Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“What could go wrong?”

Denton inhaled, as though he, too, was tempted to stop for a loaf and eat it right there in the car, if only they could afford the time. “What could go wrong?” He looked out over the hood then at Charley. “Plenty.”

• • •

Charley called Violet on her way home that evening. “So, exactly how long do you plan to boycott your own mother?”

“Look who’s talking?” Violet said. “When was the last time you talked to Lorna?”

“Touché.”

“Besides, Mother is welcome at my house anytime as long as she doesn’t bring you-know-who.”

“Please come over, Violet,” Charley said. “I miss you. You don’t even have to come in. We can stand on the sidewalk.”

Violet sighed. “I miss you, too, sweetheart, and I hate not seeing y’all. But if I give in, Mother will think she can always rewrite the rules for Ralph Angel. She never let us get away with half of what she lets him get away with. Someone has to draw the line. Speaking of which, how are you holding up?”

And so, Charley told Violet what Denton said about needing more money, about her father working sugarcane as a boy. “I never knew Ernest did that,” Violet said, and Charley heard in Violet’s voice the same sorrow she’d heard in Miss Honey’s. And finally, she told Violet about Ralph Angel asking to work on the farm.

“What are you going to do?” Violet asked.

“I don’t know,” Charley said, as she pulled up in front of LeBlanc’s bakery. The red light over the door was off but the side door was still open. “That’s why I called. I thought you might have some ideas.”

Mother Francisca’s eyes looked like peppercorns behind her oversize glasses, the skin of her plump white face as wrinkled as a dried apple. While prices flashed at the bottom of the TV screen, Mother Francisca, beloved host of the Catholic Home Shopping Network, held up plaques, Bible covers and wristwatches, coffee mugs, commemorative plates, and T-shirts, all emblazoned with the image of Padre Pio, the miracle worker, as the seconds to purchase each item ticked down to zero, and Charley, home from the farm late Friday afternoon, was horrified when she stepped into the den and saw Miss Honey sitting in her recliner and Hollywood on the couch, their expressions glazed over, their eyes fixed on the screen as Mother Francisca pawned her wares.

“It’s about time,” Miss Honey said, at the commercial break. “We were about to send out the National Guard. Where’ve you been?”

“Take one guess,” Charley said, wearily, dropping her backpack.

“Well, I’m glad you’re home,” Miss Honey said. “Look who’s here.”

Hollywood stood, smoothed his hair, then wiped his hands on his army fatigues. “Hey there, Miss Charley.”

“Well, hello,” Charley said, and felt her spirits rise in spite of the exhausting day she’d had. She and Denton had power-washed the shop windows, and she’d climbed up and down an extension ladder at least thirty times, checking the roof for leaks. She crossed the den and started to shake Hollywood’s hand, then changed her mind and hugged him. She needed a friend, especially now that Violet refused to come around. As they embraced, Charley caught a whiff of Hollywood’s cologne, thick and spicy and a tad too sweet for her taste, but thought it was nice that he’d made the effort. When she stepped back, the scent clung to her clothes. “How’ve you been? How’s business?”

Hollywood shrugged. “I been okay. Same ol’, same ol’. Cutting grass, helping Maman around the place.” He flushed pink, like a schoolboy, and looked at the floor.

It would be easy, Charley thought, to mistake his modesty for a lack of confidence, his simplicity for stupidity. But beneath that quirkiness and quiet demeanor, there was a current of strength, a sense of honor and integrity, and in his own special way, a clear-eyed view of the world. Charley thought back to the way Hollywood had talked to Micah, respectfully but firmly, and knew that was true.

On television, Mother Francisca was pushing Padre Pio salt and pepper shakers now; only ten sets left as the clock counted down.

“Hollywood finished cleaning the back room,” Miss Honey said.

Charley nodded. “Then you must be exhausted. What can I get you to drink?” she asked, knowing she had only Coke and water to offer. She’d have to remember to ask Denton how his wife made that lemonade.

“Water if it’s no trouble,” Hollywood said, and moved to follow her into the kitchen.

But Charley told him to stay where he was. “No, no,” she said, “sit down, I’ll get it.” When she returned, he was flipping through a new edition of Highlife. She handed the glass to him and watched him take a small, careful sip.

On television now, Mother Francisca had stopped hawking products and had moved to a different part of her studio. Ensconced in an overstuffed chair like a TV talk-show host, she took calls from listeners, offering tips on how they might avoid purgatory. “And how long have you been unable to feel love?” she asked, her hands clasped together as she stared into the camera.

“Hollywood’s been waiting for you to get home,” Miss Honey said.

“Oh,” Charley said.

Hollywood dabbed his forehead nervously. He closed his magazine.

“Well?” Miss Honey said.

“I was gonna ask if — I wondered if you wanted—” He paused, and swallowed. He looked at Charley and blinked, as though waiting for the words.

But just as he opened his mouth to speak again, Ralph Angel burst into the den. “Man, those kids just about wore me out,” he said, breathing hard. “I forgot how much I hated the park.” He gestured over his shoulder, anticipating Miss Honey’s question. “They’re out front. They collected a bunch of rocks. I told them not to throw them against the house, or at any cars, which I could tell was exactly what they planned to do.” He sat on the arm of the couch, “Hey, sis,” then he saw Hollywood. “Hey, man. How’s it going? I didn’t see your mower.”

“Hey, Ralph Angel,” Hollywood said, stiffly.

“I was gonna call you. I could use a little grown-up playtime, if you know what I mean. I thought maybe we could hit the bars or go fishing tomorrow over at that place we used to go when we were kids. You know, across the bayou, near that barge slip.”

“I gotta work tomorrow.”

“How about this weekend? I know you don’t cut grass on Sundays, right? And if I remember correctly, that joint Smitty’s over in Tee Coteau draws a big crowd on Sunday nights.”

“I don’t know, Ralph Angel,” Hollywood said, “that place is pretty rough. People always getting shot over there.”

“Well, Jesus , man, when are we going to hang out?”

“Stop harassing him,” Miss Honey said. “Hollywood didn’t come here to see you anyway. He came to see Charley. He wants to ask her out on a date.”

“Me?” Charley said.

“Who else?” Miss Honey said.

Ralph Angel looked from Hollywood to Charley. “I guess I made a mistake, then. I thought my old buddy dropped by to see me. Excuse me. I didn’t realize.”

Hollywood slid forward on the couch. “I’m sorry, Ralph Angel. Maybe we can hang out another time.”

“Yeah, yeah. No problem.” Ralph Angel waved his hand casually. “It’s my fault. You two go ahead.”

Hollywood looked at Charley as though he were about to propose. “I wondered if you wanted to go over to Sonic for a burger or something. I mean, we don’t have to go there if you don’t like burgers. We can go to Joe’s on the Bayou or anyplace you want. We don’t even have to eat. We could just take a walk.” He rolled up his magazine. Then he unrolled it and smoothed his hand across the cover.