Denton stared at her for a moment, then went back to his receipts.

“I was afraid you’d gone,” Charley said, chastened, and then, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. You were right about the rainmaker. No. You were right about everything and I don’t blame you for quitting.” If she thought Denton wouldn’t find it girly and manipulative, she’d cry. And for an instant, she thought she might. Her head was buzzing and there was that tightness again, like some gigantic, soggy wool sock was being wrung out inside her. But then it lifted. Just enough for her to say one word. “Please.”

Nothing. No reaction at all. Denton turned away as though he hadn’t seen or heard her, as though her plea was nothing more than an atmospheric disturbance. He leaned over the wheel and stuffed the receipts back onto the sun visor, then lifted himself into the seat, slammed the door, started the engine.

Well, Charley thought, that’s it. It’s over. She stood clear as Denton backed up and swung around. A furious spray of gravel flew out from the tires and there was that awful grating sound, the sound of spinning tires over loose rocks and dirt, the sound of someone who couldn’t get away fast enough. She could barely see Denton’s truck for all the dust and dry grass that blew up in her face, and she listened for the roar of his engine, wondering if she could hold off crying until he was gone. But the sound never came, and when Charley opened her eyes, Denton’s truck was idling right there in front of her and he was leaning across the seat. And now he was reaching for the handle, and the door was swinging open. It wouldn’t be until later that night, when she was at Miss Honey’s and had time to think back on it, that Charley would understand there was a difference between kowtowing and letting people’s assumptions work against them; that there was a beauty and honor in the Japanese bough that bent but didn’t break, and she finally,
truly
, appreciated what a decent man Denton was. That just when she thought her life was over, just when she thought she’d screwed things up (
again
), forgiveness and grace would be bestowed upon her with two simple words: “Get in.”

•   •   •

Given all that had happened, Charley knew better than to ask questions. For once, she was grateful Denton wasn’t much of a talker, and barely dared to breathe as he threw the truck into drive. She had no idea where they were headed or how long they would be gone, and frankly, she was too tired to care. Normally, she hated not knowing the plan, but right now, she didn’t want to think. As long as Denton didn’t put her out of the truck, she was satisfied.

The drive turned out to be short—just a few hundred yards. Denton pulled around to the other side of the office, parked, then went over to talk with a white man who was busy strapping equipment down on a long goose-neck trailer. Charley couldn’t see the man’s face, just his two tanned arms sticking out from his faded red T-shirt, but she knew he was another farmer simply by the way he was dressed: the requisite baseball cap, Wrangler jeans stuffed sloppily into the tops of his work boots.

From the way he and Denton talked, the way they both nodded and stood back to admire the equipment, they must be friends. It was nice to see, Charley thought, the pleasure Denton could take in someone else’s success; clearly the guy had done well. Just look at all the equipment he’d managed to buy: the Ampco flat chopper she and Denton had looked at, a shaver, and a ditch digger. Why, there was even the cultivator that went for one hundred and seventy bucks. Denton seemed genuinely happy despite the fact he was walking away empty-handed, and Charley wondered whether this wasn’t part of his secret, the reason he’d lasted all these years. Because you would have to be forgiving. You’d have to have a huge heart. You’d have to insist on seeing the good in people to deal with all the Landrys and Barons and who knew who else, and not go a little nuts down here.

Eventually, Denton waved her over. “So it ought to run real good,” he was saying by the time Charley joined him. “Something wrong, it’d be smoking in idle. A new hose and it’ll run up and down the rows for a long time.”

“Still can’t believe I got that chisel plow for four seventy-five,” Denton’s friend said, wedging his thumbs through his belt loops. “The way it rakes up roots, turns them around? Oh, man. It’ll be just like combing hair.”

It was such a relief to see Denton in a good mood that Charley felt a surge of gratitude for his friend. Thank God. You’re a lifesaver. You really have no idea, she wanted to say. But instead, she offered her hand and said, simply, “Congratulations.”

“This here’s Remy Newell,” Denton said, a smile brightening his face.

Remy Newell looked at Charley strangely. “Congratulations for what?”

Charley looked from Remy to Denton, who gave a little shrug. “She never gave me a chance to tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

“You mean she doesn’t know?” Remy Newell shook his head and laughed. “Good Lord, Mr. D.”

Denton massaged his forehead. “You mighta noticed she’s not too good at listening, so I stopped talking.”

“Tell me what? What’s going on?” Charley stared at Denton.

“Like I was trying to tell you earlier. When I saw what Baron was doing with the rainmaker, I had to go to Plan C.” He stepped aside. “I had Remy here bid for us. That’s where I went after you bid on the Allis Chalmers. Congratulations, Miss Bordelon. All this equipment is yours.”

Evening. From his place on the ratty sofa, Ralph Angel watched Blue, on hands and knees, march Zach over a fortress of old
Reader’s Digest
s and stacked cans of string beans.

“Got my Glock,” Blue chanted, imitating a grown man’s voice, “gotta get some money,” and Ralph Angel thought he’d have to mix more pop radio, maybe some jazz, in with the rap music. Blue looked up at him. “My stomach hurts.”

“Well, I warned you not to eat so much ice cream.”

Across the room, planted at Miss Honey’s feet, Micah looked up from her mystery and said, “When my stomach hurts, my mom gives me tea with lemon.”

Ralph Angel blinked at Micah, thought she looked exactly like Charley when she was that age. And for a moment, as it had so many times since he arrived, time pretzeled back on itself and he was nineteen again. He had given Charley a Christmas present he couldn’t afford—a chemistry set—along with a ten-dollar bill. He would never forget the way she’d looked up at him, her face aglow with gratitude and admiration, bright as the little white lights on the tree.
The best gift ever
,
she’d said. A lot of good it had done him. Where was the gratitude now? Where was the admiration? All this time and Charley still hadn’t gotten back to him about working on the farm. He purposely didn’t come on like gangbusters with a lot of demands and accusations, even though the entire time they talked, he struggled against the darkness gathering like a storm inside him. He was polite.
Have some cereal
. Reasonable.
Of course you should talk to Denton
. Promised to be patient.
Take your time.
And for a few days, he’d thought the strategy worked. But lately, he’d begun to think Charley was avoiding him. She never had time to talk. Was always rushing out, saying she had to get back to the farm. And when she was around, usually for a few minutes in the morning, he overheard her telling ’Da what she’d learned. It was always, “Mr. Denton showed me how to do this” or “Now I know how to do that,” like he wasn’t sitting around all day, killing time, going crazy waiting for an answer.

“Micah,” Miss Honey said, waving the TV remote, “go get the pink medicine from under my bathroom sink.”

Ralph Angel motioned to Blue, said, “Come here, boy,” and when Blue climbed into his lap and folded himself over Ralph Angel’s shoulder, Ralph Angel slipped his hand under his son’s shirt and rubbed his back, trying to remember how Gwenna used to do it. “How’s that?” He patted Blue’s back.

“Pepto Bismol tastes like vomit,” Micah said, returning with a bright pink bottle.

“That’s very helpful,” Ralph Angel said, dryly. “I can’t thank you enough.” He turned Blue around, poured a capful of the pink liquid, and held it to Blue’s lips.

Blue eyed the bottle and whimpered. “I don’t want to vomit.” He pushed Ralph Angel’s hand away.

“It won’t make you vomit. She said it
tastes
like vomit, but it doesn’t. It’s just medicine. Come on now, open up.”

But Blue pressed his hands to his mouth, turned away. Medicine sloshed out of the cap, dribbled down Ralph Angel’s arm, across his pants, onto the sofa cushion. Ralph Angel drew in a shallow breath. It felt as though someone were picking a thread inside him, picking and picking, and now the stitch was coming lose, pulling through him in one ragged piece. “Goddamn it. Do you want to feel better or not?”

Which only made Blue start to cry.

“Good Lord, Ralph Angel.” Miss Honey slid out of her recliner and pulled Blue into her arms. “The child doesn’t know what he wants. Stop barking at him.” She backed into the recliner, pressed Blue to her chest. “How about a hot water bottle,
chère
? You might like that better.”

Ralph Angel looked at Miss Honey and felt his face get hot. He shouldn’t have answered the phone that day he saw her number come up; shouldn’t have let her talk him into coming back. He’d been fine out in Phoenix; okay, not perfect, but getting through the days, getting by. He’d managed to squeeze his life down into something small, something manageable, no more than he could handle. No big dreams. A postage stamp of a life. And to the extent he dreamed, it was of Billings and the life he’d make for them somehow. Why hadn’t Miss Honey just left them alone? But he’d come like she’d asked. Okay, maybe he wasn’t as good at this mothering stuff as Gwenna, but he didn’t have to sit around and be insulted.

“I’ll take it from here,” Ralph Angel said, rising, because this was how things started between them last time, and he was trying to be good. Last time, she got in his face with all her questions, pressed and pressed him to explain about his stash, and he’d felt like an animal being poked with a stick. Then she said she was disappointed, that he’d let the family down, which was exactly what his father had said when he found out about the tuition money. It was as though she’d opened the levee and all that darkness had rushed in and he was sucked under. He hadn’t meant to push her, but he couldn’t breathe, had just been trying to get some air. “Come on, buddy. I’ll read you a story.” He pried Blue from Miss Honey’s arms and ushered him out of the room.

•   •   •

In the back room, on the large bed, Ralph Angel pulled the sheet up around Blue’s waist. “Go to sleep.”

“But you said you’d read to me.”

Ralph Angel looked at his son. Yes, he’d said that, but off the cuff, as an excuse to get out of the den. Gwenna had always been the one to read bedtime stories. That was so long ago, though, he wondered if Blue even remembered. But now Blue was looking at him, watching, his eyes wide and expectant, as though he were waiting for Ralph Angel to do a magic trick. “Right. Well, uh, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Hollywood had stacked the few remaining boxes in the corner and Ralph Angel eyed them warily. Just the thought of sorting through them made him tired. He pulled the nightstand drawer open, saw a Bible, black and solemn, lying among the buttons, old church bulletins, broken pencils and ballpoints, and felt a dull, heavy feeling roll through him. He didn’t like to think about God. He glanced at the stack of boxes again, then reached for the Bible. “Scoot over.”

Blue sat up. “It doesn’t have any pictures.”

“I know,” Ralph Angel said, flipping the tissuey pages. “You’ll have to use your imagination. I’ll read an adventure story—about a boat.” And so, Ralph Angel turned to Genesis and began to read, or rather, began translating the old language.
And it came to pass, when man began to multiply on the face of the earth . . . And God saw that the wickedness of man was great, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually . . .
“Once upon a time,” Ralph Angel began, “the world was full of people doing bad things.”

“Bad things like what?” Blue said.

“I don’t know. Just bad things. Beating up on each other, stealing cars. Be quiet. Listen to the story.”
And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowl in the air . . .
“So God, who had made the earth and all the people and all the animals in the first place, got real mad and decided to start over. He decided to make it rain until the whole earth was covered with water.”

“Could the people swim?”

“No, they couldn’t swim.”

“So they drowned?”

“Yeah. They all drowned.”

“Even the animals?”

“Sorry, buddy. Even the animals.”

“I don’t like this story.”

“Don’t worry, it gets better. Just listen.” Blue nuzzled against his arm, and he felt heat radiating off his son’s limbs.
But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord . . .
Grace in the eyes of the Lord. Ralph Angel read the line again and looked up from the page. He’d had the thought for a while now that the world was divided into two kinds of people—those who believed they were worthy of God’s grace and those who believed they weren’t. It wasn’t something to fight—it just was or wasn’t, much the way some people were natural-born leaders while others were born to follow, or the way some people’s bodies were built for long-distance running while others’ were built for sprinting. Was it destiny? Was it fate? He didn’t know. But reading the verse seemed to confirm that what he’d felt way down in the pit of his gut was true, and he knew, just like he knew his own name, what side of the line he was on, would
always
be on, and the same emptiness that opened within him as he stood in the minimart that day opened in him again.

“What happened next?” Blue shook his arm. “Why did you stop reading?”

“Sorry.” Ralph Angel found his place and forced himself to read more.
And God said unto Noah . . . And thou shalt come into the ark.
“But there was one man who was God’s favorite,” he said. “His name was Noah and he was a good guy, and God decided to let him and his family live. So he told Noah to build a big boat.”

“A speedboat?”

“No, a wooden boat. Bigger than this house.”

•   •   •

In the winking hours, Ralph Angel startled awake. The light was on and the Bible lay open on his lap. The clock radio read 12:28 a.m., and for a long time he sat listening to the night—the refrigerator humming through its cycles, the buzz of the streetlamp, the faint croak of frogs in the gully. The minutes dragged. He’d planned to wait up for Charley so that he could ask her again about a job, but it was too late now; he’d try to catch her in the morning. Right now, he had to get out of this room, out of the house.

•   •   •

In the dark, Ralph Angel eased the Impala’s door open, and was halfway down the block, past the old church and over the railroad tracks, before he turned on his headlights. On the open road, he picked up speed. Moths and beetles flitted across the narrow tunnels of his high beams, warm air spilled through the open window, the road unfurled like a length of movie reel.

At the junction, Ralph Angel headed east toward New Orleans, a two-hour drive, and was figuring where he could score when, in the distance, over the trees, the sky took on an eerie radiance. Gradually, the Indian casino came into view: gushing fountains that threw off a twenty-foot curtain of fine mist, the entrance a spectacle of neon lights and anodized metalwork. He rolled up alongside a Chevy Avalanche, its angular converted cab dwarfing the Impala.

The marquee flickered, and inside the slots rang nonstop, though the place wasn’t very crowded for a Saturday night. Half-empty gaming tables ran down the center of the room. Along one wall, a man sat heavily on his padded stool as a dealer, looking bored in her sequined vest, tossed cards beside his short stack of chips. Ralph Angel touched his back pocket, where a withered five and a few singles nested in his wallet.

For the next hour, Ralph Angel lingered over the hunched shoulders of the last determined blackjack players, then wandered into the private room where Vietnamese high-rollers flung down twenties and fifties at Mini Baccarat, and finally, drifted into the arcade where three gangly boys stomped out a sequence of steps as the Dance Dance Revolution machine pulsed out a techno groove. He dropped a quarter into the Alpine Ski Jump, watched it roll down the narrow ramp and through the fifty-point slot in the turning wheel. The game machine spat out a length of tickets as long as his arm. Surprised, he dug in his pocket for another quarter and tried again. Bingo! Another stretch of tickets.

In the end, Ralph Angel blew two dollars on the ridiculous game. He chose a large stuffed monkey, a rubber spider, and a pack of plastic zoo animals from the display of prizes before exhaustion overtook him and he wandered back into the casino, set the monkey on the floor between his legs, rested his head against a quarter slot called Money to Burn, the spider and zoo animals into a plastic bucket at his feet.

“Looks like you got lucky.”

Ralph Angel lifted his head. The woman before him held a cocktail tray against her square waist. She nodded at the prizes.

“I got ’em for my boy.”

“Guess you win the medal for Father of the Year.”

Ralph Angel eyed her. She wasn’t pretty—a little pale for his taste—but she wasn’t ugly either. Something about her, though, the way more teeth showed on one side of her mouth than the other when she smiled, reminded him of Gwenna.
They’d had a good life once. They never meant to cross over.

“I’m just playing,” the woman said, laughing lightly. “Actually, I think it’s sweet.” She took a small pad from her apron pocket. “What can I get you?”

Ralph Angel took a moment to think. He’d snuck a couple six-packs into the back room then waited until Blue fell asleep, but it had been a long time since he’d had a real drink. Not since Phoenix.

“How about an Old Havana?”

The woman winked. “Coming right up.” Within seconds of her pressing the drink into his hands, Ralph Angel promptly drained the glass.

“My,” she said. “Aren’t we thirsty?”

He passed the glass back to her. “Can I get another?”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? Loosen you up so you’ll throw your money away?” She smiled that crooked smile again.

“Exactly.”

Another couple rounds of weak drinks, another hour of feeding the slots. Every time the woman came around to check on him, bring him a fresh drink, they’d talk for a few minutes. Nothing deep. Just bar talk. How big the last jackpot was, the last guy to get tossed out for counting cards, the most recent eighties has-been pop star to cycle through. She came by one last time before her shift ended.