Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

Charley waited in the rear of the sanctuary where the Knights of Columbus, half a dozen wizened old white men — one of whom appeared to be napping on his feet — adjusted their feathered hats and flipped their purple satin capes over their shoulders. They arranged themselves single file, then, on someone’s cue, marched soberly down the aisle as if heading off to battle. When they reached the altar, they drew their swords, touching the blade tips together to form an arch through which Charley expected the entire high school football team to come running.

“Sorry I’m late.” Charley opened the gated pew and slid in next to Denton. “What did I miss?”

Alison, on the other side of Denton, leaned forward. “It’s about time,” he whispered loudly. “I didn’t put on this monkey suit to sit here by myself.”

Denton cut Alison a warning look, then handed Charley an order of service. “You look nice.”

Coughs and shuffles rose up toward the cavernous ceiling. Charley recognized many of the farmers from the Blue Bowl and once again got the feeling that she was the only one who didn’t know the secret password. “Is there a cane farmer in Saint Josephine who isn’t Catholic?”

They stood as the priest and altar boys floated down the aisle, trailing a thick cloud of incense.

“Man, I wish they’d hurry up,” Alison said, coughing and waving his hand.

“Quit complaining,” Denton said. “This was your idea, remember?”

“Jesus Christ, Denton, can you blame me? I’d eat my shoe if it meant we’d pull through this.”

Denton turned to Charley. “You sure you don’t want us to come with you to New Orleans?”

According to Dupry, Brown & Associates, the auction house Charley chose, The Cane Cutter was worth forty-five thousand dollars and would likely fetch more. Denton’s tone was relaxed, but his expression was less certain; as though he doubted she could pull this off.

“I’ll be fine.” Charley patted Denton’s arm and offered a weak smile. When her father left the statue on her mantle, he hadn’t left a note but she hadn’t needed one. She knew what The Cane Cutter represented. It was more than a family heirloom; more than a rare piece of art. It symbolized generations of struggle and perseverance in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Yes, it told her family’s story but it could just as well have told the story of any other family — black, white, brown, yellow, or whatever — whose forefathers ( and mothers ) had stayed the course. He’d meant for her to have it, to own it, to be inspired by it, and to pass it on. And here she was selling it like a quaint collectible at a tag sale. But grinding season started tomorrow . The auction was scheduled for Wednesday, three days from now, at one o’clock sharp. And the only way they’d know if her scheme worked, whether their ship would float or sink, would be if she followed through on her plan. Meanwhile, with the John Deere 4840 still out of commission, the crews were planting cane by hand. It was slow work, horribly inefficient, and the men seemed to be losing their morale. In three days, they’d planted only twenty acres. The 4840 would have covered four times as much ground. She had to sell or they were sunk.

The priest motioned for the congregation to sit, then welcomed everyone in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He wasn’t so much thin as soft, with wisps of dull brown hair and oversize glasses that made him look gooberish. As he shook holy water over a bundle of cane stalks leaning against the wall, Charley wondered if his blessing would be powerful enough, because from where she sat, it looked like he’d have trouble asking for extra mayo on his sandwich.

“I’ll call you as soon as it sells,” Charley said, the thought of the auction once again making her insides churn.

Denton looked at her.

“What?” Charley said.

“You look different. Your skin’s shiny.”

“Shiny?” Charley touched her cheek, wondering whether Denton had picked up Remy’s scent. Until a couple hours ago, a part of her still refused to believe she had spent the night with him. Even this morning, when the sun came up and she looked down into Remy’s yard, where, indeed, bunches of oxblood lilies were erupting beneath the trees — even then she didn’t believe it. Only when Remy walked her to her car and leaned in through the window to kiss her again did Charley know for sure.

Watching from the pew as Denton and Alison stood in line for communion, Charley sensed their anxiety — about the farm, about the future, about nature’s hand in how well they did. They were like her, their fears were her fears, but they didn’t show them. As she sat there, Charley said a prayer for her partners. Lord, if you can hear me, please bless Mr. Denton and Alison, who have already done more for me than I could have ever asked for. Bless them and keep them strong.

• • •

Outside, after the service, Alison lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the little cemetery where the first Acadian pioneers were buried. A fine layer of lichen coated the oldest vaults, which pitched sideways after decades of sinking into the soft ground.

“Well, thank God that’s over,” Alison said, smoke streaming through his nostrils. “I better get back before my grandkids set my neighbor’s house on fire.”

“You might want to take Highway 90 on the way back from New Orleans tomorrow,” Denton said. “It’s prettier than the interstate and it’s not that much longer.”

“I’ll try to remember.” Charley looked at Denton and thought he would be a better priest than that other guy. Even with uncertainty in his eyes, the way he held himself suggested an old battleship pushing through deep water. She dug through her purse until she found her checkbook, then scribbled a check for six thousand dollars. Now she was not only maxed out on her credit, she was officially broke. She folded the check and handed it to Denton. “That should take some of the pressure off. Tell the crews we’ll square up in January after the numbers are in. There’s enough there for you and Alison to pay yourselves, too.”

Denton protested and tried to hand back the check.

“Absolutely not,” Charley insisted. “In your wallet.” She noticed, at the far end of the cemetery, a statue of the Virgin Mary that someone had vandalized. The side of the Virgin’s shapely stone head had been bashed in; part of her face was missing. “I think maybe Alison was right.”

“About what?”

“I thought the Blessing of the Crops would help, but I feel exactly the same.” Maybe worse.

Denton leaned against the wrought-iron fence. “This is a long walk in a dark wood, Miss Bordelon. Don’t psych yourself out just yet.”

• • •

Back at Miss Honey’s, Ralph Angel’s car was parked along the gully. Inside, though, there was no sign of him. Micah and Blue, still in their church clothes, sat at the kitchen table eating large wedges of Micah’s crawfish cake.

“I didn’t win,” Micah said, glumly.

“I’m sorry, sweat pea. I know how hard you worked.” Charley kissed the top of Micah’s head, then, in a moment of sheer zaniness, grabbed Micah’s fork, broke off a chunk of cake, and stuffed it in her mouth, saying, “But now there’s more cake for us.”

Blue and Micah stared at her, then Micah said, “You’re nuts,” and smiled even as she rolled her eyes. And for the next few minutes, Charley sat at the table with the children, listening as they recapped the day’s Sunday school lesson and trying not to think about Remy Newell or the auction.

“Y’all take your cake outside. I need to talk to your mama,” said Miss Honey, stepping from the den into the kitchen. When the children were gone, she pulled out a chair and sat down — something she rarely did in the kitchen unless she was eating. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Ralph Angel is home.” She tilted her head toward the back room.