Natalie Baszile - Queen Sugar

“Well, you ought to,” Denton said. “It’s peaceful. Nothing but you, your thoughts, and that fish. Everything else falls away.” He paused, his shoulders slumping a tiny bit. “You’re a smart young woman, Miss Bordelon. I feel for you, I really do. But I’m retired.” Someone had mounted an Audubon clock above the sink, with birds — an American goldfinch, a Carolina wren, a hermit thrush — positioned at each hour. For a few seconds they sat listening to the clock’s gentle ticking, and when the second hand reached the quarter hour, the clock chimed happily with a different bird’s song. “Maybe you oughta sit this one out,” Denton said, raising his head to look at Charley as the idea seemed to come to him. “Get a feel for things and, in a year, see if it’s still for you. Who knows? You might decide to sell.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” Charley glanced down at her lap. She had a run in her nylons, right above the knee, and the dark skin of her thigh shone through like a gash where the white threads were pulling apart. She thought back to her conversation with the lawyer that day in his office. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful , she’d said, knowing that ungrateful was exactly how she sounded, but are you saying there’s no money? Nothing? Just some farm in Louisiana? There was money at a local bank in Saint Josephine , the lawyer explained, but it was entirely for operating expenses. Other than that, no, there was no money. Even now, after all these months, the truth was hard to accept. Her father had sold every piece of property he owned to buy what amounted to a vacant lot.

Sitting across the table from Prosper Denton in a kitchen that smelled faintly of homemade bread, coffee, and freshly picked tomatoes, Charley tried to make Denton appreciate her predicament. “I can’t sell,” she said. “My father put the land in trust, I don’t know why, but if I run it, I get the profits after the bank is paid. If I walk away, the land goes to charity.” Charley felt a space open inside her as she thought about her father’s other favorite saying: “I give you what I want you to have”—which sometimes sounded intensely generous and sometimes rang with fierce control.

The lawyer, looking like an old owl behind his mahogany desk, had said, Your father was a good man. He was trying to provide for you. He put up a hand to stop Charley’s protestation. You’ve got a million dollars’ worth of presumably good land down there. I suggest you bone up. Get in touch with this man. He slid a folder across the desk. On the front was a sticky note with a name, Wayne Frasier, and a number. He’s sort of a caretaker, the lawyer said . Managed the property for the sellers and, from what I understand, he agreed to work for your father. She had flipped through the documents and photographs. Handle this right, the lawyer said, standing up and showing her to the door, and your great-great-grandkids will never have to worry. His final words convinced her. Charley had thought of Micah and Micah’s children. And even as she reeled at the news of her inheritance, loving and resenting her father all at the same time, she knew what she would do.

Charley looked at Mr. Denton. “So you see, sitting out isn’t an option. And selling is out of the question.”

“Give yourself a chance to think on it,” Denton said. “You might feel different in a day or two.”

Charley nodded vacantly. He might as well have patted her head, might as well have told her all she needed was a long soak in the tub or a good night’s sleep and she’d come to her senses.

Denton reached to refill her glass, but Charley covered it with her hand. “No, thanks, I’m fine.” She folded her paper towel over, then over again. “My father sold everything he had to buy that land.”

“Lot of farmers wanted that place.” Denton’s face brightened with admiration. “Must have come in with a strong offer.”

“A million, one twenty,” Charley said. “He had nothing left.”

Denton whistled. “That’s fourteen hundred an acre.”

“Yes, it is. And at the end of the year, the bank is going to want its first payment. So I can’t afford to ‘think on it,’ as you say.”

Denton looked at Charley. “I wish I could help you.”

And so, Charley stood. The conversation was over. Denton had shut her down before she got started and she wasn’t in the mood for more talk. She carried her glass to the sink and rinsed it before he could object, then grabbed her backpack. “Thanks for your time.”

Denton looked startled, but he led her to the door. “I can only tell you what I know to be true, Miss Bordelon.”

Beyond the screen door, the yard was bright, the clouds overlapping like leopard spots against the flat sky, and Charley braced herself for the heat. The dogs, stationed at their post, looked up expectantly as she pushed through the screen door, and followed her to the car as if it were their duty. She pulled out of the yard, the dogs chasing alongside her, the narrow country road unwinding like thread from a spool, the sugarcane seeming taller and even grander than when she arrived. Charley gripped the wheel and noticed how her diamond ring glowed as it reflected the sunlight. So many things she didn’t know, so many obstacles she couldn’t see, so many challenges she couldn’t even imagine , and no one to guide her.

• • •

Even before Charley saw them, she knew, from the garlicky smell that hung in the living room, that Micah and Miss Honey were cooking.

“You got up and out early this morning,” Miss Honey said as Charley tossed her backpack on the table.

“Mom,” Micah said. “Miss Honey’s teaching me how to make Dirty Rice.”

“I went to see Prosper Denton,” Charley said.

Miss Honey’s eyes narrowed, but then she turned her attention back to the cutting board with the chopped onions piled like a mound of confetti. “He knew you were coming?”

“He thinks I should sit out for a year. Either that or sell. Which I can’t.”

“Hmm.” Miss Honey tapped Micah. “Baby, hand me that spoon.”

In the vacant lot next door, some of Miss Honey’s dresses and two of Micah’s shirts hung stiffly from the clothesline. “Don’t take this wrong,” Charley said, “but how, exactly, did you think Denton could help me?”

Miss Honey’s lips pursed. She kept her eyes on the cutting board, continued to chop, but said, “Last month, folks over in Pointe Olivier needed their water tower taken down. Whole thing was rusted out and waiting to fall. Problem was, they couldn’t find anyone for the job. Power lines all around it, and every engineer they called swore they couldn’t say for sure where it was gonna land. Everybody screaming it couldn’t be done.”

Charley went to the refrigerator, took out a Coke, wishing it were a beer, and twisted off the cap.

“So a couple men from the city called Mr. Denton,” Miss Honey continued. “That same day he drove out to take a look. Walked around that tower a couple times, sketched out his plan on a napkin, then looked those men from the city right in the eye and said, ‘I can do it.’ Showed them exactly where that tower would fall. He sent those boys up there to make the cuts, attached the cables, got in the tractor, and before anyone could say Jackie Robinson, that tower came down, just like he said. Didn’t kiss even one of those power lines.”

Miss Honey called Micah over to the stove where ground beef sizzled in the iron skillet. She handed her a wooden spoon with burn marks along the handle, and told her to adjust the flame — not too high or the meat would burn; not too low or it would get soggy. “The secret to good cooking is knowing how to follow the recipe till you feel comfortable,” she said. She covered the skillet with a plate, muting the sizzling. “Once you understand how the ingredients work together, then you can go off on your own. Till then, you’re just wasting good food and everybody’s time.”