Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“Well, okay. I guess,” Hollywood said, following her into the yard. “You know my maman don’t like that I’m always over here in the Quarters, cutting grass for black folks, but I tell her I love spending time over here.” He gazed at Miss Honey’s house. “I can’t imagine a day without seeing Miss Honey. She’s more like a maman to me than my own.”

In the kitchen, Charley tugged the cord that sent the fan blades whirling. The sink was filled with dishes and plastic trays, the counters cluttered with Barq’s root beer cans, brown paper sacks of cracklins, and the remains of crawfish boudin that Joe Black brought all the way from Hackett’s Cajun Kitchen in Lake Charles. While Hollywood sat at the table, Charley fixed his plate, tucked the last wedge of Violet’s lemon pound cake on the side, and wrapped the whole thing in foil.

“Most days, by the time I get home, Maman ’n them have already ate,” Hollywood offered. “I eat over at my brother’s sometimes.”

Charley nodded, wondering again what it was about Hollywood that struck her as odd. Something was missing; some small thing, like a bearing in his mower, but definitely something.

“Hello.” Micah, barefoot but still wearing her party dress, stepped into the kitchen. She held an empty bowl and a spoon. “Seconds,” she said. “Miss Honey said I could.”

“Go tell Miss Honey Hollywood is here,” Charley said.

“Okay.” Micah moved toward the freezer. “Ice cream first.”

“No,” Charley said. “Miss Honey first. Do it now, then you can come back.”

Micah rolled her eyes. “Tu me rends dingue. Va je foutre.”

“Translation,” Charley said. “I’m being snotty and rude and I don’t want any ice cream.”

“But I didn’t say—”

Hollywood sat forward, said, calmly, “Tu ne devrais pas parles à ta maman comme ça.”

Micah froze. She gawked at Hollywood. Charley did too.

“Une gentile fille dit pas de gros mots. T’es grande fille maintenant — tu peux plus faire comme ça! T’as pas honte? Dis-elle pardon.”

Micah turned to Charley. “I’m sorry.” She glanced at Hollywood, who nodded with stern approval. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or be impolite.”

“Now,” Hollywood said, gravely, and pointed toward the den, “go tell Miss Honey I’m here.”

When Micah was gone, Charley gaped at Hollywood, asked, “What was that ?” Micah’s stunned expression still playing through her mind.

Hollywood shrugged. “I told her nice girls don’t swear. And then I told her she was too grown to act that way, that she was embarrassing herself.”

“Well, I owe you one,” Charley said. “She’s given me hell lately.” She felt a sisterly affection for him, though she barely knew him, and hoped they could be friends.

Hollywood pulled a glossy movie magazine from his back pocket, set it on the table, and smoothed the cover. “Miss Honey says y’all lived in Hollywood.”

“Not exactly,” Charley said, and thought of the little Spanish bungalow south of Pico, not too far from the Jewish deli where elderly waitresses wore pink uniforms and wigs stiff with spray. There’d been nothing glamorous about it.

“I’m gonna get out there one of these days,” Hollywood said, and gazed through the kitchen window. “Take one of them buses that goes around to all the movie stars’ houses. I’m gonna find Marvin Gaye’s house first.” He flipped to a dog-eared article and read haltingly, running his finger beneath each word. “‘On April first, nineteen eighty-four, at eleven thirty-eight a.m., the world lost a musical genius when Rhythm and Blues legend Marvin Gaye was shot at point-blank range by his father after a heated argument.’” He paused, stared at the article, then looked up at Charley. “Marvin Gaye was a great singer. He had everything a man could want, but he was still unhappy. Made everyone around him unhappy. I wonder if that’s what his daddy was thinking when he shot him?”

“I wonder,” Charley said, and couldn’t help but think about Ralph Angel, who — if Violet’s story was true, and why wouldn’t it be? — seemed to be haunted by his own demons. Maybe he still was. A current of regret rippled through Charley for not knowing.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Look who’s here.” Ralph Angel stepped into the kitchen.

Hollywood’s face flushed as he turned toward the sound of Ralph Angel’s voice. He pushed back from the table, stood up. “Ralph Angel. Where’d you come from?”

His question made Charley think back on the afternoon, how Ralph Angel had materialized at the gate as if out of thin air.

“Rolled in a couple hours ago,” Ralph Angel said. He set his beer on the counter, walked over to Hollywood, and pulled him close. “Glad to see you, Peanut. What’s going on, man?”

But Hollywood stood stiffly, and Charley remembered how he had hesitated, earlier, when Miss Honey said he and Ralph Angel were like brothers. He had the same uneasy look on his face.

Ralph Angel must have noticed too, because he said, “Relax, Peanut. It’s just me,” and laughed nervously. “Jesus Christ. You’re as bad as the rest of ’em. Everyone’s acting like I’ve got the plague or something.”

“I’m just surprised, is all,” Hollywood said.

Ralph Angel looked from Hollywood to Charley. “I see you met my best friend.”

“I was just fixing Hollywood a plate,” Charley said. “Join us.”

Ralph Angel went to the refrigerator for another beer, then slid into a chair. He picked up Hollywood’s magazine. “ Highlife ?”

“It tells what all the celebrities are doing,” Hollywood said. “Miss Loretta down at the library gives me the old copies when the new ones come in. Just a little something to keep me busy.” He watched as Ralph Angel flipped the pages, then added, tentatively, “I didn’t know you were home.”

Ralph Angel tossed the magazine back on the table. “Don’t tell me you actually believe the stuff they write.”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s from the library.”

Ralph Angel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. But you can’t go around with your head in the clouds. You’ve gotta learn to think for yourself.” He took a sip of beer. “So, how you doing, Peanut? Seriously. What’s new?”

“Please don’t call me that, Ralph Angel.”

“I’m just messing with you, man. All in good fun. Say, are you still cutting grass with that funny mower?”

“Yeah.”

Ralph Angel gestured to Charley. “That’s one of the things you’ll find down here, little sister; things never change. I come back after all this time, and Hollywood here is still pushing that same goddamned mower. Unbelievable.”

“Who’s swearing in my house? I thought I heard swearing.” Miss Honey pushed into the kitchen, and Charley saw that she’d changed into her housedress and slippers. Miss Honey looked at Hollywood. “Well, I’m glad to see you finally made it. Folks were asking for you.”

“Miss Honey, you didn’t tell me Ralph Angel was coming home,” Hollywood said, but Miss Honey waved the statement away as she moved to the sink and started washing dishes.

“So, how much you charging these days?” Ralph Angel said. “Ten dollars?”

Hollywood blinked. “Five dollars. That’s what I charge. Five’s fair.”

“ Five dollars? Holy shit!” Ralph Angel put his hand to his forehead. “Listen here, Peanut. Don’t you know minimum wage is around seven fifty? Hey, Charley, what are you paying the guys who work for you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t hired anyone yet.”

“Well, be sure to put Hollywood on your payroll. He’s a steal. I’m telling you, man, you ought to raise your price. Better yet, you should expand your operation. Seriously. Get some guys to work for you. You could rake in the big bucks.”