Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“And?” Remy said.

Charley shrugged. “And then she stopped coming. I tried to find out where she lived, but I never found her. But I still think about her. I hope she made it.” She picked up her beer and drained the bottle. She looked at Remy, who nodded and seemed to understand. Then Charley laughed, to change the mood back, and remembered Remy’s promise that zydeco dancing would make her sound like a Louisiana girl. “I think I still have my accent.”

Remy stood. He offered his hand and pulled her up. “No problem, California. We’ve got plenty of time.”

They danced through the third set and then the fourth, fast dances and slow ones, releasing each other’s hands only when the band stopped playing and the house manager turned on the lights.

• • •

On the ride back to the Blue Bowl, silence sat easily between them.

The parking lot was empty when they pulled in. Remy shifted into park. “We should do this again. Soon.”

“Soon. Yes.” Charley was still filled with light. “Absolutely.”

Remy gave her that long, careful stare then leaned toward her, and only then did she realize he hadn’t kissed her yet. How could that be, after all the time they spent dancing? After they’d stood so close together?

Remy paused, said, “I have to tell you something.”

“Uh-oh.”

He laughed. “Nothing bad, don’t worry.” He hesitated. “I know we just met. And I may be overstepping my bounds here, but I have to tell you, I like you very much.”

“Good,” Charley said, “because I like you, too.”

Remy shook his head. “I’m not saying it right.” He looked at her again. The long stare. “I think you’re wonderful, California.”

“Thank you.” The light from the dashboard made the gray hair at his temples glow silver.

He tilted his head as though trying to see her more clearly. “You’re so — unusual.”

“Unusual.” Charley looked at her hands. She should have filed her nails. “What do you mean?”

Remy shrugged. “I don’t know. Just different. The things you’re interested in, the places you’ve been, the way you think. I mean, look at you, what you’re doing with your farm. You came down here and jumped in like it was nothing.”

“My farm.” Charley laughed. “That doesn’t make me different. It just proves I’m crazy.”

“No. It doesn’t. It means you’ve got guts. It means you’re smart. It means you won’t let anything stop you.” Remy squeezed her hand. “I don’t know. You’re not like other black people; at least not the black people around here. It’s almost like you’re not black at all.”

It took Charley only a nanosecond to realize what he was saying. Her face grew warm. “Oh.” She felt all the muscles of her face freeze. Her skin was like glass; if she tried to talk it would shatter. But Remy’s face was lit and he smiled tenderly. She should say something. “I see.”

Remy leaned toward Charley and stroked her face with the backs of his fingers. Then he opened his door, walked around to open hers, and Charley knew when he would try to kiss her: outside, standing against the truck, where their bodies could melt together. But as she watched his easy stride through the windshield, she felt as if all the truck’s air was slowly being sucked away. Not like other black people. Not like who? Miss Honey? Her father? Violet? Almost like you’re not black at all. Not like Denton? Or Huey Boy? What did that mean? Where did that leave her?

Remy opened her door, reached for her hand.

“That’s okay. I’ve got it,” Charley said, holding her backpack with both hands and stepping down without his help.

“Hey? You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Remy took Charley’s chin in his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Charley lifted her chin.

“Did I do something?”

Charley looked out across the parking lot to where she knew the fields stood waiting for morning. She heard the cane stalks rustle. People didn’t change their fundamental beliefs about how the world fit together. Charley knew this. Besides, it was too hard; the problem was too big and she didn’t have that kind of time.

She took out her keys and was about to leave without saying anything. But Remy deserved an explanation.

“Here’s the thing.” Charley took his hand. She pulled her shoulders back, strangely grateful for her mother’s constant reminders about good posture. The words came from some place deep within her but she didn’t raise her voice. “Every morning when I wake up and look in the mirror, I see a black face and I love it. Sure, I’ve been to Paris and grew up surfing, and yes, I speak like I’m in a commercial. But I’m just like the women you see walking on the side of the road with their laundry baskets and their Bibles. I’m just like the old men pedaling their rusty bicycles. I’m no different from the men who drive your tractors or the woman who probably raised you. I’m just like them, no better and no worse. I’m black, Remy, which means everything and nothing.”

Remy looked stricken. “I beg your pardon,” he said, all the ease in his voice drained away. “I apologize, California.”

“My name is Charley.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

The moon shone through the bunched and graceless clouds. Remy reached for Charley’s arm but she stepped back.

“It’s late,” Charley said. “I should go.”

In her car, KAJN played a zydeco waltz. Charley turned it off.

Remy tapped on her window. “We should talk. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No. Please don’t.” Charley turned her face away, mortified that tears were standing in her eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

• • •

“I don’t care if he’s Robert Redford,” Charley said, pushing past Violet and heading for the darkened family room. She dropped her backpack on the coffee table and collapsed onto the couch.

“Good morning to you, too.” Violet tied the sash on her robe, turning on the lights as she followed Charley. “You mind telling me what Robert Redford has to do with you breaking down my door?”

“Remy Newell.” Charley put her face in her hands. When she looked up, Violet was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, yawning. “Did you hear me?”

“It’s two thirty. I don’t usually start seeing patients till nine.”

“Violet.”

Violet came around and sat next to Charley. “Okay, what happened?”

“I just thought — well, I guess — oh, I don’t know what I thought. I can’t believe I fell for it. Shame on my being charmed by all that Southern gentility bullshit he sprinkled around like powdered sugar.” Charley pinched the bridge of her nose. “I thought he was different from the other rednecks because he listened to NPR.”

“What happened?”

“Remy gave me that ‘you’re not like other black people’ line.”

Violet nodded. “So where’s the news?”

Charley looked down at the shadow box coffee table. Violet had changed the scene beneath the glass top. Last time it was a summer motif — sand, seashells, and a red plastic lobster. Now it was a Mardi Gras theme with masks and beads even though Mardi Gras was still months away. “I guess I wanted to believe — I liked the possibility — but it’s like there’s an electric fence between us all the time — God! I hate having to be the race police.”

“So don’t,” Violet said.

“You mean let him get away with it?”

“Why not see if he’s capable of learning, if he seems good in every other way?” Violet took Charley’s hand. “Why does a man have to be perfect before Charley Bordelon will date him? What do you care if Remy Newell thinks you’re not black, or that all black people have to play sports to go to school? I’m not saying it’s not troubling, and I’m not even saying you have to overlook it. But if it’s not that, I guarantee, it would be something else. Meanwhile, you’re in a wonderful position. Girl, you’re free, can’t you see that? You’ve got your child, you’ve got your family down here who love you, you’ve got your farm. You don’t have to ask anyone for anything. You know how few women in this world get to say that, black or white?” Violet let go of Charley’s hand, but kept her gaze trained on her. “You know why you’re disappointed in Remy Newell, why you’re so angry with yourself? Because you thought he was the complete package. Southern accent, progressive politics, and all. You forgot he’s just a man. Now, don’t misunderstand, there’s nothing wrong with men; I like having them around. But you’ve already got what you need, sugar.” And here, Violet reached for Charley and hugged her, and Charley felt the softness of Violet’s neck, and smelled the lingering fragrance of her night cream and exhaled. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, Charley,” Violet said. “Take care of your child, get your fields planted, stay right with God, and you’ll be just fine.”