Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

Denton broke in. “But then I say, ‘I won’t give you five thousand straight up. I’ll pay half now and half next year.’”

“‘Unless I have a bad year,’” Alison added, “‘in which case, I’ll only give you fifteen hundred now — that okay with you?’ Meanwhile, you have all the cost of reroofing my barn. And you’re paying interest at a percent and a half a month to stay alive.”

“You see, Miss Bordelon,” Denton explained, “these days, a farmer gets paid over a twelve-month period rather than all at once. The crop you’re trying to get ready for grinding in the fall? The mill won’t finish paying you for that until next September. It used to be the mill paid you within a month of delivery. By January, you had all your money. You’d pay everybody off — the bank, your suppliers — your cost went down. Now they’ve taken that money they owe you and stretched it out.”

“They?” Charley said.

“The mills ,” Denton and Alison said in unison. “Guys like Landry and Baron.”

Alison pulled his cap down over his eyes. “Freaking capitalist system. That’s why I’m becoming a socialist a little more each day.”

Denton had explained some of this before. It had made sense, but in an abstract way, as if he were explaining how electricity or the Internet worked, which was sort of unbelievable if you really thought about it. But now, hearing Alison’s story, Charley was beginning to understand. “So the mills expect us to carry all the costs?”

“Exactly,” Alison said. “Excuse me, Miss Bordelon, but it sucks.” He turned away and stared out over the fields, as if looking back through the years. “This used to be a good business. You got your money up front. But forget it now. And that dimwit we had in the White House? Jesus. Between the price of sugar and whatever happened with CAFTA—” Alison shook his head. “Let’s hope this new fella’s got more sense.”

“I asked Alison to come over,” Denton said. “We’re in good shape from the auction, but I got to thinking about what we still need. Thought Alison might be interested in striking a deal. And just so you know, he’s hearing this for the first time, same as you.”

“What kind of deal?” Charley and Denton had agreed on a sixty-forty split, assuming they brought in enough cane to make a profit. She wasn’t sure they could afford another partner.

“The way I see it,” Denton said, “we can help each other. Alison’s got two combines, three tractors in pretty good shape, and a handful of cane wagons. That’s equipment you won’t have to buy, Miss Bordelon. We each give up seven and a half percent, Alison lets us use his equipment and comes to work here.”

“Give me a minute to digest this.” Charley walked over to the Volvo and put her hands on the warm hood. She let her head hang as she puzzled through Denton’s scheme. On one hand, she’d be getting the full benefit of Alison’s experience, and heavens knew, she needed his equipment. And why shouldn’t she trust Denton? Didn’t his decisions at the auction prove his judgment was sound? If he said Alison was an excellent farmer, then she had no reason to doubt him. A few yards away, Charley saw Alison light another cigarette. On the other hand, she’d be working with someone she didn’t know, and there was no denying Alison was, well — eccentric.

Charley rejoined the men. “What do you say, Mr. Delcambre?”

“I can’t wait to stick it to those sons of bitches over at the mill,” Alison said. “Believe me, Miss Bordelon, it’ll do me good to see those boys get licked. And just wait till they find out they got beat by a black woman. That’ll raise a breeze.”

Charley’s heart skipped. If the situation were different, if Alison weren’t having his land yanked out from under him, if he were wearing loafers and khakis instead of those filthy overalls and work boots, would he give her the time of day?

Charley tried to imagine what her father would say. It’s your land now. She wished she could ask him, “By any means necessary?” but she knew she had to pull the answer from the ground herself. She turned back to the men and offered her hand. “If you’re in, I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Alison took one last drag on his cigarette and looked Charley square in the eye. “Where do I sign?”

Holiday Hills, the subdivision where Violet lived in the next town over, had a golf course in the middle, with a small, man-made lake filled with water dyed a troubling shade of aquamarine, and a ribbon of walking path that wound past the empty guard booth and out to the patch of woods that stood between the development and the surrounding sugarcane fields. And since Violet still refused to come over to Miss Honey’s, Charley swung by Tortilla Flats, the Mexican restaurant in the casino, and showed up on Violet’s doorstep with shredded taco salad to share and two frozen margaritas.

It was after dinner now, and Charley sat in Violet’s family room admiring her shadow-box coffee table. Violet had arranged an assortment of seashells and plastic crustaceans — lobster and crabs — and brightly framed sunglasses on a bed of sand underneath the glass top.

“First lady of the church and an interior decorator,” Charley said, accepting the piece of lemon icebox cake Violet offered her.

“I love flipping through all those home magazines when I get my hair done,” Violet said. “I always find good decorating tips. Then I run over to the Dollar Store to see what I can throw together.”

Charley nodded. Violet’s house wasn’t large; in fact, it seemed to be the smallest home in the neighborhood of Acadian-style brick houses, but it was twice the size of Miss Honey’s: a kitchen filled with shiny appliances overlooking the family room, and a decent-size patio with space for the Rev’s barbecue grill and Violet’s potted tomato plants.

“Mother was angry with me when we moved out here,” Violet offered. “She wanted me to buy Mr. Delrose’s house down the street from her. But I told her, I want to be exposed to new things, meet new people, get some fresh information.”

“This certainly isn’t the Quarters,” Charley said. It was refreshing to sit in a room where every surface wasn’t cluttered and where the air was breathable.

“May as well be the far side of the moon as far as Mother’s concerned. But I like it out here. People are friendly. A group of us neighbors get together every week to watch that TV show where celebrities dress up in skimpy costumes and dance with the pros; you know the one. And the Rev is thinking about taking golf lessons if you can believe it. But enough about me, let’s talk about you.”

Charley had already told Violet about spraying her crops to kill the borers, about making a fool of herself at the auction, and agreeing to take Alison on as a partner, which was working out fine so far, as long as she didn’t take his daily rants too seriously.

“You said something before about Hollywood asking you out on a date?”

“He did,” Charley said. “Well, sort of. But Ralph Angel came home and started teasing him. It was terrible.”

“Poor Hollywood,” Violet said. “He’s so sweet. A little slow, but a real sweetheart; always has been.”

“He is,” Charley said. “I’m surprised how much I enjoy his company.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first. Mother adores him. Treats him like he’s one of her own. If you ask me, I think Ralph Angel is jealous.”

“Or maybe he thinks he’s being helpful,” Charley said. “Tough love or something. It’s the strangest thing.”

Outside, beyond Violet’s low picket fence, a golf cart rolled past and the driver, an older white man in a white polo shirt and baseball cap, waved. Violet waved back. She ran her spoon across her plate and licked at the last bit of icebox cake. “If Hollywood asks you out again, what will you say?”