Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

But Miss Honey had already pushed back from the table and started clearing the dishes. “Farm’s waited this long, it can wait a few more days. Violet can start making calls right now. Micah, look in my purse and hand my address book to your aunt. And Violet, be sure to call Aunt Rose from Opelousas.”

“Mother, did you hear what Charley said? She’s got a lot to do right now.”

Charley cast Violet an appreciative look.

“Besides,” Violet continued, “I can’t rearrange my schedule on such short notice. We’ve got choir practice next Saturday. The All-State competition is the end of this month.”

“There, you see?” Charley said, trying to sound gentle and ministerial. “Later this summer would be better for everyone.”

“‘Can’t rearrange your schedule on such short notice,’” Miss Honey muttered. She squirted dish soap in the sink, turned on the faucet. “Well, Violet, I guess you’re a white lady now.”

Violet sighed and let her fork dangle between her fingers. “For heaven’s sake, Mother.”

“Here I’m trying to plan something for Charley and you come telling me what I can and can’t do?” Miss Honey plunged her hands into the soapy water.

“I drove all the way over here to visit Charley,” Violet said. “Let’s have a pleasant afternoon.”

“Listen here, Violet. You’re going to call the family like I told you, and you’re going to cancel your practice.”

“Mother,” Violet said, quietly. “I may be your child, and I don’t mean any disrespect. But there’s nothing you can say that’s going to make me cancel that practice.” She folded her napkin primly. “I’d love to get the family together, but not next Saturday. No, ma’am.”

Miss Honey turned the faucet off, and lather dropped from her arms as she waved toward the door. “If that’s the way you’re going to act, then get out of my house. I’m tired of looking at you.”

“Mother, give Charley some time. Let her work things out on her farm before you go piling more on her plate.”

Miss Honey slapped the counter and they all jumped. “Okay, Miss First Lady. It’s a shame your prizewinning choir is more important than your family, but we’re having a reunion next Saturday and you’re going to help.”

Violet pushed away from the table.

“Wait.” Charley leaped to her feet. “This is crazy. Violet, you just got here.” She grabbed Violet’s hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

“No,” Violet said. “Charley, I’m glad you’re back. You look real good.” Charley tried to follow but Violet raised her hand. “I’ll let myself out.”

At the front door, Charley said, “Don’t go.”

Violet pulled her close. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You’ll be fine. You can handle it.” The sound of clanging pots rang from the kitchen and Violet looked over Charley’s shoulder, her expression filled with anguish. Then she touched the nape of Charley’s neck. “I really do love your hair. I wish I had the guts to do it.”

• • •

Charley wasn’t the praying kind. She believed what her father always said: that God helps those who help themselves; that most people are too quick to slough off their responsibility like a pair of dirty gym socks, lay their problems at God’s doorstep. And until recently, Charley believed she was doing everything she could to make the farm a success. But now she was beginning to think she needed a little help. She slid out of bed and dropped to her knees as the morning sun filtered through the curtains. Please, God. Let this farming thing break my way. She cradled her face in her hands and waited for the words. The floor was unwelcoming. The rug smelled of dust and feet, and a faint trace of Murphy’s Oil Soap. Please, God. Give me a sign. A flash of light. A burning bush. Jacob’s ladder. I’m not picky. I just need to know you’re there. She strained for an answer, held herself still as she could, but heard only an empty silence, felt air so heavy it was a presence all its own.

• • •

Half past seven, and the kitchen thermometer already read eighty-six degrees. Charley wandered into the den, which was even warmer because Miss Honey insisted on running the space heater for her arthritis. Miss Honey and Micah sat riveted by The Littlest Colonel . Shirley Temple, in bows and lace, stomped into the stable, demanding Bojangles teach her to dance. “I got no time for dancing,” Bojangles said, in an apologetic drawl.

Micah, her breakfast on a TV tray cluttered with saucers — grits on one, scrambled eggs on another, sausage on a third — said, “She looks like Bo Peep.”

Charley scoffed. “She looks like a poodle.” Bojangles’s docile, childlike manner, the way he grinned — it sickened her, and after a few seconds, she said, “Isn’t there something else you could watch? Something educational?”

“Like that police show you had on last night?” Miss Honey took a swig of her Coke. “I don’t see what’s educational about some man chopping a woman into a hundred pieces and stuffing her in a garbage bag. I don’t see Shirley Temple running around with a hatchet.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Micah said. “Nice job of setting a good example.”

Charley winced. First the ring, then the garden, and now this. Coming down here was supposed to bring them closer, but they only seemed to be growing farther apart. “You know what I mean,” Charley said, wearily. The farm and her daughter — she worried constantly about both, was trying every trick she knew, and yet neither was improving. “All I came to say is I’m driving out to the farm after church. Micah, we’ll stop by the nursery so you can pick the seeds you want for your garden.”

“We’re not going to church,” Miss Honey said, as though the headline had been plastered all over town and only Charley had missed it. “We got a lot of errands to run for the reunion. So go in there and fix your plate.”

Between the heat, the ridiculous movie, and this last announcement, all at once, the sight of Miss Honey nursing her morning Coke and Stanback was more than Charley could bear. “Isn’t it a little early for that stuff?” She heard the edge in her voice and didn’t care. “I mean, is it even safe to drink?”

Miss Honey held the Coke up to the light, swirled it like fine wine, and took a long, deliberate sip. “I’ve been drinking Coke and Stanback every morning for fifty-some years and it hasn’t killed me yet. Now hurry up. We’re going to Sugar Town.”

On television, a pickaninny whipped out her harmonica and played “Oh! Susanna.” Bojangles couldn’t resist and started to dance, his eyes growing bulbous as he performed a noodle-legged jig and finally scurried out of the stable. Micah and Miss Honey looked at each other and laughed.

“That’s it,” Charley said. “You’ve got to turn that off. It’s lowering your IQ.” She marched over to the TV, punched the power button. “I’m sorry, Miss Honey, I won’t — First, it’s driving around without a map, then the reunion, now it’s — I can’t keep saying yes all the time. If I don’t find someone right away—” Charley felt her mouth moving, heard her voice, saw Miss Honey and Micah staring at her, their expressions a mix of focused attention and concern. It was the same expression hospital orderlies had, Charley thought, right before they wrestled the crazy lady into a straitjacket. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go without me.”

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“You know what?” Charley said. The realization had dawned upon her and she surrendered to it. “I’m not okay. I can’t breathe, because it’s hotter than the Amazon rain forest in here, and my kid is taking social cues from a tap dancing minstrel. I can’t find a manager to run my farm, and I’ve got some corporate thug threatening to run me out of business. All the black workers around here think I’m out to cheat them, I’ve got a stack of bills I can barely pay, and each day that passes, I’m this much closer to losing the whole goddamned thing.” The absurdity of it all. She almost laughed; probably would have, if it hadn’t been so serious.