Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“We been knowing each other more than thirty years,” Hollywood said.

“They were like brothers from the beginning. Ain’t that right?”

Hollywood fingered his helmet and looked off toward the street. “I guess.”

“Lord knows you’ve eaten enough meals at my kitchen table,” Miss Honey said. “Which reminds me. When are you coming over to finish cleaning the back room?”

“Friday afternoon if that’s okay. Right after I cut Miss Maggie’s grass.” Hollywood put on his helmet, preparing to go.

“Well, don’t forget. ’Cause Charley and them are sleeping up front in Ralph Angel’s room and I know they’ll change their minds once they see how big that back room is.”

Micah made a tiny sound and stepped on Charley’s foot.

The afternoon they arrived, they followed Miss Honey through the den with the faux wood paneling and down the narrow hall, past a laundry room, past the half bath, and the sunporch with a washing machine and a deep freezer that hummed loudly.

“Won’t have anything back here to bother you but the sound of your own voice,” Miss Honey had said. She stepped into a darkened room where the air was noticeably cooler, and yanked the cord dangling from the ceiling. Harsh white light flooded the room. “It’s the biggest room in the house,” Miss Honey had said. “And it’s private.”

Standing on the threshold, Charley looked past Miss Honey into a room crowded with garden tools, old bicycles and vacuum cleaners, mountains of browning newspaper, boxes of old clothes, and shopping bags brimming with mismatched shoes. She spotted a king-size bed piled with clutter, just visible beneath a small window. And worse than the sight was the smell — ointment and mothballs, mildew and dust. Odors that lingered, Charley thought. Odors that would hang in her clothes and hair.

“It’s so messy,” Micah had whispered. “And it smells like old people.”

“Don’t mind this junk, sugar,” Miss Honey said, and went on to explain that she’d hired Hollywood, her gardener and all-around handyman, to clear away all the boxes. “He only got to half of what’s back here, but when he’s through, y’all can make this your home away from home.”

That’s when Charley interrupted. Said, as delicately as she could, that it was too much trouble.

“Back here, you’ll have room to spread out, get comfortable,” Miss Honey had said, waving Charley’s protest away. “I saw all those suitcases and bags you brought with you.”

But Charley had pushed. “I remember another room.” She’d pressed her finger to her lips. “Up front. It had a window that looked out onto the porch.”

Miss Honey had hesitated. “Ralph Angel’s room. Besides, there’s but one bed in there.”

That was the first time Charley had heard her half brother’s name in years. “Really, we’ll manage,” Charley had said.

Miss Honey shook her head. “Mighty silly to crowd two people into that little room.”

“I like that room,” Micah had said. “I like little rooms.”

“We’ll manage,” Charley said.

Miss Honey had sucked in her cheeks. “Big room like this going to waste, but if that’s the way y’all want it.” She gave the light cord another quick yank plunging the room into darkness.

Now, with Hollywood promising to finish the job, Charley imagined what might have nibbled through the stacked boxes, made nests in the piles of old clothes, given birth to litters of pink blind hairless babies the size of her thumbnail. She squeezed Micah’s hand. She looked at Miss Honey and thought, She may be the ringmaster, she may be the Grande Dame, but there was no way in hell they were staying in that back room.

• • •

Uncle Brother’s turtle soup and Miss Honey’s gumbo had been devoured. There was still a wedge of Violet’s lemon pound cake left, though it wouldn’t last long, and the last carton of Blue Belle ice cream was melting. But Charley’s crudités with garlic hummus sat untouched as the Impala cruised past Miss Honey’s and parked.

Charley looked up from the clutch of older women seated on the porch and watched the latecomer as he stepped through the gate. She nudged Violet. “Who’s that?”

And because it took Violet a long moment to answer, Charley thought she had forgotten the man’s name, thought that the long afternoon of laughter and old stories and a beer or two had made her aunt a little tipsy and forgetful. But Violet said, clearly, “Good Lord. What’s he doing here?” which made Charley and everyone else on the porch look again. Even Uncle Brother, who had planted himself at the bid whist table two hours ago and not gotten up once, put down his cards and stared in disbelief.

The man stood just inside the gate. A small boy called, “Pop, wait,” from the car.

“Well, come on, then,” the man said, and held the gate open as the boy climbed out, then broke into a gallop that was lighthearted and, Charley thought, a little desperate. They stood together in the grass, waiting.

“Pop?”

“Don’t worry.” The man threw his arm over the boy’s shoulders, pulled him close. “This is your family.” He cleared his throat and stepped forward, the child clinging to his wrist. “Well, hell. Somebody say something.” He gave his son’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You all are making my boy here uncomfortable.”

The boy’s shirt, with a truck decal on the chest, was one long smear of chocolate fingerprints.

Uncle Brother balled his napkin and stood up. “What are you doing here, Ralph Angel?”

Charley was twelve the last time she saw Ralph Angel, and he was nineteen. He came to her parents’ house for Christmas dinner, his first visit since their father sent him home, and he’d surprised her with a chemistry set — the small metal cabinet with a black leather handle and real glass beakers, copper sulfate, aluminum bicarbonate, and citric acid in brightly labeled bottles. He was a college freshman, he said, planned to major in engineering then work for a big oil company after he graduated. But what Charley remembered most clearly was that he gave her ten dollars. And it wasn’t the money as much as the way he gave it: pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, licked his fingers, and peeled off a ten, which he folded in half and held between his fingers, flicking his wrist as if to suggest he had money to throw away.

The metal locker, Charley thought now. The roll of bills. Ralph Angel. Her big brother. Here he was.

A quiet had descended upon the yard.

Ralph Angel smiled at Uncle Brother, who had come down from the porch and stood on the walkway. “Now, c’mon, uncle. Is that any way to greet your favorite nephew?”

Ralph Angel took a toothpick from his jacket pocket and slid it into his mouth. He looked like a guy who wouldn’t fight fair; not at all like the boy she’d followed around or the young man who gave her ten dollars.

And just as Charley was thinking these things, she saw John rise from his chair and walk to his father’s side. His fingers grazed his hips, Charley noticed, though of course, there was no holster. He drew himself up to full height, spread his feet, squared his shoulders. “Is there a problem here?” His tone was respectful, but cautious.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ralph Angel said. “Look at you, man. All grown up.”

They stared at each other, then John bent to shake the boy’s hand. “Hey there, Blue. I need to talk to your daddy for a minute, okay?”

Blue. Charley wondered at the mother who would name her child something so sad. But his solemn expression, the way he looked up, pleadingly, at his dad — somehow, the name suited him.

Ralph Angel put his hand on Blue’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry about my boy, John. Blue is just fine.” But when Aunt Rose from Opelousas hurried down the step and took Blue’s hand, saying, “Let’s get you some lemonade,” Ralph Angel let him go.