Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“But he did!” Charley said, and blew her nose into what was left of the paper towel, looking for a piece that wasn’t shredded. “No one else knew it was there. No one else had a reason to steal it.”

“No police,” Miss Honey said, like she was directing traffic. “No police. I won’t allow it. No police. No.”

“Mother.” Violet’s voice was calm, reasonable. “We have to call the police. If Ralph Angel is innocent, calling the police won’t matter.”

“Ralph Angel didn’t take it,” Miss Honey snapped. “He is a lot of things, but he’s not a criminal. We had a house thief is what we had.”

Charley leaped up from her chair. “Why wouldn’t he take it?” She pounded her fist on the table. “I fired him, remember? Why wouldn’t he get even?”

“You were brave, Miss Charley,” said Hollywood. “It took guts to stand up to Ralph Angel.”

“I’m calling John,” Violet said, taking out her cell phone. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Call John if you want to,” Miss Honey said, “but we’re keeping this in the family.”

“By tonight, he’ll be across the Mexico border,” Charley said. “He’s probably a hundred miles from here already.”

“The day you call the police on Ralph Angel,” said Miss Honey, her voice low as tires on gravel, “is the day you are dead to me. Police don’t ask questions. They just shoot. We’re giving Ralph Angel till tonight and that’s the end of it.”

• • •

In the evening during grinding, the sky took on an orangey glow. As night approached, out in the fields, farmers continued to burn their cane before loading it in the wagons, so that it looked to passersby as though long red whips were snaking over the ground. And without the noise of daily life, without the boom boom boom of car stereos, and people calling across the street, Charley heard the mill chugging away in the distance — the low drone of the boilers and a faint whistle signaling the end of each shift. It was a comforting sound that meant people were doing the right thing. It meant life kept rolling forward.

It was six o’clock when Miss Honey’s front door slammed. Brother stormed into the kitchen like a category three hurricane, all howling winds and thunder. “I knew it would come to this!” He threw his keys on the table. “I tried to warn you. I told you there’d be trouble.” He wore his fast-food uniform — white shirt, white pants with a blue stripe down the side, a little button pinned to his chest that said “Service with a smile.”

Violet punched Brother’s arm. “Quiet. You’ll scare the kids with all that noise.”

Seconds later, John stepped into the kitchen. He looked handsome and serious in his prison guard uniform. He hugged Violet, said hello to Hollywood, then knelt down to Charley. “How you doin’, cuz?”

“I want him arrested,” Charley said. “Why aren’t we calling the police? You know people, right?”

“What took you so long?” Violet said.

“Cut us some slack,” Brother said. “We drove as fast as we could. Even stopped at some bars where we thought he might be.”

John laid a comforting hand on Charley’s shoulder. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Around seven last night. I kicked him out of my car.” Charley consulted her watch. “We’ve wasted enough time.” She picked up the phone.

Miss Honey, in her pink robe and slippers, emerged from the hall. “Hang up that phone, Charley. I told y’all before. No police. They’ll only hunt him down.”

“Hello, Mother,” Brother said.

“And don’t come in here with a lot of foolishness, Brother.” She went to the refrigerator and took out a Coke, poured in her Stanback. “I don’t know what crazy scheme y’all are cooking up but I don’t want to hear it. Can’t none of you prove Ralph Angel did this.”

“But Mother—” Brother began.

“And shame on y’all for judging when Ralph Angel’s not here to defend himself.”

“That’s the point,” Violet said. “If he were here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Don’t be fresh, Violet. ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own?’” The scripture made everyone stop.

Charley went to the cabinet. She flung the doors open. She pushed the glasses over to the corner and pulled out Miss Honey’s money jar, held it up to the light. Nothing in it but air. “What about this? How do you explain this?”

Miss Honey regarded the empty jar like she’d never seen it before.

“For God’s sake,” Charley said. “How much proof do you need?”

“Well, well. Would you look at this? The gang’s all here.” Ralph Angel stood in the doorway.

He looked, to Charley, as if he’d been rolling around in the woods the way his old sweat jacket hung open. Under it, his T-shirt looked like it could use a good bleaching.

Charley went over to Ralph Angel, stood right in his face. “Where is it?”

“Well, hello, sis. How are you? Fired anyone lately?”

“There, you see?” said Miss Honey. “Ralph Angel doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you mean that statue?” Ralph Angel held up his hands. “I have no idea what they did with it. It was beautiful though, a real masterpiece. I see why our daddy gave it to you.” He started to cross the kitchen. “Now I need to talk to my boy.”

“One second, cousin.” John reached for Ralph Angel’s arm.

“Take your hands off me, John. I’m not fucking around this time.”

“Where’s Charley’s statue?”

“I said let go.”

That was when everything got scary, scrambled like eggs and grits and bacon all mixed together in one pot. It happened fast. And so slow. One minute, John had Ralph Angel by the arm and Ralph Angel was pushing him away. There was lots of shouting, rolling on the floor, and John had Ralph Angel pinned. He smashed his fist into Ralph Angel’s face and Ralph Angel’s cheek split open. And for a second it looked as though John had won. But then Ralph Angel slipped away, and Charley heard popping like firecrackers, and she saw that Ralph Angel had John’s gun. He waved it around as he stood up, breathing hard, yelled, “Get the fuck back! Get the fuck back!” Violet and Brother were pressed up against the cabinets, and Miss Honey was saying, “Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy.” And then Micah and Blue ran in, saying, “What’s going on? Why is everyone yelling?” and then they stopped too, when they saw Ralph Angel waving the gun. Charley dropped the Kerns jar then, because the kids had run in, and because John was lying on the floor and blood, like a big dark flower, was blooming across the side of his uniform.

And then everything got quiet, except for the ceiling fan’s soft whirling.

“Ralph Angel,” Charley said, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it. “Put the gun down.”

Ralph Angel looked at Charley. He still breathed hard, but not, Charley realized, from wrestling with John. “How come you always got everything?” He sniffed, wiped his eyes. “Who said you got to have Dad and the farm and the family?”

Charley looked at Ralph Angel — at the grimy stripe that ran down the arm of his warm-up jacket, which sagged across his shoulders, the pockets gaping like fish mouths; at his worn-out sneakers and the outdated cut of his jeans; at his hair, which was short when he first arrived, but had grown out unevenly because he couldn’t spare the money to keep it cut; and finally, into Ralph Angel’s face, which was a kind face, actually, and hadn’t changed all that much since he was a kid, but looked so very tired now. Charley looked at her brother and for the first time saw just how broken and desperate he was.