Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“I saw his car.”

“He’s in a foul mood.”

Charley thought, but did not say, What else is new? and instead patted Miss Honey’s hand. As much as she wished she could sit longer, she had come home only long enough to change, then she needed to get out to the farm, check on how the crews were doing with planting.

“He’s in a real bad place,” Miss Honey said. “Worse than I’ve seen in a long time.” Before Charley could ask, she added, “The boss let him go.”

“Oh no.” Even without the specifics, Charley knew what this meant: more sulking, more flare-ups, all of them walking on eggshells.

“Something about him being overqualified,” Miss Honey said, rubbing her knuckles distractedly. “You know how that is. Some of these white folks don’t like to see a black man get ahead.” She looked at Charley for confirmation. “I knew something was wrong when he stopped coming home. I’ve been praying every night for the good Lord to keep him safe. You don’t know how hard I’ve been praying.”

Charley took Miss Honey’s hand, which was warm and soft, like it had been marinating in buttermilk. “It’ll all work out. Don’t worry. You’ll see.” But when she started to rise, Miss Honey tightened her grip, and pulled her back down into the chair.

“I want you to give Ralph Angel a job.”

“A what?”

“On your farm.”

Charley dropped her grandmother’s hand. “No. No, no, no, no. Bad idea.”

“There’s got to be something he can do, Charley.” Miss Honey’s tone seemed too controlled, too practiced. “Just to tide him over till he finds something else.”

Charley pulled her hand away from Miss Honey’s and stood. “I know you’re worried. And don’t get me wrong — I’d like to — it’s just that—” She backed away from the table.

“Come back here. It’s just what ?”

“It’s just.” Charley took a breath and started over. “It’s just, I can’t even pay the men I’ve got. Even if I could pay Ralph Angel, he doesn’t want to work for me. He doesn’t do manual labor. He said so himself.”

“What about a job in the office?”

Charley pictured the shop. The broken-down sofa, the piles of telephone books they hadn’t had time to throw away, the refrigerator that sent a tingling current of electricity through her fingers every time she touched the handle. “There is no office.” The suggestion was so absurd, she laughed before she could catch herself.

Miss Honey gave Charley the look she reserved for people who bumped into her shopping cart without apologizing. “You mean to tell me — you mean to tell me you got all those Mexicans and that crazy white man out there working for you and you can’t find a way to help your own?”

“With what money?”

“You mean to tell me, you got your own flesh and blood right under this roof, and you can’t find a way to lend a hand?”

“Miss Honey, please listen. Alison isn’t working for me, he’s one of my partners. He’s made a huge investment. His time, his equipment.” Charley felt her argument dissipate like smoke. Nothing she said would make sense now.

“Last spring when you called to say you were coming down here, you remember what I told you?”

Tears flooded Charley’s eyes. “You offered to let us stay here. You said it was silly to rent a house when we had family.”

“That’s right. Family. This is about family. Ralph Angel is smart. All he needs is a chance. I know you can find something for him.”

“Miss Honey, please. Things are tight. I’m on the verge of losing the farm.” Charley took her checkbook out of her purse and flipped to the register. “Look. It says thirteen dollars. I just wrote Denton a check for the last of it. I’m broke.”

Miss Honey drew herself erect. Her eyes bored into Charley. “‘And the Lord said unto Cain, where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not. Am I my brother’s keeper? And he said, what hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.’”

Charley felt something slip inside her. “Maybe once grinding starts, if I need some extra help. That would be better.”

“Charlotte Bordelon, I never thought I’d hear these things coming out of your mouth. That farm isn’t just yours. Yes, Ernest bought it, and yes, he left it to you, but you’re part of this family. Have I charged you rent?” Miss Honey leaned forward in her chair, but Charley could not speak. “When someone in a family needs help, it’s up to everyone to see that he gets what he needs. I know Ralph Angel would do the same for you.”

“ Thirteen dollars. You’re not listening. I don’t have any money!”

Miss Honey stood up then. “I’ve heard everything I need to hear, and I’m telling you what you’re going to do. You’re going to find a job for your brother. I don’t care if he digs ditches or scrapes cane kettles. He’s coming to work for you until he gets back on his feet and you’re going to find the money to pay him. And when we get finished with that, we’re going to talk about giving him what is rightly his. If that takes till the end of grinding, if it takes the next ten years, then so be it.”

The room, as far as Charley could tell, had tilted ninety degrees. Everything seemed to be sliding off its surface, crashing to the floor. Cabinet doors swung open, dishes tumbled, and silverware flew from the drawers, and Charley almost reached for the salt and pepper shakers to hold them in place. She swore she couldn’t hear her own voice for all the noise, but when she looked around again, the room was quiet. Just the soft whirring of the ceiling fan, the steady dribble of water from the faucet.

“You can’t force me to do this,” Charley said, still dazed. “And anyway, the trust imposed restrictions on who can own it.”

Miss Honey pointed an indicting finger. “‘And now art thou cursed from the earth,’” she said. “‘When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.’”

The counter was littered with vegetable scraps. Charley stared at Miss Honey’s broad, silent back, listened to the hiss from her skillet. Outside, Micah and Blue screamed as they played hide-and-seek and Charley knew they were still high on all the cake they’d eaten. They would run through the woods for an hour and come back panting and spent and hungry all over again.

Charley threaded her belt through the loops of her jeans. “I’m going to work,” she said. “I won’t be back till late.”

“We’re having pork chops,” Miss Honey said. “I’ll leave yours on the stove.”

Charley recognized the gesture. Food was love. Food was Miss Honey’s weapon, her sword and her shield. Charley knew she could accept the olive branch, and put the whole incident behind her; she could surrender, hire Ralph Angel, and in turn, receive the nourishment she’d come to cherish and crave.

Or she could reject it.

“No, thank you,” Charley said, coolly. “I won’t be hungry.” She wouldn’t eat Miss Honey’s cooking if someone paid her. Not tonight, not for lunch tomorrow, not as leftovers later this week.

Miss Honey flinched, almost imperceptibly. She stirred something in the skillet and the hiss flared into a roar. “Then I guess you’d better go on.”

• • •

Charley was still shaken when she pulled up to Violet’s church, and for a few minutes she just sat staring at the words TRUE VINE BAPTIST CHURCH, which were painted over FRANK’S STICK ’N STEIN. Violet said the place used to be an old pool hall, Charley recalled, and she surveyed the row of dilapidated storefronts. Taped to the door, a piece of poster board meant to function as a marquee read TODAY’S SERMON: DON’T BLOCK YOUR BLESSINGS!