Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“Oh, chère .” Violet wrapped her arm around Charley.

In the street, another car passed. Charley waved; it was second nature now.

Violet put her hand on top of Charley’s, and for a few seconds, they both stared out into the yard.

Finally, Violet sighed. “Life does get daily.”

“If it had just been me, that would have been okay.” Charley took a breath and made herself say, “Micah’s arm. That’s because of me.” And suddenly, her admission felt like enough, too much, even. Yes, Violet was her closest ally, but she didn’t need to know everything. Yes, she was a preacher’s wife, a good Christian woman, but she was still human, and even the most godly, well-intentioned human being couldn’t resist a bit of judgment were she to hear the rest of the story. Violet must have sensed this, because she sat perfectly still, as though she knew the slightest disturbance would trigger Charley’s retreat. She didn’t make eye contact. She just waited.

Months passed and Charley still wore the blue robe. Micah began doing laundry, dishes, making both beds. Her one symbolic act had been dinner, but that slipped too: a baked potato where there’d been roast chicken and a fresh green salad.

She was in bed, listening to pots rattle in the kitchen, the night she gave up and asked Micah to cook. She heard a sound that she strangely recognized as a rush of air, and then a cry. Not a cry for help exactly; more a cry of surprise, and by the time Charley reached the kitchen, Micah was in flames — her whole left side lit like a column of red cellophane. Charley looked and saw the pot of water boiling over, the box of macaroni and cheese. She saw the bottle of cleaning solution overturned on the counter and the long, narrow river where the spill snaked toward the burner. She saw the fine red seam of fire creeping up Micah’s T-shirt, feasting on the drenched cotton, which curled away and turned to ash.

Violet listened quietly. She still didn’t look at Charley, for which Charley was thankful. And for a second, Charley thought she understood why Catholics revered the act of confession. There was something freeing about speaking your mind. There was a relief in sharing the secrets you’d tended like mushrooms in the darkest corner of your thoughts without having to meet another’s gaze.

• • •

In the bedroom, Micah turned her back, pulled her T-shirt over her head. She covered her bare chest with one hand, but Charley could see where the smooth caramel-colored graft ended and the normal skin began. In another year, probably less, Charley thought, Micah would ask her to leave the room when she changed. Wanting to extend the small moment, she said, casually, “Today was fun,” like they’d only gone for a walk in the park.

“Totally,” Micah said. “Aunt Violet’s van is cool.”

“It is.”

Charley picked Micah’s clothes up off the floor and was happy to do it. She put Micah’s camera on the nightstand and was happy to do it. She pushed their suitcases to the back of the closet, saw the package on the floor, and hoisted it onto the bed. Between the farm and reunion preparations, she had forgotten it was there. The packaging tape peeled away with a whisper; the butcher paper crackled as she folded it back and kneaded it into a ball. She unspiraled the sheets of bubble wrap until the first bits of bronze gleamed through. Richmond Barthé’s The Cane Cutter. A familiar calm settled over her.

Micah buttoned her pajama top. “Yuck. Why’d you bring that?”

The figure — a black man, naked to the waist — swung a cane knife. He was only eighteen inches tall, but his power took Charley’s breath away. She ran her hand over the Cane Cutter’s broad shoulders, the knots of muscle in his arms, the burnished slabs of his pecs and back flexed with the force of his swing.

The day her father brought it home, he called Charley and Lorna into the living room. Charley got there first and saw the coffee table heaped with Lorna’s silver-framed family photographs, many of them facedown, Lorna’s prized Lalique vase, the one with the naked ladies following each other around the icy glass, resting on its side.

“So?” Her father placed his hand on her shoulder.

Charley heard her mother’s footsteps in the hall behind them; heard her mother’s humming stop as she entered the room. But she saw how excited, how proud her father looked and she did not turn around. She took her time studying the piece. The bronze man looked like he must be sweating. Something about him — his deep-set eyes, wide forehead, and square hands — seemed familiar. He stirred up a feeling she could not name.

“He looks like you,” Charley said.

“I certainly hope not.” Her mother, coiffed and buffed from a day at the salon, was already holding the Lalique vase. “What’s next, Ernest? A painting of the garbage man?”

Charley looked from her mother to her father and saw his expression dim, his mouth move as if he tasted something sour.

“This is the living room,” Lorna said. “Your laborer can go in the den.”

“Move it,” her father said, quietly, not taking his hand from Charley’s shoulder, “and I’ll break every piece of goddamned crystal in this house.”

Now Charley touched a finger to The Cane Cutter . The curve of his back like he could lift ten times his weight, the rough drape of his pants, which she imagined as burlap or canvas; his determined gaze, as though he could cut a thousand acres by himself. He almost breathed.

Years later, after her parents divorced, Charley let herself into her father’s condo. She found him staring at The Cane Cutter .

“Dad? You okay?” He was on his second round of chemo by then. Leiomyosarcoma. Leios from the Greek word for “smooth.” Sarx , Greek for “flesh.” Cancer of the soft connective tissue: bone, cartilage, muscle.

When she sat, he patted her hand and she saw that the treatment had turned his nail beds the color of walnut shells. But she was not going to talk about his nails. She was not going to ask him if he’d slept; he hated that.

“I love the way he stands,” she said, tilting her head. Because it was easier to look at The Cane Cutter with his broad back and tapered waist and biceps all intact than it was to acknowledge how the muscles in her father’s arms and legs had withered away; he’d lost so much weight, the hollows beneath his collarbones were cups of shadow. Because it was easier to appreciate how the track lights brought out the warm tones in the bronze — the rich rusts and golds — than to admit her father’s complexion had turned the color of bile.

“What else?” her father had asked.

She’d reached for the words. “A quiet confidence.” He seemed to approve. She went on. “And a defiance.”

“Yes,” her father said, nodding. “Exactly.”

Now Charley stepped over the butcher paper and bubble wrap heaped on the floor. She slid The Cane Cutter onto the dresser, where she could always see it.

Micah popped a row of bubble wrap. “Did it cost a lot of money?”

“Sort of.” No sense in telling Micah how much.

“Gross,” Micah said, making a face. “It looks like a mud monster. Put it back in the closet.”

Pop, pop. Like a cap gun.

“He’s staying right here.”

Micah draped her dirty T-shirt over The Cane Cutter ’s shoulders, pulled it up over his face, went back to her bubble wrap.

“Don’t touch,” Charley said, pulling the T-shirt off. She needed to see him. “I’m not kidding.” And stop that fucking popping.

Four months in the hospital and a year of physical therapy before the doctors said Micah would recover. Charley still put on the blue robe at night. It was her fault Micah wore only long sleeves to school, even when the weather called for flimsy summer clothes. It was her fault Micah didn’t want to swim anymore or go to the beach. Charley cried in the dark, until one day, she came home to the little Spanish bungalow to find The Cane Cutter on her mantle. No sign of her father anywhere, not even a note. But she didn’t need one. The message was clear. He was telling her, Get up . He was telling her, Fight for your life . He was telling her, We are the same, you’ll find your way, I won’t let you fall . She carried the blue robe out to the patio, dropped it on the poured concrete, and doused it with lighter fluid. Then she lit a match.