Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“Then it’s a good thing you brought something back for her.” Charley handed Hollywood the bag of takeout. “And thanks again for today. That was a lot of work to do all by yourself. You’re a good friend to Miss Honey, Hollywood — and to me.”

Hollywood wiped his hands on his fatigues. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” Charley said, and braced herself. Hollywood was looking at her with such urgency, such earnestness, she was afraid of what he might be about to confess.

“You know how I said I’d never been to Morgan City before?”

Charley nodded.

“Truth is, before today, I’d never been out of Saint Josephine.”

Thirty days of dry weather, that’s what they needed. Thirty days with little or no rain, a whole lot of sun to bake the fields, an infusion of cash, and maybe, just maybe , they could save the farm — or at least that’s what Denton told Charley when she arrived at the shop. Debris still littered the fields, new ruts needed filling, drains needed redigging, johnsongrass needed cutting where it had grown tall and thick amid the cane, and so, for the first few days of September, Charley, Denton, Alison, Romero, and the crew spread out across the farm. They worked from seven in the morning until seven at night with a quick break for lunch. In the evenings, Charley staggered into Miss Honey’s to eat whatever she found in the fridge or whatever Miss Honey left for her under a covered dish by the stove. She showered before bed only because her own smell drove her to it.

After the first week, to Charley’s astonishment, the cane in the nearest quadrants actually righted itself, stretching toward the sun as if pulled by invisible wires, and they were able to assess how much they could salvage for planting. By the end of the second week, over in Micah’s Corner, the water had all but drained off the fields. Mud still made new planting impossible, though, and between the salt and the standing water, it was pretty clear the cane they’d planted earlier was ruined.

“Be glad we only dropped seventy-five acres’ worth,” Denton said as they ate lunch one afternoon, their sandwich papers smoothed out on the hood of Denton’s pickup. He balled his napkin and tossed it on the dashboard. “Farmers who started planting before we did lost everything. The Dugas brothers lost a thousand acres.”

Mid-September and still the weather held, with each day seeming a little better than the last. The humidity lessened, the nighttime temperature hovered in the mid-fifties, and for the first time, Charley thought she felt a hint of autumn in the air. Every day, she monitored their expenses, questioned each purchase, and sat on bills until the very last minute. She hadn’t found a bank that would lend her money, but they were scraping by. The Cane Cutter , meanwhile, rested on her dresser, frozen in his labor, but she no longer lifted the T-shirt draped over him; she could barely stand to look.

And then, in the third week of September, Denton announced he had good news and bad news. The mills had postponed the start of grinding until the middle of October — that was the good news, because it meant they had two more weeks to plant and maybe a couple days to catch their breath. The bad news was that the 4840’s engine had blown out, and since he couldn’t find used replacement parts, they would have to order new ones; the cheapest estimate was eight thousand dollars.

“We can’t plant without that tractor,” Denton said. He picked through the crumpled papers stuffed above his sun visor and handed Charley the estimate. “Time for you to pull that rabbit out of your hat.”

In her bedroom that evening, Charley folded the T-shirt Micah had thrown over The Cane Cutter and looked directly into his eyes. A braver woman would go ahead and sell, Charley thought; a more practical woman would add up the ongoing expenses and the unpaid invoices, consider the look of despair on Denton’s face every time he scribbled figures on the yellow pad, and there would be no question. But Charley didn’t think of herself as practical and she certainly didn’t feel brave. She slipped under the covers, pulled the sheet over her head, and curled into a ball, but she couldn’t get Denton’s face out of her mind. On the phone the next morning, Charley asked the operator for the numbers of all the New Orleans auction houses. A queasy feeling settled over her as she dialed.

• • •

Friday evening now, and Charley eyed the pile of clothes on her bed — the black wool suit she wore to her father’s memorial, the jeans skirt she’d owned since grad school, the yellow checked blouse with the Peter Pan collar that made her look too much like a schoolgirl. Everything she owned was too wrinkled, too heavy for the weather, or out of style. She stepped into her only pair of jeans that didn’t have oil on the knees.

On the air mattress, Micah picked through Charley’s makeup case, tested a lipstick on the back of her hand. “A date,” she said, “that’s gross.”

“It’s not a date.” Charley shed the jeans and peeled a green halter dress from its wire hanger.

“If you’re wearing that dress, it’s a date, Mom.” Micah drew a black line along her eyelid. “Are you gonna flirt?”

“Flirting is for cheerleaders,” Charley said. “God, this dress makes me look pregnant.”

“Then how’d you get a date?” Micah widened her eyes. The mascara wand licked the tips of her lashes. “Are you gonna go to second base?”

“Second— what ? Okay, that’s it. No more PG-thirteen movies.”

In the end, Charley decided on a plain black skirt she used to teach in, and the blouse she wore when she visited Mr. Denton the first time. She looked at her reflection and sighed.

“Those shoes make your feet look huge,” Micah said.

Charley snapped eye shadow pallets shut, scooped up lip pencils and pots of blush she hadn’t worn in years. Other than the light coat of gloss on her lips, her face was bare.

“How late can we stay up?” Micah asked. She’d made two friends at school and had invited them over to watch movies.

“Ten thirty,” Charley said. “But you have to help Miss Honey with the dishes.”

Micah rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on a pillow. “Moms shouldn’t date. It should be illegal.”

“And don’t call unless it’s an emergency. I’m not kidding,” Charley said, and thought, I’m too old for this. But on her way out of the room, she touched the The Cane Cutter for good luck.

• • •

Remy Newell took a road that snaked lazily along the bayou where lily pads the size of elephant ears grew in clumps on the banks, and tree branches, willow and tupelo, dipped down to touch the slow-moving current. As the bayou turned, Charley caught a glimpse of a small aluminum boat anchored a few feet from shore and a fisherman gently lifting his pole and letting it fall as he tested his line. They passed plantation homes, old and grand, with sweeping verandas, tin-roofed Cajun cabins made of cypress, Creole cottages with gingerbread around the windows, and as the day’s light waned, Charley leaned back, content just to ride.

“Your place is looking better,” Remy said, breaking the silence. “That second quadrant is coming back real strong.”

Charley looked at Remy. He’d traded his T-shirt for a striped oxford rolled to his wrists, his dusty Wranglers for a new pair, stiff and lightly creased down the front, but he still wore his work boots, which was sort of reassuring because it meant they weren’t on a date after all. Just two farmers blowing off steam over a couple of beers. Still, he cleaned up well.