Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

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Six thirty p.m. now, and night crept forward along the sky’s hem. A mother-of-pearl crescent moon hovered above the tree line, and out on the road, the steady flicker of headlights confirmed tractors were still hauling cane to the mills. In her combine, Charley touched the knots on her necklace. Thank you, Lord. She had survived the first day of grinding.

Ralph Angel had, miraculously, swept the floor and stacked Denton’s tools along the ledge when Charley returned to the shop. He looked up when she entered, seeming to search her face for approval.

“The others are on their way back,” Charley said, tossing her gloves down. “You should clock out. Denton and I need to go over tomorrow’s schedule, then we’ll head home.”

Ralph Angel nodded, but was quiet otherwise, and Charley figured maybe the time alone had done him some good.

From out in the yard came the sound of truck tires rolling to a stop and, over its idling engine, the faint echo of zydeco music. A man’s voice, then Ralph Angel’s saying, “Straight through that door.” Charley poked her head out of her office. That weathered face; those eyes that looked at her as though she were the only woman in town. “Remy.” She would never get tired of saying it.

“Hey there, California.” Remy took off his baseball cap then leaned forward to kiss her. He ran his hand down her arm, lightly squeezing her biceps, and said, “Those pretty arms,” then took her hand. He smelled of motor oil and grass and sweat, and underneath, citrus. “Thought I’d swing by, see how you did today.”

“A few setbacks,” Charley said, “but overall, good. And even better now.”

Remy was about to kiss her again, but over his shoulder Charley saw Ralph Angel hovering just inside the shop door. The thought of him witnessing so private a moment made her pull away. She motioned, reluctantly, for Ralph Angel to come over. She introduced him to Remy. “This is my brother.”

“Hey, man. How you doing?” Remy said, warmly, extending his hand.

Ralph Angel responded with a halfhearted shake. He looked Remy over, openly sizing him up. “So, how do you know my sister?”

“We met at an auction,” Charley said. “Remy’s a farmer.”

“Oh yeah? No kidding. How many acres?” Ralph Angel said.

“Twenty-two hundred, give or take,” Remy said. “Mostly over in Saint Abbey.”

“Twenty-two hundred. I’m impressed.”

“Plenty of farmers a lot bigger than me.” Remy smiled and gave a modest shrug. “So, you’re Charley’s brother.” He sounded relieved to be asking the questions now. “You driving a combine or something?”

Ralph Angel slid his hands in his pockets. “Actually, my sister’s got me scrapping cane.”

Remy laughed. “Get out of here.”

“Why would I joke?” Ralph Angel said.

Charley winced. His tone had darkened, reminding her of the way he sounded the day John brought the plywood for the windows.

Remy looked from Ralph Angel, who stood by with a sour but satisfied look on his face, to Charley, and Charley was tempted to offer an explanation. She hated that Remy was looking at her with a confused expression, as though he were wondering who she was, really, way deep down; wondering if she might be some kind of monster to make her brother do such lowly work.

“Mr. Denton should be pulling up any minute,” Charley said. “We can wait out front.”

“That’s okay,” Remy said. The confused expression vanished. “You’re the one I came to see. I thought maybe we’d have a drink to celebrate. A quick one, since we both need to be up early.”

Nine o’clock at Paul’s Café. Just one drink. Charley would drop Ralph Angel off at home first.

In the car, Charley was about to turn on the radio when Ralph Angel reached for the book she’d wedged between the seats. This time, he practically tore the pages as he turned them. “This belongs to that guy you introduced me to back there?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Ralph Angel closed the book. “Sort of sleeping with the enemy, don’t you think?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, fucking a white guy. A Southern white guy at that.”

“It’s none of your business.” Charley’s heart was racing.

“I mean, there must be at least one black man down here who’s good enough for you. There must be a doctor or a lawyer in one of these towns who meets your high standards.”

“You’ll be plugging drains tomorrow,” Charley said.

“Just tell me this: what makes Mr. Twenty-two hundred acres so special?”

“There’s a five-acre stretch over in Micah’s Corner that had some water on it. Mr. Denton will show you what to do. Don’t forget your gloves.”

“I mean, what makes you think he sees anything in you but a piece of black ass? That’s the way they do it down here, you know? They always have a little dish of chocolate on the side.”

Charley’s whole body went rigid. “You should plan on driving yourself from now on.”

“You humiliated me out there today. I have my pride.”

“We don’t have time for pride. You brought this on yourself.”

“Making me walk behind that cracker’s harvester was bad enough, but then to make me pick up dog shit around the shop?”

“It was the only job left. If you don’t like it, talk to Miss Honey since she forced me to hire you.”

“And then to be fucking a white boy? I wonder what Micah will say when she finds out what white men in Louisiana have done to black women for centuries. Hell, why limit it to Louisiana? All over the South. I mean, what kind of role model are you?”

It was as though Ralph Angel had dipped a long stick into the dark pit of her private concerns and stirred up all the muck. And now, all the questions Charley had asked herself about how she and Remy could ever possibly work given the South’s complicated history; given her worries about what people would say — white people but also black people — considering both sides’ sensitivities and prejudices; what her own father would say given all he’d suffered — all of those anxieties rose to the top. This wasn’t the 1950s. She was free to love whomever she wanted. Still, Charley felt as though she was breaking some cardinal rule. She knew Ralph Angel understood her fears, the obligation and the burden she felt. She knew her brother was hurting, that he was desperate, and would likely apologize later, but she hated Ralph Angel for saying what he said just to get back at her. Charley pulled the car over to the shoulder. “Get out.”

“You could have put me in the office from the start. Let me file papers or something.”

“I said get out.”

Ralph Angel stared at Charley for a long moment, then opened his door. “Tell ’Da I missed my ride.”

“Tell her yourself.”

Ralph Angel stepped back from the car, but he didn’t close the door. “See you at work tomorrow, sis.”

“I don’t think so,” Charley said, leaning over to pull the door closed. “You’re fired.”

In the back room, Ralph Angel stared through the darkness, his body aching after the day’s labor and the long walk home, his mind cycling through memories of all that had happened — Ernest, Miss Honey, Johnny at the bakery, the German, Charley — and the more he thought, the more his stomach churned with the fresh waves of bright, cold fury. It might take a while to find what he needed. The punks he met in Tee Coteau, the ones he bought from after that mess with the German, were better than nothing, but they were small-time operators. He might have to leave town to find guys who could hook him up for real, sell him what he needed to stop the darkness he felt within him from spreading. He slid out of bed.