Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“I was afraid you’d gone,” Charley said, chastened, and then, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. You were right about the rainmaker. No. You were right about everything and I don’t blame you for quitting.” If she thought Denton wouldn’t find it girly and manipulative, she’d cry. And for an instant, she thought she might. Her head was buzzing and there was that tightness again, like some gigantic, soggy wool sock was being wrung out inside her. But then it lifted. Just enough for her to say one word. “Please.”

Nothing. No reaction at all. Denton turned away as though he hadn’t seen or heard her, as though her plea was nothing more than an atmospheric disturbance. He leaned over the wheel and stuffed the receipts back onto the sun visor, then lifted himself into the seat, slammed the door, started the engine.

Well, Charley thought, that’s it. It’s over. She stood clear as Denton backed up and swung around. A furious spray of gravel flew out from the tires and there was that awful grating sound, the sound of spinning tires over loose rocks and dirt, the sound of someone who couldn’t get away fast enough. She could barely see Denton’s truck for all the dust and dry grass that blew up in her face, and she listened for the roar of his engine, wondering if she could hold off crying until he was gone. But the sound never came, and when Charley opened her eyes, Denton’s truck was idling right there in front of her and he was leaning across the seat. And now he was reaching for the handle, and the door was swinging open. It wouldn’t be until later that night, when she was at Miss Honey’s and had time to think back on it, that Charley would understand there was a difference between kowtowing and letting people’s assumptions work against them; that there was a beauty and honor in the Japanese bough that bent but didn’t break, and she finally, truly , appreciated what a decent man Denton was. That just when she thought her life was over, just when she thought she’d screwed things up ( again ), forgiveness and grace would be bestowed upon her with two simple words: “Get in.”

• • •

Given all that had happened, Charley knew better than to ask questions. For once, she was grateful Denton wasn’t much of a talker, and barely dared to breathe as he threw the truck into drive. She had no idea where they were headed or how long they would be gone, and frankly, she was too tired to care. Normally, she hated not knowing the plan, but right now, she didn’t want to think. As long as Denton didn’t put her out of the truck, she was satisfied.

The drive turned out to be short — just a few hundred yards. Denton pulled around to the other side of the office, parked, then went over to talk with a white man who was busy strapping equipment down on a long goose-neck trailer. Charley couldn’t see the man’s face, just his two tanned arms sticking out from his faded red T-shirt, but she knew he was another farmer simply by the way he was dressed: the requisite baseball cap, Wrangler jeans stuffed sloppily into the tops of his work boots.

From the way he and Denton talked, the way they both nodded and stood back to admire the equipment, they must be friends. It was nice to see, Charley thought, the pleasure Denton could take in someone else’s success; clearly the guy had done well. Just look at all the equipment he’d managed to buy: the Ampco flat chopper she and Denton had looked at, a shaver, and a ditch digger. Why, there was even the cultivator that went for one hundred and seventy bucks. Denton seemed genuinely happy despite the fact he was walking away empty-handed, and Charley wondered whether this wasn’t part of his secret, the reason he’d lasted all these years. Because you would have to be forgiving. You’d have to have a huge heart. You’d have to insist on seeing the good in people to deal with all the Landrys and Barons and who knew who else, and not go a little nuts down here.

Eventually, Denton waved her over. “So it ought to run real good,” he was saying by the time Charley joined him. “Something wrong, it’d be smoking in idle. A new hose and it’ll run up and down the rows for a long time.”

“Still can’t believe I got that chisel plow for four seventy-five,” Denton’s friend said, wedging his thumbs through his belt loops. “The way it rakes up roots, turns them around? Oh, man. It’ll be just like combing hair.”

It was such a relief to see Denton in a good mood that Charley felt a surge of gratitude for his friend. Thank God. You’re a lifesaver. You really have no idea, she wanted to say. But instead, she offered her hand and said, simply, “Congratulations.”

“This here’s Remy Newell,” Denton said, a smile brightening his face.

Remy Newell looked at Charley strangely. “Congratulations for what?”

Charley looked from Remy to Denton, who gave a little shrug. “She never gave me a chance to tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

“You mean she doesn’t know?” Remy Newell shook his head and laughed. “Good Lord, Mr. D.”

Denton massaged his forehead. “You mighta noticed she’s not too good at listening, so I stopped talking.”

“Tell me what? What’s going on?” Charley stared at Denton.

“Like I was trying to tell you earlier. When I saw what Baron was doing with the rainmaker, I had to go to Plan C.” He stepped aside. “I had Remy here bid for us. That’s where I went after you bid on the Allis Chalmers. Congratulations, Miss Bordelon. All this equipment is yours.”

Evening. From his place on the ratty sofa, Ralph Angel watched Blue, on hands and knees, march Zach over a fortress of old Reader’s Digest s and stacked cans of string beans.

“Got my Glock,” Blue chanted, imitating a grown man’s voice, “gotta get some money,” and Ralph Angel thought he’d have to mix more pop radio, maybe some jazz, in with the rap music. Blue looked up at him. “My stomach hurts.”

“Well, I warned you not to eat so much ice cream.”

Across the room, planted at Miss Honey’s feet, Micah looked up from her mystery and said, “When my stomach hurts, my mom gives me tea with lemon.”

Ralph Angel blinked at Micah, thought she looked exactly like Charley when she was that age. And for a moment, as it had so many times since he arrived, time pretzeled back on itself and he was nineteen again. He had given Charley a Christmas present he couldn’t afford — a chemistry set — along with a ten-dollar bill. He would never forget the way she’d looked up at him, her face aglow with gratitude and admiration, bright as the little white lights on the tree. The best gift ever , she’d said. A lot of good it had done him. Where was the gratitude now? Where was the admiration? All this time and Charley still hadn’t gotten back to him about working on the farm. He purposely didn’t come on like gangbusters with a lot of demands and accusations, even though the entire time they talked, he struggled against the darkness gathering like a storm inside him. He was polite. Have some cereal . Reasonable. Of course you should talk to Denton . Promised to be patient. Take your time. And for a few days, he’d thought the strategy worked. But lately, he’d begun to think Charley was avoiding him. She never had time to talk. Was always rushing out, saying she had to get back to the farm. And when she was around, usually for a few minutes in the morning, he overheard her telling ’Da what she’d learned. It was always, “Mr. Denton showed me how to do this” or “Now I know how to do that,” like he wasn’t sitting around all day, killing time, going crazy waiting for an answer.

“Micah,” Miss Honey said, waving the TV remote, “go get the pink medicine from under my bathroom sink.”