Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“For heaven’s sake,” Violet said. “I’ve got too much on my mind. John, this is your cousin. I’m trying to think if you were even born the last time she was down here.”

“Hey, cuz.” John towered over her. He smiled warmly. His grip was firm and he held Charley’s hand a beat longer than she expected. His close-shaven hair, his thick neck and broad shoulders, his solid chest muscles pressing against his ironed polo shirt suggested a military tour.

“John’s a guard over at Huntsville,” Violet said, proudly. “No, let me say it right — a ‘correctional officer.’”

“Guard’ll do fine,” John said, beaming, and smoothed an already-smooth shirt.

“I know you just got here”—Uncle Brother put his arms around Charley’s shoulder and leaned in close—“but when things get too slow for you in this little fish pond, make Violet bring you across the border. Texas. Now, that’s the big time.”

Violet snapped her fingers. “That reminds me, John. Charley has a little girl, Micah. She’s running around here somewhere; a regular little woman. I was thinking you ought to take Micah fishing.”

“If it’s not any trouble,” Charley added. “If you’re not too busy. She’s never fished.”

“No problem, cousin. I go all the time. I’ll take her out to Cousin Bozo’s fish camp.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea.” Violet turned to Charley. “It’s real nice. Right on the bayou. Big old cypress trees, Spanish moss hanging down; like something out of the movies.”

“A fish camp.” Charley marveled again at how different life was down here.

“We’ll catch some bass,” John said. “Some bluegill, a little white perch. You fish, cousin? Maybe you’d like to come along.”

The way John said cousin , the way he smiled that smile, made Charley think of fireflies flickering at dusk, water bugs skating across the pond, warm nights on a screened porch. She thought of what Prosper Denton had said. Nothing but you, that fish, and your thoughts.

Uncle Brother clapped his hands then rubbed them together. “So, where is the old girl? El Capitan? ”

“Inside,” Violet said. “But watch yourself. I don’t know why, but she’s got a chicken to pluck with everybody this morning. She turned her nose up at Charley’s crudités and got on me about some of the mayonnaise I used. John, you’d better get those salads in the house. I know your mama didn’t work as long as she did to have them spoil. Brother, you fire up the grill.”

Charley turned toward the house, but Uncle Brother called her back.

“Hold up. I got a surprise for you, niece.” He opened the Bronco’s back hatch. There was a lot of grunting and swearing, and he had to try three times, but he finally lifted out the enormous turtle, which, to Charley’s immense relief, was already dead. Its head was the size of a football, and you could fit a whole honeydew melon in the gaping mouth. Its tongue was as big as a cow’s and its shell was the diameter of Miss Honey’s coffee table. Its tail, covered in what could easily be vinyl flooring, was as long as a Labrador’s and four times as thick. Uncle Brother leaned backward as he struggled to balance the turtle on his knees. He grinned broadly at Charley and said, “Thought I’d make my special turtle soup in your honor. Welcome home.”

It was eleven o’clock. It was noon. Relatives arrived in steady waves like a river’s rising tide — Great Aunt Rose from Opelousas with her high cheekbones and Charley’s same smile; Uncle Oliver and Aunt Madeline, with the same red tint in their complexions; cousins Screw Neck and Joe Black, Buzzard Gravy and Maraine, who, as a young woman, moved all the way to San Francisco, where she worked as a maid at the Mark Hopkins Hotel and saved enough money to buy the real fur coat that she was wearing in a photograph that showed her waiting on the corner for a trolley. People two-stepped to blues and zydeco humming through Uncle Brother’s rigged sound system. In one corner of the yard, folks slapped dominoes on the rented tables, while in another, men gathered at the barbecue grill as smoke drifted into the woods. And Charley, struck by the wonder of it all, let herself be drawn in. She listened to Uncle Arthur’s story about growing up in a sharecropping family on Old Man Hebert’s farm, of shopping at Hebert’s store, where a nickel bought a bottle of Hadacol or Woodbury After Shave Powder, and a dance wasn’t a dance without a little Rose of Sharon hair tonic to make a fella’s hair look fine. And just before they ate, Charley joined in the moment of silence when the entire family paused to hold hands and say a prayer for Ernest, funeraled and laid to rest way out in California, may his soul rest in peace. These blessings we say in Jesus’s name. Praise the Lord. Amen.

The afternoon stretched away. People gathered around Charley, between rounds of bid whist and second helpings of potato salad, to tell her how proud they were of her and to ask about the farm. How had Ernest made enough money to buy so much land? It felt wonderful, like being tucked in at night, to know people were interested in her story, to hear them express their concern and wish her well.

Charley had just helped Miss Honey rearrange a table loaded with lemon cakes and sugar cookies and popcorn balls made with real molasses, when a man who looked to be in his early forties, wearing a pith helmet and shabby army fatigues, pushed a lawn mower into the yard and parked it along the fence.

“There you are, Hollywood,” Miss Honey said, her face brightening. “Didn’t know if your mama would let you come.”

“Hey there, Miss Honey. Comment ça va? ” He took off his helmet and clutched it to his chest as he kissed her cheek. “You know I wouldn’t let nothing keep me away.”

“This is my great-grandbaby, Micah, all the way from Los Angeles of California,” Miss Honey said, waving Micah over. “And this is my granddaughter, Charley. The one I was telling you about.”

Hollywood bowed to Micah and kissed her hand. “ Enchanté. I see Miss Honey gave you the camera. I found it in her back room when I was cleaning.”

His accent — part French, part Southern, and something else too — reminded Charley of NeNee Desonier and her granddaughter. Only, Hollywood’s skin was pale, his eyes blue, his coarse graying hair brushed back in gentle waves. He didn’t look black, but she was sure he wasn’t white either. “Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand, ready to shake, but Hollywood saluted her instead. She looked for stripes on his sleeve, bars on his collar, then to Miss Honey for an explanation. But Miss Honey only took out her handkerchief and dabbed her forehead.

They stood awkwardly for a few seconds, then Charley pointed to the fence. “Nice mower.” Someone had soldered banana bicycle handlebars where the regular lawnmower handle should have been.

“Hollywood has a nice business cutting lawns for people in the Quarters,” Miss Honey said.

Hollywood glanced at Charley and blushed deeply. “Just a little something to keep me busy.” He brushed grass clippings off his pants and turned to Miss Honey. “I just finished Miss Ivy’s and came to tell you I’ma run home real quick, clean up, but I’ll be back.” He turned to Charley. “So you’re Ralph Angel’s baby sister.”

Charley’s breath caught. She was accustomed to being referred to as Lorna and Ernest’s daughter, as Micah’s mother, as Davis’s widow. Since she’d been in Saint Josephine, she’d started to think of herself as Miss Honey’s granddaughter. But she still wasn’t accustomed to being called Ralph Angel’s sister.

“Hollywood and Ralph Angel grew up together,” Miss Honey said.