6

It had been a week since Denton said no, and Charley still hadn’t found a manager. She spent days scouring barbershops and roadside bars, oily garages and smoky pool halls—the places men gathered after work or on weekends to tell jokes, talk about their trouble on the job or with their wives; the places they went to feel like men, and where, if a desperate young woman who was trying to make her father proud happened to wander in, they wouldn’t mind coming to her assistance. But no luck.

Now, exhausted and even more discouraged, Charley rolled over the railroad tracks into the Quarters. On the corner, a group of young men stood on the sidewalk: XXL plaid shirts and baggy jeans like gangsta rappers, hair braided in zigzag cornrows that made their hair look like puzzle pieces. They smoked pot and drank from brown paper bags, and as Charley rolled past and waved, they jerked their chins a tiny bit, like guards at a security checkpoint, and she debated whether to pull over and ask if any of them wanted a job.

Miss Honey’s house was quiet. Must be at church, Charley thought, and went to her room to change out of her farm clothes—jeans, a plain short-sleeve blouse, and work boots—which made her look older and possibly a little butch, but which she believed helped make a good first impression, showed that she was serious, responsible, and not just some kid playing in the dirt. After a long day like today, it would feel good to sit out on the porch and watch the people pass, and maybe, for a minute, let her mind wander.

But when Charley stepped out of her bedroom into the living room, she saw Micah on the sofa. Micah's back was turned, her bare feet drawn up under her so that when she moved, the plastic slipcovers crackled. Micah pressed her ear to Miss Honey’s phone, wrapped the cord around her finger, and at first Charley thought she was talking to a friend back home. But then she heard Micah say, “Hello, Lorna? Are you there?” Charley froze.

“It’s me,” Micah said. “Please pick up . . .” She waited, and when no one answered, her shoulders slumped with disappointment. “I’m just calling to tell you we made it. It’s okay so far. Miss Honey says I can have a Coke anytime I want. She gave me Grandpa Ernest’s old camera and is teaching me how to cook.” Another pause. Thinking. “Mom went a little psycho the other day, but it wasn’t her fault.” Micah stopped talking, pushed the prongs on the cradle. “Merde.” Hung up and redialed.

Charley held still. Last night after she bid Micah good night, her breath caught when the phone rang. She thought it might be Lorna. She waited for Miss Honey to call, heard Miss Honey’s voice over the canned television laughter followed by the sound of the receiver being returned to the cradle. Charley had not spoken to her mother in two months, not since she stopped by her mother’s house to outline her final plans, and the fact of not having her mother to consult felt like losing a limb.

“But it’s the South,” Lorna had said, as though moving to Louisiana were the same as moving to Siberia.

They stood in Lorna’s newly remodeled kitchen. Charley looked around at the glistening travertine floors and polished marble countertops, the imported Italian tiles arranged in a swirling pattern behind the stove, the refrigerator large enough to store a whole side of beef, and she thought it was a kitchen she could never cook in. She took a sterling spoon from the drawer, stared into its silvery bowl at her upside-down face. “What’s wrong with the South?” Her mother gave a little laugh that made Charley feel stupid for asking. Of course, she knew what was wrong. She had followed news coverage of the man dragged to his death behind a pickup truck in Texas, and the six black teenagers jailed in Louisiana on trumped-up charges.

“Come home,” her mother had said. “Micah can take your old room. She can go to your old school. Fine, if you insist on circling around that hellhole, but it’s not fair to Micah.”

“It’s not a hellhole, Mother. It’s an art program. And if I didn’t work with those kids, no one would.”

“I’m touched, but I’m not amused. I know your father thought it was noble, but I don’t see anything noble about it. You’ve wasted enough time doing good for other people at your own expense.”

“We’re fine.”

“You’re not fine,” her mother said. “You’re a tenant. A tenant with a disconnected phone—don’t even bother, I heard the recording. You drive a car I can hear two blocks away. How late is your rent? One month? Two? Fine, don’t answer. But send Micah to me. I’ll pay off those loans. I’ll even buy you a new car. But only if she lives here.”

Charley considered what Lorna could show Micah—the Louvre, the Met, safaris in Kenya. She considered the one thing, perhaps the only thing, she could now give her daughter, who was aching to stay in Los Angeles: the chance to see that even a woman in desperate straits could pull her own survival out of the ruddy earth.

“It’s a generous offer, Mother, but we’re going to Saint Josephine. I’m not changing my mind.”

“How can you be so selfish?” Lorna grabbed the spoon from Charley and returned it to the drawer.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s time to grow up, Charlotte. The child has been scarred once. Why drag her away from everyone she loves? Why drag her down to Louisiana, where she’ll only suffer again?”

“That’s not fair.”

Now Charley waited to see if Lorna would answer the telephone.

“It’s me again,” Micah said. “I’d send you an e-mail, but Miss Honey doesn’t have a computer. Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. I miss you. I don’t have any friends yet. Okay, I think that’s all. I love you.” She replaced the receiver.

Part of Charley wanted to pounce on Micah for reporting back, wanted to grab her by the collar and shake her. But part of her understood how her daughter felt, so far from home. So, instead of scolding Micah about the call, Charley stepped into the room, said, “Hey there,” brightly, as though she’d just ridden in on a Carolina breeze. She cleared a space next to Micah on the couch. “You get enough to eat? Because I can fix you something if you’re hungry.”

“I’m okay.”

Miss Honey’s couch was cluttered with cheap plush stuffed animals, the kind you won at a carnival. Charley picked up Tweety Bird, whose orange feet had faded and whose yellow plush rubbed off on her fingers. “I look at you sometimes and I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” she said.

Micah shrugged.

For a minute, Charley struggled to think of more to say. Then, thankfully, she heard steps on the porch, the screen door squeaking open.

“Mother? Is anybody there?”

It was Violet, Charley’s aunt, her father’s only sister. Charley hadn’t seen Violet since her dad’s funeral.

“Well, it’s about time,” Charley said, going to the door. “I’d started thinking you were avoiding me.”

Taller than Miss Honey, though not by much, hair slicked back into a cluster of lacquered curls more glamorous than Miss Honey’s well-oiled ringlets; the same full figure and smooth butterscotch complexion. There was no mistaking Violet was Miss Honey’s daughter.

“I’ve been helping out with Vacation Bible School,” Violet said. She kicked off her shoes. “Rev’s been working overtime since we got the new church. It’s been all hands on deck. I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in weeks.” She took a breath. “But look at you! Turn around, girl. Let me get a good look.”

Charley spun in a small circle, happy to let Violet examine every inch of her. For the last ten months, she had lived almost entirely in her head, making plans, weighing her options, without anyone to act as a sounding board or confidante.

They embraced, and when they parted, Violet took Charley’s face in her hands. “And your hair,” she said, turning Charley’s head to the side. “Girl, I love it.”

“Miss Honey hates it,” Micah said from the sofa.

“Well, I think it’s wonderful. I say, good for you.” Violet fingered her curls self-consciously. “I’d cut mine off if I had the face for it.”

“God, I’m glad you’re here,” Charley said.

“And you,” Violet said, pulling Micah to her feet. “Like a little woman. I think you’ve grown a foot taller. You like Saint Josephine so far?”

“I like Miss Honey’s movies.”

There were plenty of modern conveniences Miss Honey didn’t have. She didn’t have a computer. She didn’t have a cell phone, or call waiting, or caller ID. She didn’t have a coffeemaker or a blender, or cable or a satellite dish. But she did have a DVD player and enough old movies to fill the Library of Congress: war pictures (The Bridge on the River Kwai, Battle of the Bulge), westerns (Escape from Fort Bravo, Saddle in the Wind, The Alamo), and the deluxe twelve-pack box set of Shirley Temple classics.

Violet winked at Micah. “Well, she’s got enough of them, that’s for sure. But you can’t stay inside all the time. Why don’t you come to Vacation Bible School with me next week?”

Micah glanced at Charley. “No, thanks. I’m making a garden.”

“A garden?” said Charley, and thought, This from the kid who didn’t like the feeling of Play-Doh between her fingers in preschool. This from the kid who won’t squeeze toothpaste from the middle of the tube. “Where did you get that idea?

“Miss Honey,” Micah said. “She said I can use part of the empty lot next door.”

“Well, that’s creative,” Violet said. “But I warn you, folks down here take their gardens very seriously.”

Micah beamed.

“It’s a terrific idea,” Charley said, wishing she’d been the first one to offer encouragement. On warm summer evenings when she was a girl, she gardened for hours beside her father in the small yard behind his condo. There was nothing finer than the smell of fresh dirt and the feel of her bare feet in the warm grass. Sometimes, they gardened till it got dark, and Charley held the heavy-duty flashlight with its car-size battery and beam like a Broadway spotlight, while he bent over clay pots and raised beds. “Marigolds are on sale down at the hardware store,” Charley said, remembering the ad in the morning’s paper.

“I don’t want flowers,” Micah said. Her tone was matter-of-fact but she averted her eyes. “I’m having vegetables.”

“Okay, vegetables then. Vegetables are good. We can start next weekend.”

Micah hesitated. “I kinda want to do this myself.”

“Oh. Well—of course,” Charley said. “That’s good. It’ll give you something to do every day while I’m at the farm.” She tried to ignore the little stab of pain under her breastbone and gave Micah’s shoulder a congratulatory squeeze. But when she glanced at Violet, Violet offered her a sympathetic smile, one that said, Don’t worry, she still needs you. Charley wondered how Violet, childless since her only daughter was killed in a car accident years ago, managed to get through the days.

Pots clanged in the kitchen.

“Mother?” Violet called, and they all filed out of the living room.

•   •   •

At the kitchen table, Miss Honey spooned leftovers onto plates. “Y’all come and eat. I can warm up some green beans if you don’t think this is enough.” The table was set for three.

“Hey, Mother,” Violet said, and kissed Miss Honey’s cheek. She washed her hands, then took the water pitcher from the refrigerator, and another place mat from the drawer. “Mother, I was just telling Charley how much I love her hair.”

Miss Honey grunted. “She looks like a man.”

“That’s terrible,” Violet said. “Now why would you say such a thing?” She stepped behind Miss Honey and swept the candy curls away from her face. “How ’bout it, Mother? You want a style like Charley’s? We can do it right now. Quick, Micah, hand me some scissors.” She winked at Charley.

“Get away from me with all that foolishness,” Miss Honey said, batting Violet’s hand away. “Go sit down.”

They each pulled out a chair, Violet said grace, and after spreading her napkin across her lap, she reached across the table for Charley’s hand and squeezed it. “Beams of heaven, as I go. Through this wilderness below,” she sang. Her voice was strong and warm, and she closed her eyes, gently rocked in her chair as she sang the chorus. When she stopped, a quietness and sense of lasting peace hung in the air.

“It’s good to be here.” Tears stung Charley’s eyes as she bathed in the fading glow of Violet’s voice. She could soak up Violet’s warmth for a lifetime. She was the buttermilk pancakes to Violet’s maple syrup, the white bread to Violet’s bacon grease, and if she had a thousand more awful days like she’d had today, at least she had Violet to balance things out. “So what’s this about a new church?” Charley said, wiping the corners of her eyes. She passed the French salad dressing to Violet.

“Girl, we finally did it. Found a place over on Chalmette, just off Third Street. It used to be a pool hall, but you’d never know it now. We’ve got new pews, new lights. Did most of the work ourselves. And the Rev? Charley, he’s a new man. BP tried to talk him into staying, but you know what it’s like when you hear the call.”

“That’s right,” Miss Honey said, passing the rice dressing. “When God calls, you’d better answer.”

“I guess that makes you First Lady of the church,” Charley said.

Violet waved away the praise. “No sense getting bigheaded,” she said, though she sat up a little straighter. “But look who’s talking. You’re a big land owner now.”

“I wouldn’t say all that.”

“Now who’s being modest? Eight hundred acres is nothing to sneeze at.”

“More like eight hundred problems.” In the last week, after Frasier and Denton, after Landry and NeNee Desonier’s granddaughter, Charley had cursed her father’s name more than once for pressing this so-called gift into her hands. Yesterday, at the shop, she’d almost torn up the maps and photographs, shredded the legal documents, and turned her back on the whole enterprise.

“Well, I think what you’re doing is wonderful,” Violet said. “If more black folks around here took a page out of your book, we wouldn’t be in such a fix. We got all these smart, talented young men around here wasting away in the Bahamas.”

“The Bahamas?”

“Prison,” Miss Honey said. “That’s what they call it.”

“Call it anything they want, it’s still the same.” Violet shook her head. “All those young men. Stop ’em on the street, half will admit they’ve done time. Some have the nerve to be proud of it.”

“Violet,” Miss Honey said, her voice tightening. “You should watch dipping your finger into that Kool-Aid when you don’t know the flavor. People go to prison for all sorts of reasons.”

“I’m not saying they aren’t good people, Mother. I’m just saying something’s wrong when doing time is normal.” She turned to Charley. “What do you think?”

Charley looked from Violet to Miss Honey. In the past week, she’d seen the way Miss Honey marched around town—calling to people she knew, asking why they hadn’t been to church, reprimanding children she thought looked idle, telling them to tuck in their shirts, go home and put lotion on their ashy knees—and understood that Miss Honey considered Saint Josephine to be her own personal domain. Why, just yesterday she flagged down the mayor as he rolled through town in his red Cadillac Seville, and scolded him for not cutting the weeds by the playground. “Is something burning?” Charley said, and started to get up from the table. “I think I smell smoke.”

“I still say something’s happened to us black folks,” Violet continued. “You may not want to hear it, Mother, but we both know I’m telling the truth. Just look at Ralph Angel.” She paused. “No offense, Charley, I don’t mean to speak ill of your brother.”

At the mention of Ralph Angel’s name, Charley felt emotions pass through her like shadows across a hillside as clouds drifted over. Even now, her foot stung from the time he aimed a stone at an egret at the water’s edge, which it missed, hitting her so sharply, tears rushed to her eyes. At the time, she had thought it was an accident, but the way he always misbehaved with her made her wonder how much of an accident it really was. She remembered the look of hurt and bitter disappointment that darkened her father’s face when, a few years later, he discovered Ralph Angel had continued to cash the tuition checks he sent, even though he’d dropped out of school.

“Stop right there, Violet,” Miss Honey said. “I won’t have you talking about Ralph Angel outside his name. Besides, he never went to jail.”

“That’s about the only thing he hasn’t done,” Violet said under her breath.

Charley was about to ask what else Ralph Angel had done, when Miss Honey cleared her throat, glancing at Micah.

“I know what that look means,” Micah said. “It means you’re about to talk about grown-up stuff and I have to leave the room.”

“Every time he comes around, there’s trouble.” Violet turned to Charley. “The last time he was in town, three years ago, he and Mother got into an argument and he pushed her down.”

“It was an accident,” Miss Honey said.

“You broke your arm, Mother.”

“He got overexcited. He’s been that way since he was little.”

Violet sighed, wearily. “When the doctor asked Mother what happened, she said she tripped over the laundry basket. I don’t know why she always makes excuses for him.”

“Can we go back, please?” Charley said. “He broke your arm?”

“Mother found some drug paraphernalia in the deep freezer,” Violet said. “When she asked Ralph Angel about it, if he knew where it came from, he flew into a rage. ‘Get out of my business,’ he said. Mother grabbed his elbow, told him to calm down, think about Blue, the example he was setting. Well, that did it. Ralph Angel said, ‘Don’t tell me how to raise my kid,’ and when she blocked the door, he pushed her down and she broke her arm. She waited two hours before she called me. And of course, I called Uncle Brother and John. By the time we got back from the hospital, Ralph Angel and Blue were gone.”

Charley look at Miss Honey. “Is that how it happened?”

“I’m not talking about it,” Miss Honey said. “All I know is, whatever problems Ralph Angel’s got, he comes by them honest. Just look at his mother. Smart as a whip, but her head was never right.”

“Where is Ralph Angel now?” Charley said. After the college tuition incident, his father had never mentioned his whereabouts, never mentioned him at all, come to think of it. And there’d been no mention of Ralph Angel in her father’s will either, a fact that Charley had not thought of at the time, since they’d been out of touch for so many years, but that made her feel uneasy now. Had he really pushed Miss Honey down? Broken her arm? She had inherited a whole sugarcane farm while, at least to her knowledge, he had inherited nothing. What would he think about that?

“Last I heard, he was in Phoenix,” Violet said, leaning closer. “Still drinking and messing with that pipe. But what do I know? Mother keeps up with him.”

“Like I said, he comes by his troubles honest. We all got our cross to bear, Violet. Don’t forget that. Last time I talked to Ralph Angel, he sounded better. Said he’d cleaned himself up.”

“Well, good for him. Let him stay out there.”

Miss Honey pointed an accusatory finger. “I’m booking you, Violet. Shame on you for bad-mouthing your own family.”

“Fine, Mother. Whatever you say.”

“Good grief,” Charley said. “You two are at each other’s throats over someone who isn’t even here. Let me get us something to drink.” She reached for the pitcher, even though every glass was still brimming with ice water. If Ernest had left any cash, she might offer to share it. Maybe she’d buy him a car. But there was only a farm, and only just barely.

Violet and Miss Honey retreated to their corners, and for a while they ate in silence. Then Violet took Charley’s hand again and said, “The Rev and I are hosting an open house when we finish all the renovations. I hope you’ll come.”

“That reminds me,” Miss Honey said. “We’re having a family reunion in honor of Charley coming home.”

“How thoughtful,” Charley said. “Maybe after grinding. I need to work seven days a week till then.”

“Awesome,” Micah said. “I’ll bake cookies.”

“Next Saturday,” Miss Honey said. “I’ve already called some of the family. Violet, I want you to help get the word out to the rest. Tell them eleven o’clock.” She pointed to the baker’s rack crammed with cookbooks. “Micah, you can bake all the cookies you want.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Charley said. “But the bills are stacking up, and I still haven’t found a manager.”

But Miss Honey had already pushed back from the table and started clearing the dishes. “Farm’s waited this long, it can wait a few more days. Violet can start making calls right now. Micah, look in my purse and hand my address book to your aunt. And Violet, be sure to call Aunt Rose from Opelousas.”

“Mother, did you hear what Charley said? She’s got a lot to do right now.”

Charley cast Violet an appreciative look.

“Besides,” Violet continued, “I can’t rearrange my schedule on such short notice. We’ve got choir practice next Saturday. The All-State competition is the end of this month.”

“There, you see?” Charley said, trying to sound gentle and ministerial. “Later this summer would be better for everyone.”

“‘Can’t rearrange your schedule on such short notice,’” Miss Honey muttered. She squirted dish soap in the sink, turned on the faucet. “Well, Violet, I guess you’re a white lady now.”

Violet sighed and let her fork dangle between her fingers. “For heaven’s sake, Mother.”

“Here I’m trying to plan something for Charley and you come telling me what I can and can’t do?” Miss Honey plunged her hands into the soapy water.

“I drove all the way over here to visit Charley,” Violet said. “Let’s have a pleasant afternoon.”

“Listen here, Violet. You’re going to call the family like I told you, and you’re going to cancel your practice.”

“Mother,” Violet said, quietly. “I may be your child, and I don’t mean any disrespect. But there’s nothing you can say that’s going to make me cancel that practice.” She folded her napkin primly. “I’d love to get the family together, but not next Saturday. No, ma’am.”

Miss Honey turned the faucet off, and lather dropped from her arms as she waved toward the door. “If that’s the way you’re going to act, then get out of my house. I’m tired of looking at you.”

“Mother, give Charley some time. Let her work things out on her farm before you go piling more on her plate.”

Miss Honey slapped the counter and they all jumped. “Okay, Miss First Lady. It’s a shame your prizewinning choir is more important than your family, but we’re having a reunion next Saturday and you’re going to help.”

Violet pushed away from the table.

“Wait.” Charley leaped to her feet. “This is crazy. Violet, you just got here.” She grabbed Violet’s hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

“No,” Violet said. “Charley, I’m glad you’re back. You look real good.” Charley tried to follow but Violet raised her hand. “I’ll let myself out.”

At the front door, Charley said, “Don’t go.”

Violet pulled her close. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You’ll be fine. You can handle it.” The sound of clanging pots rang from the kitchen and Violet looked over Charley’s shoulder, her expression filled with anguish. Then she touched the nape of Charley’s neck. “I really do love your hair. I wish I had the guts to do it.”

•   •   •

Charley wasn’t the praying kind. She believed what her father always said: that God helps those who help themselves; that most people are too quick to slough off their responsibility like a pair of dirty gym socks, lay their problems at God’s doorstep. And until recently, Charley believed she was doing everything she could to make the farm a success. But now she was beginning to think she needed a little help. She slid out of bed and dropped to her knees as the morning sun filtered through the curtains. Please, God. Let this farming thing break my way. She cradled her face in her hands and waited for the words. The floor was unwelcoming. The rug smelled of dust and feet, and a faint trace of Murphy’s Oil Soap. Please, God. Give me a sign. A flash of light. A burning bush. Jacob’s ladder. I’m not picky. I just need to know you’re there. She strained for an answer, held herself still as she could, but heard only an empty silence, felt air so heavy it was a presence all its own.

•   •   •

Half past seven, and the kitchen thermometer already read eighty-six degrees. Charley wandered into the den, which was even warmer because Miss Honey insisted on running the space heater for her arthritis. Miss Honey and Micah sat riveted by The Littlest Colonel. Shirley Temple, in bows and lace, stomped into the stable, demanding Bojangles teach her to dance. “I got no time for dancing,” Bojangles said, in an apologetic drawl.

Micah, her breakfast on a TV tray cluttered with saucers—grits on one, scrambled eggs on another, sausage on a third—said, “She looks like Bo Peep.”

Charley scoffed. “She looks like a poodle.” Bojangles’s docile, childlike manner, the way he grinned—it sickened her, and after a few seconds, she said, “Isn’t there something else you could watch? Something educational?”

“Like that police show you had on last night?” Miss Honey took a swig of her Coke. “I don’t see what’s educational about some man chopping a woman into a hundred pieces and stuffing her in a garbage bag. I don’t see Shirley Temple running around with a hatchet.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Micah said. “Nice job of setting a good example.”

Charley winced. First the ring, then the garden, and now this. Coming down here was supposed to bring them closer, but they only seemed to be growing farther apart. “You know what I mean,” Charley said, wearily. The farm and her daughter—she worried constantly about both, was trying every trick she knew, and yet neither was improving. “All I came to say is I’m driving out to the farm after church. Micah, we’ll stop by the nursery so you can pick the seeds you want for your garden.”

“We’re not going to church,” Miss Honey said, as though the headline had been plastered all over town and only Charley had missed it. “We got a lot of errands to run for the reunion. So go in there and fix your plate.”

Between the heat, the ridiculous movie, and this last announcement, all at once, the sight of Miss Honey nursing her morning Coke and Stanback was more than Charley could bear. “Isn’t it a little early for that stuff?” She heard the edge in her voice and didn’t care. “I mean, is it even safe to drink?”

Miss Honey held the Coke up to the light, swirled it like fine wine, and took a long, deliberate sip. “I’ve been drinking Coke and Stanback every morning for fifty-some years and it hasn’t killed me yet. Now hurry up. We’re going to Sugar Town.”

On television, a pickaninny whipped out her harmonica and played “Oh! Susanna.” Bojangles couldn’t resist and started to dance, his eyes growing bulbous as he performed a noodle-legged jig and finally scurried out of the stable. Micah and Miss Honey looked at each other and laughed.

“That’s it,” Charley said. “You’ve got to turn that off. It’s lowering your IQ.” She marched over to the TV, punched the power button. “I’m sorry, Miss Honey, I won’t—First, it’s driving around without a map, then the reunion, now it’s—I can’t keep saying yes all the time. If I don’t find someone right away—” Charley felt her mouth moving, heard her voice, saw Miss Honey and Micah staring at her, their expressions a mix of focused attention and concern. It was the same expression hospital orderlies had, Charley thought, right before they wrestled the crazy lady into a straitjacket. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go without me.”

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“You know what?” Charley said. The realization had dawned upon her and she surrendered to it. “I’m not okay. I can’t breathe, because it’s hotter than the Amazon rain forest in here, and my kid is taking social cues from a tap dancing minstrel. I can’t find a manager to run my farm, and I’ve got some corporate thug threatening to run me out of business. All the black workers around here think I’m out to cheat them, I’ve got a stack of bills I can barely pay, and each day that passes, I’m this much closer to losing the whole goddamned thing.” The absurdity of it all. She almost laughed; probably would have, if it hadn’t been so serious.

After a long silence, Miss Honey said, “Well, good heavens. Why didn’t you say that before?”

•   •   •

Alone on the porch, Charley stirred salt and butter into her grits as a delivery truck pulled up along the gully. Violet sat behind the wheel.

“I thought I’d seen the last of you,” Charley said, jogging out to greet her.

Violet climbed down, brushed the back of her shorts. “Mother didn’t tell you I was coming?”

“After yesterday? She threw you out, remember?”

Violet raked her fingers through her hair. She had replaced her ringlet hairpiece with a long, straight ponytail. “If I took every mean thing Mother said to heart, I’d never speak to her.” She threaded her arm through Charley’s. “Mother wants to have this reunion, I say let her have it. The quicker she throws it, the quicker you can get back to business with your farm. I brought the van so we could get everything at once.”

It was actually more of a truck than a van, with “Frito Lay” stenciled on the side above a faded potato chip bag, TRUE VINE BAPTIST CHURCH arching over everything in bright red letters.

“Rev bought it at an auction in Baton Rouge.” Violet slid open the driver’s door and invited Charley to look inside. “He welded the bus seats.”

“Impressive,” Charley said, stepping down. “But I can’t go. The farm. It’s dying.” Stunted cane overrun with weeds, rusting equipment, broken tools scattered on the shop floor, paperwork she couldn’t begin to make sense of.

“It’s Sunday,” Violet said. “Everything’s closed. All you’ll do is wring your hands and make yourself crazy.” She took Charley by the shoulders and shook her gently, as if trying to rouse her from a bad dream. “Come on, girl. Let your mind air out a little.” Violet shook Charley’s shoulder again and looked at her expectantly. “Just for a few hours. It’ll do you some good.”

Charley looked out over the yard, past the camellia bush with its explosion of juicy red blossoms, past the towering live oak whose branches filtered the morning’s sunlight. “All right,” she said. “Especially if it’ll drag your mother and my daughter away from The Littlest Colonel.”

Violet scowled. “Good Lord, I hate that movie.” She crossed the yard, climbed the porch steps, then called through the screen door, “Mother, come out of there,” as though she and Miss Honey had never argued.

“Girl, don’t rush me.” Miss Honey, with Micah close at her heels, stepped onto the porch wearing a purple dress and white sandals that looked good enough for church. Her face was freshly powered. She struck a pose.

Violet laughed. “Mother, you kill me.” She took Miss Honey’s face in her hands, using her thumb to gently blend the rouge on her mother’s cheek. It was a gesture of such familiarity and closeness, it took Charley by surprise.

•   •   •

They rumbled out of town at a steady clip, the sky electric blue, the cane fields almost unnaturally green, and Charley felt her spirits lift for the first time in days. First stop, Mr. Nguyen, who sat on a milk crate beside his battered pickup parked along the road. He rose as the van approached, and flashed a cracked smile. Earlier, Miss Honey had referred to him as the Chinaman, but Charley thought she heard Vietnamese as he chattered with his wife, who pushed back the lids of Igloo coolers packed with fresh seafood on beds of ice—three types of shrimp, oysters, and crabs. Live red snapper thrashed and gasped in a five-gallon bucket. Miss Honey bought shrimp, her manner cordial but firm.

Then it was on to the produce stand in Arnaudville, where Miss Honey sniffed and pinched for ripeness like a chief inspector with the Department of Agriculture. Okra, speckled butter beans and black-eyed peas, bowling-ball-size cantaloupes, tomatoes, and cucumbers thick as Micah’s arm. Soon the van was cluttered with boxes, the air inside sweet from the bounty, sharp with the musk of red earth and Gulf water. West on Highway 90 and north on Route 26, past Elton and Oberlin, where cane yielded to rice paddies, which yielded to vast stretches of piney woods, a part of Louisiana Charley had never seen.

They rolled to a stop in a small turnout where a strip of multicolored flags hung over a sign that read WELCOME TO SUGAR TOWN. Stiff-legged, Charley helped Miss Honey to the ground, then followed her toward two wooden shacks. Sun fell through a blue plastic tarp strung between their sagging roofs, and variations in the blue light beneath reminded Charley of being underwater. She squinted into the shadows, smelled pine, saw watermelons strewn everywhere.

The little man in soiled overalls and rubber fishing boots hefted a melon onto a wooden table, rolled it over until the pale yellow spot faced skyward. With one stroke, he drove his blade through the center and sweetness filled the air as the halves tilted away, revealing flesh as red as beef filet. He stabbed his knife into the center of one half, cut rough square chunks. The heady aroma made Charley laugh. She laughed till her sides hurt and tears streamed down her face and they were all looking at her like she was crazy, and even then she could not stop. Because life should be as simple as a bucket of fish caught a few miles offshore and a van full of produce bought at a roadside stand. It should be as sweet as a cube of melon the color of your heart.

•   •   •

Back at Miss Honey’s in time for supper, Charley and Violet unloaded the van as a deep rumble echoed from up the street.

“Oh, Lord,” Violet said.

Charley looked. It was a Cadillac Escalade, with tricked-out hubcaps that spun counterclockwise, and a chassis so low to the ground there was barely room for a shadow.

“Rosalee Simon’s boy.” Violet set a pallet of snap peas and okra on the steps.

But it was the girl in the passenger seat who Charley focused on as the car glided past. Glassy black mane with a streaked lock the color of strawberry Kool-Aid draped over one eye. A gold hoop, large as a salad plate, grazed her shoulder.

“Would you look at that?” Violet said.

“Like she’s sitting on a throne.” So straight-backed and regal, Charley thought, and pulled her own shoulders back.

Violet shook her head. “Young women these days. I just don’t know.”

“What?” Charley said. “She looks happy.” Thought, I’d trade a lot for happy.

“Happy, till she’s knocked up. Happy, till the boy she thinks is so fine dumps her. Happy, till she realizes how much time she wasted.”

A wood sliver came lose from the pallet. Charley picked at it. “Geez, Violet. That’s awfully harsh.”

The Caddy sailed past the stop sign and turned. A hush fell over the street. Seconds passed, but the silence hung between them.

Violet searched Charley’s face. “Okay. Spit it out.”

“It’s nothing. Forget it.”

“Sorry, sugar, but I can see it in your eyes.”

Charley wasn’t sure she had the words. Sometimes it was a small ache behind her breastbone and sometimes it was a heaviness, like a sopping wool cloak draped over her. It was a feeling that had come and gone since childhood, but she had married young, and lost her husband young, and it was like falling down an elevator shaft that no one else could see. Charley peeled a speckled butter bean shaped like a heart.

“I don’t mean to compare my loss to yours,” Charley began. She couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a child.

“It’s all suffering,” Violet said, simply.

Behind them, the porch light flicked on and moths danced around the bulb. Charley could hear Miss Honey and Micah inside the living room, talking to each other in low tones.

“After Davis died,” Charley said, “I would drop Micah at school, then come home and put on this old robe.” Blue terry. So old, the dye had faded along the seams, with big square pockets hung by a thread. She’d close herself up in Davis’s closet, which was safe and smelled like grass. She knelt with the hood over her head, and cried till she was snotty and had a headache. “I cried a lot,” Charley said. “I didn’t shower much.” Eyes stinging, she looked at Violet. “I bet you’ve never fallen apart.”

“Oh, chère.” Violet wrapped her arm around Charley.

In the street, another car passed. Charley waved; it was second nature now.

Violet put her hand on top of Charley’s, and for a few seconds, they both stared out into the yard.

Finally, Violet sighed. “Life does get daily.”

“If it had just been me, that would have been okay.” Charley took a breath and made herself say, “Micah’s arm. That’s because of me.” And suddenly, her admission felt like enough, too much, even. Yes, Violet was her closest ally, but she didn’t need to know everything. Yes, she was a preacher’s wife, a good Christian woman, but she was still human, and even the most godly, well-intentioned human being couldn’t resist a bit of judgment were she to hear the rest of the story. Violet must have sensed this, because she sat perfectly still, as though she knew the slightest disturbance would trigger Charley’s retreat. She didn’t make eye contact. She just waited.

Months passed and Charley still wore the blue robe. Micah began doing laundry, dishes, making both beds. Her one symbolic act had been dinner, but that slipped too: a baked potato where there’d been roast chicken and a fresh green salad.

She was in bed, listening to pots rattle in the kitchen, the night she gave up and asked Micah to cook. She heard a sound that she strangely recognized as a rush of air, and then a cry. Not a cry for help exactly; more a cry of surprise, and by the time Charley reached the kitchen, Micah was in flames—her whole left side lit like a column of red cellophane. Charley looked and saw the pot of water boiling over, the box of macaroni and cheese. She saw the bottle of cleaning solution overturned on the counter and the long, narrow river where the spill snaked toward the burner. She saw the fine red seam of fire creeping up Micah’s T-shirt, feasting on the drenched cotton, which curled away and turned to ash.

Violet listened quietly. She still didn’t look at Charley, for which Charley was thankful. And for a second, Charley thought she understood why Catholics revered the act of confession. There was something freeing about speaking your mind. There was a relief in sharing the secrets you’d tended like mushrooms in the darkest corner of your thoughts without having to meet another’s gaze.

•   •   •

In the bedroom, Micah turned her back, pulled her T-shirt over her head. She covered her bare chest with one hand, but Charley could see where the smooth caramel-colored graft ended and the normal skin began. In another year, probably less, Charley thought, Micah would ask her to leave the room when she changed. Wanting to extend the small moment, she said, casually, “Today was fun,” like they’d only gone for a walk in the park.

“Totally,” Micah said. “Aunt Violet’s van is cool.”

“It is.”

Charley picked Micah’s clothes up off the floor and was happy to do it. She put Micah’s camera on the nightstand and was happy to do it. She pushed their suitcases to the back of the closet, saw the package on the floor, and hoisted it onto the bed. Between the farm and reunion preparations, she had forgotten it was there. The packaging tape peeled away with a whisper; the butcher paper crackled as she folded it back and kneaded it into a ball. She unspiraled the sheets of bubble wrap until the first bits of bronze gleamed through. Richmond Barthé’s The Cane Cutter. A familiar calm settled over her.

Micah buttoned her pajama top. “Yuck. Why’d you bring that?”

The figure—a black man, naked to the waist—swung a cane knife. He was only eighteen inches tall, but his power took Charley’s breath away. She ran her hand over the Cane Cutter’s broad shoulders, the knots of muscle in his arms, the burnished slabs of his pecs and back flexed with the force of his swing.

The day her father brought it home, he called Charley and Lorna into the living room. Charley got there first and saw the coffee table heaped with Lorna’s silver-framed family photographs, many of them facedown, Lorna’s prized Lalique vase, the one with the naked ladies following each other around the icy glass, resting on its side.

“So?” Her father placed his hand on her shoulder.

Charley heard her mother’s footsteps in the hall behind them; heard her mother’s humming stop as she entered the room. But she saw how excited, how proud her father looked and she did not turn around. She took her time studying the piece. The bronze man looked like he must be sweating. Something about him—his deep-set eyes, wide forehead, and square hands—seemed familiar. He stirred up a feeling she could not name.

“He looks like you,” Charley said.

“I certainly hope not.” Her mother, coiffed and buffed from a day at the salon, was already holding the Lalique vase. “What’s next, Ernest? A painting of the garbage man?”

Charley looked from her mother to her father and saw his expression dim, his mouth move as if he tasted something sour.

“This is the living room,” Lorna said. “Your laborer can go in the den.”

“Move it,” her father said, quietly, not taking his hand from Charley’s shoulder, “and I’ll break every piece of goddamned crystal in this house.”

Now Charley touched a finger to The Cane Cutter. The curve of his back like he could lift ten times his weight, the rough drape of his pants, which she imagined as burlap or canvas; his determined gaze, as though he could cut a thousand acres by himself. He almost breathed.

Years later, after her parents divorced, Charley let herself into her father’s condo. She found him staring at The Cane Cutter.

“Dad? You okay?” He was on his second round of chemo by then. Leiomyosarcoma. Leios from the Greek word for “smooth.” Sarx, Greek for “flesh.” Cancer of the soft connective tissue: bone, cartilage, muscle.

When she sat, he patted her hand and she saw that the treatment had turned his nail beds the color of walnut shells. But she was not going to talk about his nails. She was not going to ask him if he’d slept; he hated that.

“I love the way he stands,” she said, tilting her head. Because it was easier to look at The Cane Cutter with his broad back and tapered waist and biceps all intact than it was to acknowledge how the muscles in her father’s arms and legs had withered away; he’d lost so much weight, the hollows beneath his collarbones were cups of shadow. Because it was easier to appreciate how the track lights brought out the warm tones in the bronze—the rich rusts and golds—than to admit her father’s complexion had turned the color of bile.

“What else?” her father had asked.

She’d reached for the words. “A quiet confidence.” He seemed to approve. She went on. “And a defiance.”

“Yes,” her father said, nodding. “Exactly.”

Now Charley stepped over the butcher paper and bubble wrap heaped on the floor. She slid The Cane Cutter onto the dresser, where she could always see it.

Micah popped a row of bubble wrap. “Did it cost a lot of money?”

“Sort of.” No sense in telling Micah how much.

“Gross,” Micah said, making a face. “It looks like a mud monster. Put it back in the closet.”

Pop, pop. Like a cap gun.

“He’s staying right here.”

Micah draped her dirty T-shirt over The Cane Cutter’s shoulders, pulled it up over his face, went back to her bubble wrap.

“Don’t touch,” Charley said, pulling the T-shirt off. She needed to see him. “I’m not kidding.” And stop that fucking popping.

Four months in the hospital and a year of physical therapy before the doctors said Micah would recover. Charley still put on the blue robe at night. It was her fault Micah wore only long sleeves to school, even when the weather called for flimsy summer clothes. It was her fault Micah didn’t want to swim anymore or go to the beach. Charley cried in the dark, until one day, she came home to the little Spanish bungalow to find The Cane Cutter on her mantle. No sign of her father anywhere, not even a note. But she didn’t need one. The message was clear. He was telling her, Get up. He was telling her, Fight for your life. He was telling her, We are the same, you’ll find your way, I won’t let you fall. She carried the blue robe out to the patio, dropped it on the poured concrete, and doused it with lighter fluid. Then she lit a match.

•   •   •

Micah dropped the bubble wrap and stepped over the air mattress. At the door, she paused. “Mom? This morning you said we were gonna lose every goddamned—”

“Hey,” Charley said. “listen to me.” She took Micah by the shoulders. “Don’t worry.”

“But you said—”

Charley stole a glance at The Cane Cutter. Years from now, long after her body had turned to dust, the elegantly sculpted chunk of wire and molded metal would still be here; it would pass from Micah to Micah’s children. The sculpture made her aware of what she had to do. That farm would get going again, no matter what stood in its path. For her daughter, for her father. Charley smoothed Micah’s hair. “Forget what I said,” she said. “Your job is to have fun. Let me worry about the rest.”