Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

When Charley looked at Ralph Angel again, she saw that something had changed. The man who’d played with the kids was gone, replaced by the person who’d teased Hollywood.

“Yeah, right. I bet,” Ralph Angel said. “Just look at you, sitting there like Little Miss Perfect. Little Miss Rich Girl. And that daughter of yours, running her mouth all the time. She’s a goddamn little know-it-all. She’s going to grow up to be a spoiled brat, just like her mother. The two of you make me sick.”

Before he went back to Houston, Uncle Brother had warned her the house would be tight with Ralph Angel in it. Charley thought about how Violet had said, as she left the reunion, that things wouldn’t work out if Ralph Angel were allowed to stay. Now she understood.

“Maybe the reason Dad left you out of his will,” Charley said slowly, “had something to do with money you stole.”

Ralph Angel blinked. “He owed me that money.”

“For school. Which, by the way, I know you didn’t finish, so spare me all that talk about being an engineer.”

“I am an engineer. Just a few more credits and I could get my degree if I wanted.”

Charley knew she should stop, yet she couldn’t stop herself, didn’t want to, because he’d insulted Micah, and it was as though he’d opened the latch on an enormous steel door where every hope and fear and worry and secret longing she’d ever felt about her child was piled up on the other side, and it all came tumbling out. It was not fair to go after Micah; that was crossing the line. “What did you spend the money on? Drugs? Did you smoke it up? Snort it? Did you drink it away? Because that’s what I heard.”

“Violet and Brother should mind their own business.”

“Were you on something when you pushed Miss Honey?” Charley said. “Or did you break her arm on purpose?”

“Shut up!” Ralph Angel said. “You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t have to be,” Charley said. “All I have to do is look at the way you treat Hollywood to know what you’re capable of. He’s supposed to be your friend, but you treat him like shit. But you can’t help yourself, can you? You hate the fact that he has a business and you don’t.”

“I said, shut the fuck up!”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Ralph Angel lunged forward and grabbed Charley’s wrist.

Charley looked down at Ralph Angel’s hand. All the blood had drained from his fingertips, he was squeezing so hard, the skin under his nail beds had gone white. Charley’s hand was slowly going numb. She looked up into Ralph Angel’s face, expecting to see a monster, but to her surprise, she saw a man who was out of his mind with anger, yes, but also terribly, achingly, afraid.

“Pop?” a small voice said. “What game are you playing?”

Charley and Ralph Angel both looked and saw Blue standing in the doorway.

“Oh — hey, buddy.” Ralph Angel’s voice sounded strained and breathy. He let go of Charley’s wrist. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“I woke up and couldn’t find you. I kept calling you.”

“Oh yeah? I guess I didn’t hear you. Where’s ’Da?”

“Watching TV with Micah,” Blue said. “I heard you say a bad word.”

“Yeah, well, uh—” Ralph Angel patted his pockets as though searching for his keys.

“He made a mistake.” Charley did not look at Ralph Angel as she said this. “But it’s okay now. Let him take you back to bed.”

“Yeah,” Ralph Angel said. “We’ll finish our story.”

When Ralph Angel was gone, Charley closed the door, and as soon as she did, a surge of adrenaline shot through her so that her whole body tingled and she had to lean her head against the door, close her eyes. Through the door, she could hear the faint sounds of the TV coming from the den, and behind her, through the open window as the warm air drifted in under the curtains, the sound of Miss Marti next door, dropping an empty bottle in her trash can and dragging it to the curb. Charley stood there until the anxious feeling passed, then she sat on the bed. She wasn’t afraid of Ralph Angel, but she could never trust him. He wasn’t the person she’d hoped he would be.

• • •

Charley woke in the night and saw that Micah was not on the air mattress. Nor was she in Miss Honey’s bed, or on the moonlit porch, or in the den watching TV, and it was only on her way back to her room that Charley saw a sliver of light under the bathroom door, heard Micah’s voice, and imagined who might be in there with her, doing God knew what, and she turned the knob, thinking the worst, ready to slay any monster, ready to kill her own brother if it came to that. And so it was with extravagant relief that she saw, immediately, that Micah was alone. Alone, but also naked, standing at the sink on a kitchen chair so she could see herself in the mirror. She had taped all of her gates of heaven Polaroids around the mirror’s edge, propped the lookalike Barbie doll — the bare-chested one with the nest of tangles and the crochet antebellum hoop skirt, the one Miss Honey gave her the day they arrived — on the counter beside a flickering candle, and — Oh my God, was that a Shirley Temple DVD cover on the floor? — so that now the bathroom looked like some kind of freaky voodoo shrine.

“Micah! What on earth—?”

“Mom!” Micah tried to cover herself. “Get out!”

“What are you doing?”

“I said get out! Please!”

Close the door , Charley’s mind said, as she stood there gazing into the dark bathroom, where the mirror reflected the candle’s golden glow and Micah tried to cover herself . Just close the door. You don’t want to know. But then her mind cleared and she realized there was no way she could abide Micah’s command.

Charley stepped into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.” She spoke in a measured tone, like a tour guide, This way, please. Everyone follow me , even though inside, she was screaming.

And when Micah realized Charley was not leaving, when she saw that her mother had locked them both in, she jumped down from the chair and climbed into the far end of the bathtub. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, put her head down, and rocked slowly.

“Micah, please. What’s going on? What were you doing?” The bathroom smelled like cucumbers and melon from the candle Micah had lit.

Micah shook her head, no. She covered her ears.

“Please, talk to me.” Charley sat on the floor with her back against the tub and waited. She would wait as long as it took.

“I was praying,” Micah said at last. “I was asking God — I was asking God to fix my arm.”

The red flame had already spread up Micah’s shirt by the time Charley reached the kitchen and she smelled the burning flesh, saw how the top layer of Micah’s skin had already blistered, how under that top layer of Micah’s arm was the same wet pink as her tongue.

“I was asking Him to make me pretty.”

“Oh, babe—” Charley said. “But you are.”

“I’m not. Not with my arm.”

Charley climbed into the bathtub with an aching heart. “My sweet girl.” She pulled Micah into her lap and felt where Micah’s body was cold from leaning against the side of the tub. She wrapped her arms around her daughter. And that was all Micah needed. She burst into tears. She cried harder than Charley had ever heard her: anguished sobs with long breaths and choking in between, until she was spent and her body was hot and sweaty. And when she finally fell asleep, Charley covered her with a towel, then leaned back against the tub’s sloping back and prayed to be forgiven.

Given Alison’s contempt for the Blue Bowl crowd, most days, they ate lunch at Dina’s out near Belle Island, where the dining room opened onto a view of the salt flats, the air smelled faintly of jasmine and boiled peppers, and five bucks bought a cold beer, a basket of cobbed corn, and all the peel-and-eat shrimp you could handle.