Queen Sugar: A Novel (28 page)

Charley took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “Hi, Mom.”

“Where are you? Where’s Micah? I’ve been watching the news. Please tell me you’re okay.”

“We’re all fine,” Charley said, thinking nothing could be less true, and heard Lorna sigh with relief. “John boarded up Miss Honey’s windows, which I think made all the difference.” She went on for a few minutes, but at some point it seemed pointless trying to describe what the hurricane had been like. It wasn’t something you could sum up with words. It was like Mr. Denton said, you had to live it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” Lorna said. “I was worried. People here have been asking and I didn’t know what to tell them,” which Charley understood was Lorna’s way of chiding her for not calling.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “I should have called before now. It’s just I’ve been so busy since we got here. There’s so much to do. But you can tell everyone we’re fine. A little shaken and there’s a lot to clean up, but I think we were lucky.”

“That’s very good,” Lorna said. “I’m so relieved, because from here the news reports looked so frightening—all that rain, and the flooding, goodness. I really can’t imagine.”

“I know,” Charley said, and swallowed against the tightening she felt in her throat. She pictured her fields, which looked like nothing more than a big brown pond now with the cane stalks barely poking through. “You have to see it to understand.”

There was a long pause, which seemed to stretch out endlessly, and as she searched for something to say, Charley mourned that things between her and her mother had become so awkward and strange. The whole conversation made her feel antsy and agitated, as though she were trying to fit into a sweater whose sleeves were tight.

“And how are you, Mom?” Charley said, finally. “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, Charlotte, you know me. I always have a thousand things on my plate. Busy, busy, busy, all the time.”

“That’s good.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m at a function right now.”

“Yes,” Charley said. “I can hear.”

When she dialed her mother’s number, Charley had not planned to ask for a loan—not exactly. She’d only wanted to hear her mother’s voice and feel a little bit of the warmth she’d felt when she was young enough to sit on her mother’s lap. Had she hoped her mother would ask about the farm? Yes, she had, and maybe even offer to help. But it seemed Lorna had no intention of asking or offering anything.

“Actually, things aren’t good,” Charley said. “I’ve had a setback on the farm. The hurricane flattened everything. My crop is probably ruined, three of the four quadrants, anyway, and Mr. Denton—that’s my manager, I don’t know what I’d do without him—anyway, Mr. Denton says even if we’re lucky enough to salvage a few acres, we’ll need additional capital to make it to grinding. Even more than we needed before.” Charley paused.

“My goodness, listen to you,” Lorna said. “Quadrants? Capital? Grinding? Good heavens, Charlotte, you sound like a real farmer.”

“I guess I do,” Charley said, and felt a small burst of warmth spread over her. “I told Mr. Denton I’d find the money, and I wondered—you know I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate—but I wondered if you’d help me. I need a hundred and two thousand dollars total, but I’ll take whatever you can spare.”

Charley waited.

“My goodness, dear, that’s an awful lot of money.”

“Yes, it is.” Charley thought of her father. He’d always told her she should never make assumptions about other people’s time or their money, and that’s the way she’d tried to live. The moment she asked her mother, she regretted it, but the question was out there now. “It would be a loan, not a gift.”

“I’ll take Micah,” Lorna said, finally.

“You’ll what?”

“Send Micah to me. That way you can focus all your attention on your farm without distraction. You can get a second job without worrying who’ll take care of her.”

In the late-afternoon sun, the courthouse cast off warm yellow light and looked even more stately than it had an hour before, with the row of columns throwing long shadows across the grass and the sky blue as a robin’s egg. The air was warm and the breeze carried with it the faint fragrance of willow and pine.

“That’s very generous of you,” Charley said, biting back tears, “but Micah’s fine right here.”

“Very well,” Lorna said, “but if you change your mind, you know I’ll always take her.”

Through the receiver, Charley heard another round of applause and the clatter of dishes being cleared. “I should let you get you back to your lunch.”

“Yes,” Lorna said. She sighed again, and Charley pictured her sipping coffee from the china cup, her lips barely touching the rim. “I almost forgot,” Lorna said, “I sent Micah a party dress. You can tell her it’s an early Christmas present. I hope it fits.”

“I’m sure it will. I’ll make sure she calls when it arrives.”

“Very well,” Lorna said. “I’m glad you called. And don’t worry, Charlotte, you’re resourceful, just like your father. I know you’ll figure out something.”

•   •   •

The loan officer at First Bank of Baton Rouge had hair plugs, and Charley, sitting at the corner of his desk in his padded cubicle, couldn’t stop staring at the fine hairs, like chick fuzz, and the constellation of tiny punch holes laid out in even rows. The irony of the situation was not lost on her, and she almost laughed out loud because there was as much chance those plugs would take as there was of her getting the loan. Charley knew, because this was the tenth loan she had applied for in the last two days; the tenth time she’d sat across from a loan officer in a bad suit and pleaded her case, and it would likely be the tenth time she would be turned away.

As if on cue, the loan officer glanced up from her application. His skin was pale under the fluorescent lights, his expression grim as an undertaker’s. He tapped his pen against his chin.

“And you’re sure you don’t have any collateral?”

“I’m sure,” Charley said.

“Anyone willing to co-sign?”

Charley thought again of her mother. “No.”

The loan officer flipped the pages and frowned.

“My credit is decent,” Charley said, massaging her ring finger. “Not perfect, but certainly not the worst. I just need enough money to get through grinding.”

But the loan officer closed her file. “I’m sorry, Miss Bordelon. Since the meltdown, banks are more cautious than they used to be. I’ll do everything I can, but I can’t see how underwriting is going to approve this without you at least putting up some collateral. I’m afraid you present—”

“I know,” Charley interrupted. “Too much of a risk.” Every banker she had talked to from Saint Josephine to Baton Rouge had used that phrase. She gathered her backpack. She had begged the first three loan officers to reconsider; she was tired. “Thanks very much for your time.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” the man said. “Good luck to you. And if you find a co-signer, I’d be happy to resubmit your application. My dad farmed sugarcane in the eighties, so I know what you’re up against.”

“I appreciate you saying that.”

He held the door open for her. “Well, be careful out there. The roads are still pretty dangerous.”

On the drive back to Miss Honey’s, staring out over fields that only three days before looked almost tropical in their lushness, Charley knew she should be grateful. She had the best two business partners anyone could ask for; she had her family; she had her health; and yet she was overcome with a sorrow so great she feared her chest would crack open. She pulled over to the side of the road and laid her head against the wheel. If only her father or Davis were there to tell her to keep going, or better yet, say it was all right to stop and rest for a while.

By the time Charley got back to Saint Josephine, it was evening, and the Quarters, buzzing with neighborly activity all summer, were quiet, Miss Honey’s street hushed now that school had started and folks had shifted into their autumn routines. Charley pulled up alongside the gully and parked. The yard was still a mess. Miss Honey stood in the window. By the time Charley reached the porch, she had opened the door.

“I thought you were Ralph Angel,” Miss Honey said, standing there in her faded housedress and slippers.

“Nope,” Charley said. “It’s just me.” Miss Honey looked tired. Her eyes weren’t bright as usual, her complexion washed out, her shoulders slumped. She tucked a wadded Kleenex in her pocket and Charley wondered if she’d been crying. “He hasn’t been home?”

“No,” Miss Honey said, sharply.

Two days since the storm and no sign of Ralph Angel; that was strange for a person who seemed interested in little more than hanging around the house. Driving home, Charley had noticed all the boarded-up stores and restaurants along Main Street, the owners still busy dragging tables and dishes, computers and racks of soggy clothes out to the sidewalk. Only the Winn-Dixie had opened for business. Charley set her backpack on the couch. “Where could he have gone?”

“How should I know?” Miss Honey snapped. “Do I look like a fortune-teller?” She took the Kleenex from her pocket and twisted it.

Stung, Charley stepped back. “I’m sorry.” In all the months she’d lived under Miss Honey’s roof, Miss Honey had never spoken harshly to her. Charley watched as Miss Honey went to the window again, pulled the curtains open, and peered out at the street. A little sigh of worry, almost a whisper, escaped her lips as she pressed her face to the glass.

“I know you’re worried about Ralph Angel, but I’m sure he’s fine,” Charley said. “He’s probably safe in a hotel somewhere, or he might even be driving home right now. I-10 is still jammed with all the people trying to get back from Arkansas and Mississippi. I should know—it took me twice as long to get back from Baton Rouge just now. How about if I call Hollywood? I’m sure he’d come over to clean up the yard.”

“The yard ain’t the problem! Can’t you see that?” Miss Honey flicked the curtains closed and turned toward Charley. “Ralph Angel is out there alone. He could be hurt or dead, for all we know. It’s time you starting thinking about someone other than yourself, girl. You’re not the only one who has problems, so stop all that whining.”

Charley was stunned. As many evenings as she’d come home from the farm with stories about her day, she’d never thought of it as complaining. If anything, she’d always thought Miss Honey was interested in her progress. “I didn’t realize I was whining. I apologize.”

“Well, you were,” Miss Honey said. “And I’m not in the mood for it. Not tonight.”

“Then I’ll get out of your hair,” Charley said, coolly, and thought of Violet, who
twice
had walked out of Miss Honey’s house. Now, she understood more than ever what Violet must have felt—the hurt, the anger, the deep sadness at being treated so badly for no reason she could see. Charley picked up her backpack. She’d clearly overstayed her welcome. It was like her father said:
Never make people glad twice—glad to see you come, and glad to see you go.
Charley walked through the dining room, past the china cabinet filled with cut-glass figurines and milky green cups and saucers, the ones Miss Honey collected from oatmeal boxes decades ago, and was almost at the kitchen door when Miss Honey called out.

“I’m responsible for that boy.”

Charley turned. “Ralph Angel is a grown man.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Miss Honey sat on the edge of the couch. She closed her eyes, and for a moment Charley thought she was praying. “Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done,” she said.

Charley walked back into the living room and sat down. Outside, the sun had set, and beyond the sheer curtain, twilight, soft and purply, pressed against the window.

They sat in the silence as the living room grew darker, until finally, Miss Honey said, “Ernest felt guilty for getting that girl pregnant and causing her to lose her scholarship,” and it took Charley a few seconds to figure out that Miss Honey was talking about Emily, the girl Ernest had dated in high school, Ralph Angel’s mother. “He wanted to marry her and stay here in Saint Josephine, but I wouldn’t allow it,” Miss Honey said. “I couldn’t bear the idea of Ernest giving up his dream, especially after what LeJeune did to him. I told him to leave Emily, go out to California like he planned, and when the baby was born, I’d help her take care of it.” Miss Honey dabbed her nose. “Ernest wanted to take Emily with him. But I knew she’d weigh him down. Something about her wasn’t right—she was smart, but fragile as a little bird. Ernest needed a fighter, a woman strong enough to stand with him against the world. So I offered Emily’s family two thousand dollars—all the money I had—to keep her away until Ernest left town. Emily’s parents were sharecroppers. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money.” Miss Honey stopped talking and stared out the window. “I think the strain of taking care of a child made Emily’s condition worse.”

“If you knew she was struggling, why didn’t you help her?”

“I tried,” Miss Honey said. “I wanted to keep my promise. But her folks told her what I did, how I sent Ernest away and paid them, and she was so angry with me, she wouldn’t let me near Ralph Angel when he was born. Not for two whole years, and by then, she was having all kinds of trouble. They put her in Charity Hospital for a while and that helped, but she wouldn’t stay. The only way I got to see Ralph Angel was when Ernest came home to visit. He brought Ralph Angel over here every day—such a pretty little boy. I’d hold him and rock him like he was my own. But when Ernest went back to college, he had to take Ralph Angel back to Emily, and I wouldn’t see him again until the next summer. I heard about all the jobs Emily lost, how she struggled. It weighed on my heart. But she was Ralph Angel’s mama. I didn’t have custody.”

“Does Ralph Angel know what you did?”

“No.”

“Do Violet and Uncle Brother know?”

Miss Honey shook her head. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told. Back then, they were all too young to understand, and when they got older, well—I was too ashamed.” She paused for a long moment, struggling to fight off the tears. “Besides, after Ernest and Lorna sent Ralph Angel back from California he came to live with us. All the reasons why and how didn’t matter.” Miss Honey looked at Charley, almost pleadingly, then reached for her hand. “So, you see, Ralph Angel is my responsibility. Whatever happened to him all those years he was with Emily, happened because of me. Whatever troubles he has now, he comes by them honest.”