Queen Sugar: A Novel (3 page)

“Pop!” Blue squeezed himself into the front seat. Christ, he thought it was a game.

“Sit back. Get down. Be quiet.”

Ralph Angel was back on the highway before he drew a breath, the clean, hard desert all around him, the rest stop shrinking to miniature in his rearview mirror.

The Colorado Plateau.

Juniper and ponderosa.

The unfurling road.

A tap on his shoulder.

“I’m still hungry, Pop,” Blue said. “And Zach really, really, really has to pee.”

“Aw, shit,” Ralph Angel said, remembering his promise. “Use this.” He dropped a dented foam cup over the seat. “And here,” he said, tossing back the Tiger’s Milk bar and Slim Jims. “Those should hold you till we can stop again.”

Blue whimpered as he struggled with the cup. After a minute he said, “Now what?”

“Now what,
what
?”

“The cup. It’s full.”

“Well, throw it out, for Christ’s sake.” Ralph Angel pressed the button for Blue’s window and felt the tug on his headrest as Blue pulled himself forward. In his mirror, he saw his son blinking as he held the cup up to the wind.

“Oh, no,” Blue cried. “Aw, Pop.”

Ralph Angel glanced quickly behind him. Blue’s shirt and pants were drenched, the cup overturned. Urine streamed down the door, a dark spot the shape of some distant continent, spreading over the burgundy upholstery. “Goddamnit!”

“It was an accident!” Blue said, his small voice quaking.

“Goddamn, Blue!”

“Pop, I’m wet.”

“Motherfuck!” Ralph Angel said. “Well, what do you want me to do about it? I’m driving. Can’t you see I’m trying to drive?” The whole world seemed to be spinning, the road ahead all zigzaggy and wavy in the mid-morning light.

Silence again from the backseat, followed by muffled sobbing.

Ralph Angel thought of the father and son in the canoe and knew that man would react differently. He would be patient. He would be kind. And then there was the memory of himself as a kid: the envelope of deep sleep, the vague awareness of liquid warmth flowing from him, and the shame as he stripped the reeking sheets off the bed. Ralph Angel glanced in the mirror. Why did it seem like the kid always got the brunt of whatever he was feeling? “Hey, look, sorry I yelled,” Ralph Angel said. “I didn’t mean it.” He unzipped his jacket. “Take off those clothes and throw them up here. You can wear this till I find a place to rinse them.”

Blue handed his wet clothes over the seat, the sweat jacket he wore now draped like a tent from his shoulders to his knees. He sat back, peeled the Slim Jim from its plastic wrapper, and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed hard, then reached for the Tiger’s Milk bar.

“Go easy, there, buddy, slow down,” Ralph Angel said. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

•   •   •

Almost an hour since he ran from the rest stop. Ralph Angel pinched a minidoughnut from the wrapper and took a bite, the chocolate coating, waxy and flavorless, stuck to his teeth. He fixed his gaze on the horizon and thought about Miss Honey. If she hadn’t called, if she’d just stayed out of his business, he could have gotten by on the money in his pocket, made due till Gwenna’s next social security check. But she
had
called, with news that Charley was coming down, and not just visiting but coming down for good, to work some sugarcane land their father left her.

“How much land?” he’d asked. The last time he saw his kid sister, she was twelve or thirteen. It was hard to imagine her being old enough to run anything.

“Plenty,” Miss Honey had said. “Come home.”

But by then, things had turned around for him and Blue. They weren’t sleeping in the car anymore—he’d sold it. They had a room. Blue was back in school. He hadn’t found a job yet, but he was optimistic, he had prospects. “There’s nothing for me in Saint Josephine,” he’d said. He knew it and she knew it too. Besides, the last time he was home, things hadn’t gone so well.

But Miss Honey was like a dog with a bone. “Why not?” she’d pressed. “I know Charley would love to see you. You could help her with the farm. It would have made your daddy happy to know his children were close.”

“If my daddy was so concerned with my welfare, why didn’t he leave half the farm to me?” He hadn’t expected to get much, maybe a few thousand dollars. He couldn’t believe Charley got everything.

“Well, if you’d paid him back like I told you, maybe you would have gotten more.”

“Jesus, ’Da. Get off my case. What happened between my daddy and me wasn’t only my fault.”

“Just think about it,” Miss Honey had said.

Blue nudged Ralph Angel’s shoulder with Zach’s feet. “I’m tired of being in this car. It’s not fun anymore.”

“Your pop’s got a lot on his mind.” Ralph Angel turned on the radio, tuned it to a rap station. “You know this song, don’t you? You can sing along if you want.”

Blue sat back. He recited the lyrics—girl trouble, police searches, paparazzi—and bobbed his head to the beat.

“There you go. Nice, buddy. Now sit tight while I work things out.”

•   •   •

Evening was rising. Ralph Angel unplugged the GPS tracking device and stuffed it under his seat. He looked down at Blue, sitting crossed-legged on the passenger seat now, unbelted and still wearing his sweat jacket. Gwenna would chew him out for letting Blue eat all that junk. She’d give him hell for not bringing extra clothes.

“You figure things out yet, Pop?” Blue scooted forward and locked Zach in the glove box.

If he took the back roads, he’d avoid the highway patrol; he wouldn’t have to worry about them punching in his license plate and seeing that the car was stolen. It would be a slower drive, but he could be there in a week, ten days tops. Ralph Angel looked through his side window. He’d liked being out west, wished things had turned out different. Phoenix, Billings—maybe someday he’d come back and give them another go. He hadn’t wanted to show up in Saint Josephine till he was back on his feet, hadn’t wanted to show up till he had something to brag about. But ’Da’s call had been like holding a flame to a pilot light.

“Pop, you going to answer me? Have you worked things out?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Seven days of driving. Ten tops. By all rights, half that farm was his. And even if he’d fucked things up and couldn’t get it for himself, he’d get it for Blue. “Buckle up,” Ralph Angel said, and he squeezed Blue’s shoulder, thinking of the man and the boy in the canoe. He made a U-turn in the road, eased the car up to eighty, set the cruise control.

“Are we going back?”

The sun had sunk below the horizon, the last of its crown blazing fiery gold above the pine. “I got a better idea,” Ralph Angel said, and flipped on his high beams. “We’re going to Saint Josephine, buddy. We’re going home.”

At the sound of Charley’s car, two dogs lounging under the screened porch dragged themselves into the sunlight, and the smaller dog, a scruffy terrier mix with fur like pipe cleaner bristles, barked and ran toward her. Charley greeted him cheerfully but gave him a wide berth as she pocketed her key and crossed the unfenced yard.

Like so many country houses she’d seen in the last few days, this one sat on brick pillars a few feet off the ground, surrounded by a collar of packed red dirt, and beyond, a wall of neatly groomed sugarcane. It was a tidy little house with stepping-stones, a screened porch, and window boxes overflowing with glossy yellow daylilies and deep purple irises. Finding that the porch door was locked, Charley cupped her hands, pressed her nose to the screen. In the late-morning sun, she could just make out two rocking chairs angled toward each other, as though the people who lived there preferred talking to each other rather than watching for cars or passersby.

“Hello?” Charley called, then she walked around the side of the house where bamboo trellises sagged under the weight of okra and tomatoes. An old Ford pickup sat parked on the grass. “Hello?” Charley called again. “Anybody?”

The bigger dog loped toward her just then, his long whip of a tail swinging. He was the color of raw sugar and slobber hung from his black muzzle in long, foamy ropes. Charley froze as he circled her, but when he whined and galloped back toward the front door, she followed.

Behind the screened porch a door creaked open. “Who’s there?”

“I’m looking for Prosper Denton,” Charley said, climbing the steps again. It was exactly what Miss Honey had warned her
not
to do. “You don’t just drop in on Prosper,” Miss Honey had said as they drove from the disastrous meeting with Frasier, heat rising off the fields and making the road undulate. According to Miss Honey, Prosper Denton ran the farms of the biggest white farmers around before he retired.

“If he’s retired why should I see him?” Charley had asked.

“You don’t
see
him,” Miss Honey had said, ominously. “You
call
him. Tell him what happened.” She had his number in her book. “But I’m telling you, if he agrees to meet with you, you can’t go over there forgetting yourself. You can’t come apart like a ball of twine that’s hit the floor.”

“My name is Charley Bordelon,” Charley said now. “I’m Miss Honey’s granddaughter.” She waited for the man to respond, to throw the door open at the mention of Miss Honey’s name, but he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t move at all. “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced. I tried calling yesterday but your phone just rang.”

“What can I do for you, Miss?” His tone was cautious.

“I’d like to talk to you about sugarcane.” Charley wished he’d step outside so she could see him, so he could see
her.
He would see the dark crescents of fatigue under her eyes, crescents she’d tried (and failed) to conceal with makeup. He would notice that she had made an extra effort to look nice: ironed her skirt, finally sewn that button on her blouse; that she was wearing
heels
, for Christ’s sake, and white nylons even though it was eighty degrees and her crotch was beginning to sweat, but worn them anyway because it seemed the proper Southern thing to do. But he didn’t come outside. “I understand you’re an expert.” Charley took a half step closer. “I’m in a bit of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I own some acreage out near the Old Spanish Trail.” Charley paused. “My manager quit.”

“What manager would that be?”

“Wayne Frasier.”

“Frasier manages LeJeune’s operation.”

“He used to,” Charley said. “My father bought it from the LeJeune family. When he passed last year, he left it to me.”

The man said nothing.

“I tried to phone—” Charley began, but mercifully, the screen door opened and she stood face to face with Prosper Denton. Brown skin smooth as a new baseball glove. Head shiny as a gumball. He could have been in his late fifties, Charley thought, if his sagging jowls and neck hadn’t told the real story.

Denton appraised her over the tops of his bifocals, then elbowed the screen door open. “Maybe you better come in.”

•   •   •

The kitchen was tight but tidy. Shellacked homemade cabinets, dishrags folded neatly over a gleaming sink. Denton pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and motioned for Charley to sit. Someone must be taking good care of him, Charley thought, because his overalls and short-sleeved button-down were not only pressed but starched. Only his black brogans with their frayed laces and run-down heels were scuffed and dusty—probably as old was he was.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Denton said, some of the gruffness fading from his tone, “I’m a bit lost in this kitchen when my wife’s not here.” He set a glass of lemonade in front of Charley, then tore a square of paper towel, folded it in half for a napkin.

Denton struck Charley as the kind of man who never wasted energy on extra movement or idle chitchat. He was foursquare Sonny Boy Williamson and Sister Rosetta Tharpe, a Silvertone guitar,
older
than old school.

He sat in the chair across from her. “So.”

“I apologize for not calling,” Charley said for the third time, and took a sip of lemonade. It was fresh-squeezed, with the perfect amount of sugar and not a hint of pulp. If summer had a taste it would be this. She could drink the whole pitcher. But when she looked up, Denton was waiting and not looking any friendlier. Charley set her glass on the table. Better get right to the point.

“My dad owned a lot of rental property back in Los Angeles.” Charley pictured the four units in Paramount whose front doors all opened onto a small courtyard filled with palm trees and ferns, the duplex in Culver City around the corner from the Italian bakery, the condo in Long Beach with a view of the
Queen Mary
. “He believed real estate was the only thing worth buying. ‘Real estate is the horse you need to ride,’ he always said. When he died, I thought his lawyer would give me a list of properties. Instead, he said I’d inherited a farm.”

Back up
, she’d told the lawyer the day after the funeral.
Eight hundred what?

Acres of sugarcane
, the lawyer had repeated, lifting the sheet of paper from the file.
Two hundred acres of plant cane and another six hundred of something called first-year stubble.
He’d rubbed his chin.

“My dad waited years for the farm to come up for sale.” Charley told Denton. “It had to be these acres. When it finally came up, he sold all his properties for the down payment.”

But that’s impossible
, she’d told the lawyer. Her father was still living in the Long Beach condo, had lived there ever since he and her mother divorced. Gently, the lawyer explained that her father had rented it back from the new owners.

Charley connected the beads of condensation that had formed on the outside of her glass. She told Denton about Frasier quitting and returning her money. She described her fields. “Until ten months ago, I thought sugar grew on the baking aisle at the supermarket. Right below the chocolate chips and the sprinkles.” As Charley spoke, she searched Denton’s face, waited for him to do something—nod in agreement, shake his head in disgust, sigh with exasperation—but he just sat there, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “According to Frasier,” Charley said, “all the best managers are taken. He says I’ll have trouble finding help so late in the season.”

Denton sat back. “Frasier’s right. You’re already three months behind. Even if you find someone, they might sell you a lot of promises. Might say all you need to do is get out there with a cultivator, clean up the rows. They’ll spray some Roundup on them weeds, charge you twenty thousand dollars, then disappear.”

“Oh my God,” Charley said, and saw a corresponding flicker on Denton’s face.

“If Frasier ain’t been doing his job, getting ready for grinding is gonna be like licking honey off a blackberry vine.” He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “Back when I was running Simoneaux’s plantation, I’d see LeJeune’s wagons at the mill. His fields were yielding one, maybe two hundred tons an acre. You don’t get that kind of tonnage without working that land right, working it all the time.”

Keep talking, Charley prayed. The more he talked, the more he might care. “Please go on.”

“Frasier ain’t been working your fields, you probably down to twenty, thirty tons. Maybe less. You might be lucky to get five tons an acre. That’s hardly worth your time.” Denton paused. “Shame those LeJeune kids didn’t do better by their daddy’s land.”

“So where do I start? How can I catch up?”

Denton ticked off the tasks. His nails were clean and short, except his pinkie nails, which were half an inch long and filed to points, as though he used them to scoop things or pick locks. “First you got to test your soil, run your drains,” he said. “You needed to start off-barring way back in March, and the time for laying-by has almost passed. If I remember right, LeJeune’s got a lot of three eighty-four out there, which tends to lodge. He might even have some five forty, which is like candy to them borers.”

“Off-barring? Laying-by? Borers?” With every word Denton spoke, Charley felt herself pulled farther out to sea.

“What kind of equipment you got?”

“Frasier said something about a new belt for a tractor,” Charley managed, “but I’m not sure what he meant.”

Denton frowned deeply. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

“He went over the list, but everything sounded the same.” Charley exhaled. “Maybe I can just buy what I need.”

“I don’t know what kind of money you got, Miss, but a new tractor’s a hundred thousand. Combine’ll set you back two fifty.”

“Two fifty what?” Charley could only stare at him. “Two hundred and fifty
thousand
?”

“That’s for last year’s model.” Denton scratched the tuft of hair below his lip. “I’m not trying to frighten you, but you’re an easy mark. You’re young, you’re not from around here, you’ve never worked cane, and frankly, you being a woman’s gonna work against you.”

“What difference does my being a woman make?”

“And colored on top of it?” Denton clasped his hands together as if in prayer, and rested his head against them. He was silent for a long moment. “You got to know what you’re getting into here, Miss Bordelon. This ain’t no game.” He pushed away from the table and stood at the counter. “Tell you a quick story. Few years ago, a farm went up for sale. There was a black farmer, Malcom Duplechain, thought he’d put in a bid. He already owned three hundred acres out near Bienville. Real good land. His daddy owned it and maybe his daddy’s daddy before that, but he wanted to grow his operation, wanted to get real big like some of these white farmers you see around. Duplechain and another colored fella decided to go in together. Property went up for sale, Duplechain put in his bid. Now, the bids were supposed to be sealed.” Denton wadded his paper towel and tossed it on the table. “I’ll give you one guess what happened.”

“I don’t know,” Charley said. “They got outbid?”

“Yeah,” Denton said, as if that much was obvious. “But by how much?”

Charley shrugged. “Ten thousand? Fifty thousand?”

Denton shook his head mournfully. “A hundred dollars, Miss Bordelon. Pocket change. Now, how do you think that happened?”

“I get it.”

But Denton shook his head again. “I’m not sure you do. This down here makes inside baseball look like a cakewalk. You can’t come down here thinking the field’s wide open. You gotta
know
this thing. You got to
live
it. I’ve been in this business all my life.” He sat down again. “Now, I can’t sit here and say every white farmer’s the same. That’d be like me saying all us black folks was the same. I know some whites that are real decent people.

“One grinding, I had thirty-two rows left to cut when my combine went out on me. Mill was closing up the next day and all that cane would’ve been lost. Know who cut those rows for me? A white farmer. My neighbor, Wilson Lapine. But it’s hard enough when you’re born into this game. What you’re trying to do?” Denton let his head drop and rubbed his temples. “Your cane’s gotta be thirteen notches high come the end of August if you want to be ready for grinding, and from what you’re telling me, I don’t see how that’s gonna happen.”

Charley closed her eyes and struggled to hold herself steady. She breathed deeply, fighting back the tears that burned her eyes and the tightening in her throat. She exhaled, and a weight, as though someone had laid a sack of cement on her breast, settled across her chest. She thought of Miss Honey—
Can’t fall apart like a ball of twine
—and opened her eyes. “Mr. Denton, I know this is a lot to ask. You’ve already been so generous.” Charley touched her ring, pressed her fingertip against one of the prongs. If she sold it, she could pay Denton whatever he demanded—maybe not forever, but for as long as it took to learn what she needed to know. “I wonder if you’d work with me, for pay, of course. I could use your help.”

She waited.

Denton rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “I’m flattered Miss Honey sent you out here to talk to me, Miss Bordelon. Your grandmother’s no fool. She knows her onions. And I hope some of what I’ve said makes sense.”