Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“I don’t know,” Hollywood said. “I sort of like working by myself.”

“Boy, I tell you,” Ralph Angel said, and stared into his beer can. “That’s the goddamned South for you. That’s another thing you’ll find down here, Charley. Folks bend over backwards to be polite, even when it’s killing them. Why, this nigger here only charges five measly dollars to cut a whole yard. How long does it take you? An hour?”

Hollywood shrugged. “About that.”

“Five measly dollars an hour,” Ralph Angel said, glancing quickly at Charley. “Ain’t that some shit?”

Hollywood winced, and Charley — seeing how he just sat there, looking as though his shoes were two sizes too small, picking at the threads of his army fatigues like the new kid on the first day of school — thought she should say something. But she didn’t. Because she was trying to reconcile the Ralph Angel from Violet’s story with what she wanted to believe about her brother: that a lot of terrible things could happen to a person in twenty years; a person could run off the rails, and that sometimes it was easier to pick on someone else’s weaknesses rather than face the weakness in yourself. And she also understood, from the way Ralph Angel glanced at her as he spoke, that in his own awkward way, he was trying to impress her, make a good impression.

“Ralph Angel, watch your mouth,” Miss Honey said. “Hollywood’s built a nice business. Folks depend on him. Now, let the man be. He wants to charge five dollars, let him charge it.”

“I’m just talking to him, ’Da. Offering constructive criticism. Ain’t that right, Hollywood? We’re just talking, man to man. And I’m trying to show Charley what she can expect down here.”

Miss Honey glanced at Hollywood. “How you feeling, chère ?”

“I’m okay,” Hollywood said, feebly. “But I don’t want to talk about cutting grass no more.”

Ralph Angel nodded. “Fine by me. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” Hollywood said. He picked at the aluminum foil covering his plate. “I’d better get on. Maman ’s gonna be worried.”

“You sure?” Ralph Angel said. He sounded surprised, and a little hurt. “You don’t want to stick around and have a beer?”

“Naw,” Hollywood said, standing. He went to the sink and kissed Miss Honey.

“Hey, we should go hunting like when we were kids,” Ralph Angel said, excitedly. “Been years since I fired a gun.”

Hollywood frowned. “It ain’t hunting season. They’ll arrest you.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Charley said, and closed Hollywood’s magazine, relieved to have an excuse to escape.

Outside, the air was cooler, the street filled with sounds of a summer evening in the Quarter’s winding to a close: the easy groove of an R&B tune wafting from a nearby radio, the chime of people’s laughter as they relaxed on their porches, the occasional crack of a screen door closing, the cicadas’ manic winding up and winding down.

“Well, thanks for the eats.” Hollywood started down the steps.

“God, Hollywood. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he’d act that way.”

Hollywood blanched. “It’s all right. Me and Ralph Angel go way back. I’m kinda used to it.” He took his magazine from Charley, slapped it against his palm, then slid it into his back pocket. “You got a good girl there. Don’t worry. She was just being a kid.”

Charley stood by the gate as Hollywood made his way down the sidewalk. She thought he looked lost without his mower. The sun had dropped below the tree line, the sky pinking around the edges, and up and down the street, people’s porch lights were coming on so that every few feet, the aluminum foil covering his plate glowed like a faint star.

• • •

Miss Honey’s den was already cozy with her La-Z-Boy, and the sectional upholstered in faded blue plaid, the étagère overrun with her collection of salt and pepper shakers, and the framed pictures hanging askance above the TV, but now it was downright crowded. Stretched out on the couch, Blue slept with his feet in Ralph Angel’s lap, while Micah, changed into shorts now, perched on the arm of Miss Honey’s recliner.

“It’s late, Micah,” Charley said in a hushed voice. “Time for bed.”

Micah groaned.

“So, Charley.” Ralph Angel eased Blue’s legs off his lap and sat forward. “Last time I saw you, you were stuffing Kleenex into your training bra and picking lettuce out of your braces. Now look at you.”

“Yeah, well. Here I am,” Charley said dryly.

Ralph Angel leaned back into the cushion. “Micah here’s been telling me about your farm. Eight hundred acres. Congratulations. Aren’t you the lucky one.”

“I don’t know about lucky,” Charley said. “It’s a lot of work. It could all come crashing down.”

“I bet,” Ralph Angel said. “But it must be nice knowing our daddy loved you enough to leave you a whole plantation. Something to fall back on, know what I mean?”

Charley wasn’t sure what to make of his question. She glanced at the television, where trumpets blared and snare drums rat-a-tat-tatted as Shirley Temple sang the closing number of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

“Guess that makes you the star of the family,” Ralph Angel went on. “I mean, you got ’Da here throwing a whole reunion in your honor, people coming in from Houston and Baton Rouge just to get a look at you; my best friend fawning over you. You must feel pretty special.”

“Miss Honey did a generous thing,” Charley said. “I’m grateful. I said right now , Micah. Time for bed.”

“If you’d come when I called,” Miss Honey said, “you could’ve enjoyed the reunion for yourself.”

Ralph Angel picked at the foam sticking up from the couch cushions, then poked his finger in the hole, making it wider. “Why are you riding me so hard, ’Da? I told you I had to take care of some business.”

“I’m just saying,” Miss Honey said, unfazed by his tone. “It’s your own fault you missed the reunion.”

“Jesus. I can’t drop everything because you pick up the phone.”

“Well, good night,” Charley said. She took Micah’s arm.

“That does it for me, too,” Ralph Angel said. “Think we’ll turn in.” He hoisted a yawning Blue onto his shoulder.

“Ralph Angel,” Miss Honey said. “Y’all are sleeping in the back. Hollywood’s coming Friday to finish cleaning it out. Till then, y’all can sleep on the floor in here.”

“The back ? But what about my room up front?”

“I gave it to Charley and them.”

“But that’s my room.” Ralph Angel sounded almost panicked.

“And seeing how she got here first, I told her she could have it. You and Blue can sleep in the back. It won’t kill you. It’s a big room and it’s private.”

“But ’Da—”

“If you got here when I called, it’d be yours to claim. But you didn’t. The front room belongs to Charley unless she agrees to trade.”

Ralph Angel offered Charley a conciliatory smile. “How about it?”

It would be a hassle for her to pack everything and haul it to the back room, Charley thought, but she could do it. Thirty minutes, an hour max, and she could give Ralph Angel his room. Charley looked at her brother, standing there with Blue slumped over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She hadn’t wanted to listen to Violet when she said it wouldn’t work out, or believe Violet’s story about Miss Honey finding Ralph Angel’s drugs. Because, and Charley realized it only now, standing there in Miss Honey’s tight den with that annoying Shirley Temple singing her heart out, she’d sort of hoped she and Ralph Angel could be friends; sort of wished, secretly, ever since Miss Honey first mentioned his name, that he might protect her the way big brothers were supposed to. Because the truth was, without Ernest or Davis, or her mother, Charley was terrified. The farm, Micah, her future — the stakes felt so high. There were days, driving home from the shop, when she felt so alone she thought she might split down the middle. Oh, how she’d wanted to give Ralph Angel the benefit of the doubt! But after the way he treated Hollywood? Teased him like some schoolyard bully, even if it was just to impress her? She couldn’t help but think twice. She’d reserve judgment for now; hold out hope. But in the meantime, she’d stay in the front room. Because you couldn’t just roll over for someone like that, haunted or not, or he’d start thinking his behavior was acceptable. And just like Marvin Gaye, eventually, he’d spoil it for everyone.