Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“Good morning. My name is Ashleigh Marie Broussard,” the young woman said, like this was the final round of pageant judging and it all came down to this moment. “I’m the reigning Queen Sugar. Does Miss Micah Bordelon live here?”

Micah gasped. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She gazed up at Queen Sugar. “I’m Micah.”

Violet, more impatient than ever, came marching through the living room and up behind Charley. “Girl, why’s it so quiet up here? I’m telling y’all we got to go if we want good seats. What’s going—?” She stopped when she saw Queen Sugar. “Oh my Lord.”

Queen Sugar smiled like Glenda the Good Witch. Somehow, she managed to balance her crown as she bent down to talk to Micah. “I’m here to see if you’d like to be my special guest in the Sugarcane Festival Parade. I’d like you to ride on my float and be an honorary member of my court.”

Something like a squeal leaked from Micah’s throat. She ran in a circle, then grabbed Charley’s hand. “Oh, Mom, please, please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.”

“Yes,” Charley said. “Of course. Absolutely.”

• • •

The Fifty-sixth Annual Saint Josephine Sugarcane Parade began at exactly ten o’clock. The Petite Shrimps, infants and toddlers dressed in tights and tutus, and seated in wagons pulled by their parents, led the way. Next came the junior cheerleaders with pom-pom balls tied to their white sneakers, backflipping and somersaulting in unison, followed by the Saint Josephine Rifle Club, the Boy Scouts, the baton twirlers, and the first-place winners of this year’s 4H rabbit competition. And finally, here came Queen Sugar on the front of a float that looked like it was made of whipped cream. And beside her sat Micah, beaming.

Charley put her hand to her mouth, and for a moment, she could have sworn her heart would burst through her chest. She looked down at her hand and was surprised to discover that her fingers were wet from crying. But who cared? Because how often, really, do you get to see someone’s dream come true? How often, on this great spinning ball where we’re all just struggling to lead our tiny lives, do you get to see evidence of God’s grace and know, the way you know your name, that at least for a little while, maybe just a few seconds, you can stop worrying, and take a deep breath, because things are all right? The float approached and Charley yelled Micah’s name. Beside her, Violet waved and screamed, and Blue jumped up and down while Miss Honey, Coke in hand, looking proud and slightly amused, watched it all from the comfort of her folding chair. As the float approached, Micah looked down and saw Charley. She waved and grinned and blew a kiss. And then the float passed by and glided down the street, and it was just another small-town parade.

• • •

While Violet walked Miss Honey and Blue back to the car, Charley dumped the last of the cooler’s ice in the gutter then went to fetch Micah from the staging area. Micah was waiting for her. She still wore the banner across her chest just like all the other princesses, and Charley knew it would be weeks before she would be able to pry it from Micah’s shoulders.

“You ready?”

Together, they turned away from the rush of activity, people congratulating them as they passed. And that was when Charley saw Remy Newell across the parking lot, talking and then hugging Queen Sugar. “What’s Queen Sugar’s last name again?” Charley asked.

Micah frowned. “Broussard. Something like that.”

Broussard. The singer down at the plaza — Remy’s best friend. He’s got another one, but she’s older. I’m their godfather. She hadn’t thought of it until now.

That night, no matter which way she turned, Charley couldn’t find a comfortable position. She threw off the sheet, turned on the light, and was pacing the floor when — what was that? Remy’s hat. The one he’d loaned her in those first days of planting. How could she have overlooked it all this time? It was practically begging her to go home.

• • •

“Ralph Angel? Is that you?” Miss Honey looked sleepy and startled.

“It’s just me,” Charley said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She set Remy’s hat on the counter, stepped into the den. Miss Honey’s Bible had fallen on the floor. Charley placed it back in her lap. “Go to bed. You won’t get a good night’s sleep in this chair.”

“I’m fine.” Miss Honey looked at her. “Where are you headed at this ungodly hour?”

“I need to deliver something. I won’t be long.”

• • •

At the edge of the cane fields down from Oaklawn Manor, Martin’s Grocery was the shabby country store that, at first glance, looked more like a barn with its cypress doors flung wide. But the Drink Jax sign hanging out front and its shelves of Campbell’s soup, condensed milk, Morton’s salt, creamed corn, cane syrup, and toilet paper, plus the bottles of Jack Daniel’s and Chivas Regal, the meat slicer, the Toledo scale, and the American flag were a signal to come in and sit a while. And if it weren’t for Martin’s Grocery, Charley never would have found the lane leading to Remy Newell’s place. Would have driven right past it. But the little store was where she pulled off the road and bought a pack of gum, just to be polite, then asked the old Cajun who sat at the long wooden table playing chess with a young black man for directions.

“Remy Newell?” The old Cajun pushed his red hat back on his forehead. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and Charley knew he was wondering what she could want with Remy Newell at this time of night. He spoke French to the young black man, who moved his knight twice, lifted a pawn, then led her out to the weather-worn porch and in a singsong accent she never got tired of hearing said, “You gotta go all the way to the end of this road and make a left. Another mile beyond that, make a right. He lives about half a mile down.”

Charley got back in her car, and a few minutes later came upon a house tucked in among the trees, its windows four squares of soft yellow light hovering in the darkness. But it wasn’t till she walked toward the house and noticed the pitched tin roof in silvery moonlight, and caught the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, and stepped onto the porch of wide cypress planks, that Charley wondered if she was in the right place. Even in the dark, she saw it was no ordinary house. For a moment, she stood still, taking everything in: lanterns whose gas flames flickered quietly, red double doors with glass panes like slow-moving water, green shutters flanking windows that ran the length of the porch, potted ferns and a banana plant rising from an antique cane kettle. She got a pleasing sense of order and couldn’t help but marvel at the man who would take that much care.

Charley knocked on the red door. She waited. And waited. And waited some more. And when no one answered, she stepped back and wondered what she must be thinking. What made her think Remy would be home on a night like tonight when there was so much fun to be had? He was probably at Paul’s Café, dancing with someone who recognized a good man when she saw one. Charley could barely hold on to Remy’s hat as she made her way down the steps. But rather than go back to her car, she took a chance and followed the gravel path around the side of the house. A lawn stretched out and away. Somewhere out there, the bayou was sliding past. She smelled it, heard it softly gurgling, felt a breeze rising like a whisper off the water.

One more step and Charley was at the back porch, which stretched the length of the house. Gaslights threw soft yellow light, an old fan circled lazily. And there was Remy, on a swing at the far end of the porch. His head was lowered, and Charley saw that he was reading. It was quiet, peaceful. She moved closer, out of the shadows.