8

Charley peeled the aluminum foil from the five-gallon pot where the gumbo had been simmering for hours. Chunks of chicken and coins of sausage, lumps of crab and shrimp floated in brown broth thick as a witch’s brew. She took a bowl from the cabinet.

“Better not let Mother catch you digging in her pots,” Violet said, breezing into the kitchen. Juggling three grocery bags in one arm, her purse and a large ceramic bowl in the other, Violet was all motion and sound—the slap of her strapless sandals as she crossed the linoleum floor, the rattle of her keys, the gospel hymn she hummed to herself.

“I can’t help it,” Charley said.

Violet set her load on the table. “Mother’s got a sixth sense about food. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Consider yourself officially off the hook.” Charley hadn’t seen Violet or even phoned all week, and she was about to apologize when Micah sauntered into the kitchen wearing a green sundress and metallic flats.

“Well, look at you,” Violet said, taking Micah by the shoulders. “All dressed up like a country bride. Here, let your aunt Violet help you.” She unknotted the bow at the back of Micah’s dress and retied it, propping and smoothing, as though arranging a bouquet, while Charley stood by, not minding that Violet was undoing the bow she’d tied herself just a few minutes ago.

At the counter, Micah and Violet peeled eggs for potato salad, while at the table, Charley had arranged carrot and cucumber slices, delicate florets of raw broccoli and cauliflower on a platter, and was making the garlic hummus for dipping when Miss Honey walked into the kitchen wearing a new dress the color of blood oranges and the snappy wedge sandals with T-straps Charley bought for her at Walmart.

“Let me just say, you’re burning a river today, girl,” Violet said, warmly. “You look good.”

Miss Honey gave a little businesslike nod, but Charley could see, from the way her eyes shone, that Miss Honey was pleased with the way the outfit had turned out. She strolled over to Charley’s work station. “Why are you cutting up vegetables?”

“I’m making crudités,” Charley said.

“Crude-a-what?”

“It means raw vegetables, Mother,” Violet said. “It’s healthy.”

“Try some.” Charley smeared hummus on a piece of broccoli and offered it to Miss Honey who just stared.

“Vegetables are supposed to be cooked,” Miss Honey said, backing away. “When you need a burner, you can push the gumbo back.” She drifted over to Violet. “Are you adding enough mayonnaise to that potato salad? Because you know I can’t stand potato salad when it’s dry.”

Violet looked at Charley and rolled her eyes. “Here we go.” She gouged out a heaping spoonful of Blue Plate mayonnaise and flicked it into the bowl. “Is this enough mayonnaise for you, Mother, or would you like me to add more?”

“And why aren’t you using the cut-glass bowl? You know that’s what I always use. Where’d this other one come from?”

Violet sighed heavily, then said, in a syrupy tone, “Is that what you’d like, Mother? Would you like me to use the other bowl? Charley—”

Charley held up her hands. “I’m out of it.” One week ago, observing the storms that raged between them, she’d been unnerved. Now she understood it was just the way they expressed their love. They would never change. “You two want to kill each other before this reunion even gets started, it’s fine by me.” She set her knife down and went outside.

In the front yard, folding chairs circled tables covered with red-and-white-checkered cloths like an East Village pizzeria. Charlie pulled one out and sat down; looked across the street where Miss Goldie’s German shepherd paced back and forth in its big chain-link cage as Miss Goldie and her husband came out of their house. They waved to Charley as they slid into their car and backed into the street. Charley waved back, watched them pull away, and was thinking how nice it would be to have one day, just one day, when she wasn’t worried about her farm, when she could just go for a drive, when, from somewhere down the street, she heard the screech and howl of gospel preaching. A Ford Bronco came to a skidding halt behind her Volvo. The engine stopped, the radio went silent, and the passenger door swung open.

“Hey there, niece!”

Uncle Brother—the graveled voice, the round belly he seemed to carry proudly, like something cultivated on the finest Creole cooking—who else could it be? He trekked across the grass, then pulled Charley into his bear of an embrace. “You’re looking good.” In that cowboy hat, those cardboard-creased jeans and black alligator boots, he could be a regular on a country music TV dance show.

“You, too.” Charley kissed his cheek, struck by how much he looked like her father.

“It’s about time,” Violet scolded, sounding like Miss Honey as she marched down the porch steps. “Give me those.” She held the gate open with her hip as Uncle Brother hauled covered dishes and aluminum serving trays from the backseat. He handed them to a young man who came around from the driver’s side. “Hey there, John,” Violet said as he bent to kiss her. “How you doing, sweetheart? Take those salads in the house and put them on ice.”

“I’m Charley.” Charley shifted a tray to extend a free hand.

“For heaven’s sake,” Violet said. “I’ve got too much on my mind. John, this is your cousin. I’m trying to think if you were even born the last time she was down here.”

“Hey, cuz.” John towered over her. He smiled warmly. His grip was firm and he held Charley’s hand a beat longer than she expected. His close-shaven hair, his thick neck and broad shoulders, his solid chest muscles pressing against his ironed polo shirt suggested a military tour.

“John’s a guard over at Huntsville,” Violet said, proudly. “No, let me say it right—a ‘correctional officer.’”

“Guard’ll do fine,” John said, beaming, and smoothed an already-smooth shirt.

“I know you just got here”—Uncle Brother put his arms around Charley’s shoulder and leaned in close—“but when things get too slow for you in this little fish pond, make Violet bring you across the border. Texas. Now, that’s the big time.”

Violet snapped her fingers. “That reminds me, John. Charley has a little girl, Micah. She’s running around here somewhere; a regular little woman. I was thinking you ought to take Micah fishing.”

“If it’s not any trouble,” Charley added. “If you’re not too busy. She’s never fished.”

“No problem, cousin. I go all the time. I’ll take her out to Cousin Bozo’s fish camp.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea.” Violet turned to Charley. “It’s real nice. Right on the bayou. Big old cypress trees, Spanish moss hanging down; like something out of the movies.”

“A fish camp.” Charley marveled again at how different life was down here.

“We’ll catch some bass,” John said. “Some bluegill, a little white perch. You fish, cousin? Maybe you’d like to come along.”

The way John said cousin, the way he smiled that smile, made Charley think of fireflies flickering at dusk, water bugs skating across the pond, warm nights on a screened porch. She thought of what Prosper Denton had said. Nothing but you, that fish, and your thoughts.

Uncle Brother clapped his hands then rubbed them together. “So, where is the old girl? El Capitan?”

“Inside,” Violet said. “But watch yourself. I don’t know why, but she’s got a chicken to pluck with everybody this morning. She turned her nose up at Charley’s crudités and got on me about some of the mayonnaise I used. John, you’d better get those salads in the house. I know your mama didn’t work as long as she did to have them spoil. Brother, you fire up the grill.”

Charley turned toward the house, but Uncle Brother called her back.

“Hold up. I got a surprise for you, niece.” He opened the Bronco’s back hatch. There was a lot of grunting and swearing, and he had to try three times, but he finally lifted out the enormous turtle, which, to Charley’s immense relief, was already dead. Its head was the size of a football, and you could fit a whole honeydew melon in the gaping mouth. Its tongue was as big as a cow’s and its shell was the diameter of Miss Honey’s coffee table. Its tail, covered in what could easily be vinyl flooring, was as long as a Labrador’s and four times as thick. Uncle Brother leaned backward as he struggled to balance the turtle on his knees. He grinned broadly at Charley and said, “Thought I’d make my special turtle soup in your honor. Welcome home.”

It was eleven o’clock. It was noon. Relatives arrived in steady waves like a river’s rising tide—Great Aunt Rose from Opelousas with her high cheekbones and Charley’s same smile; Uncle Oliver and Aunt Madeline, with the same red tint in their complexions; cousins Screw Neck and Joe Black, Buzzard Gravy and Maraine, who, as a young woman, moved all the way to San Francisco, where she worked as a maid at the Mark Hopkins Hotel and saved enough money to buy the real fur coat that she was wearing in a photograph that showed her waiting on the corner for a trolley. People two-stepped to blues and zydeco humming through Uncle Brother’s rigged sound system. In one corner of the yard, folks slapped dominoes on the rented tables, while in another, men gathered at the barbecue grill as smoke drifted into the woods. And Charley, struck by the wonder of it all, let herself be drawn in. She listened to Uncle Arthur’s story about growing up in a sharecropping family on Old Man Hebert’s farm, of shopping at Hebert’s store, where a nickel bought a bottle of Hadacol or Woodbury After Shave Powder, and a dance wasn’t a dance without a little Rose of Sharon hair tonic to make a fella’s hair look fine. And just before they ate, Charley joined in the moment of silence when the entire family paused to hold hands and say a prayer for Ernest, funeraled and laid to rest way out in California, may his soul rest in peace. These blessings we say in Jesus’s name. Praise the Lord. Amen.

The afternoon stretched away. People gathered around Charley, between rounds of bid whist and second helpings of potato salad, to tell her how proud they were of her and to ask about the farm. How had Ernest made enough money to buy so much land? It felt wonderful, like being tucked in at night, to know people were interested in her story, to hear them express their concern and wish her well.

Charley had just helped Miss Honey rearrange a table loaded with lemon cakes and sugar cookies and popcorn balls made with real molasses, when a man who looked to be in his early forties, wearing a pith helmet and shabby army fatigues, pushed a lawn mower into the yard and parked it along the fence.

“There you are, Hollywood,” Miss Honey said, her face brightening. “Didn’t know if your mama would let you come.”

“Hey there, Miss Honey. Comment ça va?” He took off his helmet and clutched it to his chest as he kissed her cheek. “You know I wouldn’t let nothing keep me away.”

“This is my great-grandbaby, Micah, all the way from Los Angeles of California,” Miss Honey said, waving Micah over. “And this is my granddaughter, Charley. The one I was telling you about.”

Hollywood bowed to Micah and kissed her hand. “Enchanté. I see Miss Honey gave you the camera. I found it in her back room when I was cleaning.”

His accent—part French, part Southern, and something else too—reminded Charley of NeNee Desonier and her granddaughter. Only, Hollywood’s skin was pale, his eyes blue, his coarse graying hair brushed back in gentle waves. He didn’t look black, but she was sure he wasn’t white either. “Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand, ready to shake, but Hollywood saluted her instead. She looked for stripes on his sleeve, bars on his collar, then to Miss Honey for an explanation. But Miss Honey only took out her handkerchief and dabbed her forehead.

They stood awkwardly for a few seconds, then Charley pointed to the fence. “Nice mower.” Someone had soldered banana bicycle handlebars where the regular lawnmower handle should have been.

“Hollywood has a nice business cutting lawns for people in the Quarters,” Miss Honey said.

Hollywood glanced at Charley and blushed deeply. “Just a little something to keep me busy.” He brushed grass clippings off his pants and turned to Miss Honey. “I just finished Miss Ivy’s and came to tell you I’ma run home real quick, clean up, but I’ll be back.” He turned to Charley. “So you’re Ralph Angel’s baby sister.”

Charley’s breath caught. She was accustomed to being referred to as Lorna and Ernest’s daughter, as Micah’s mother, as Davis’s widow. Since she’d been in Saint Josephine, she’d started to think of herself as Miss Honey’s granddaughter. But she still wasn’t accustomed to being called Ralph Angel’s sister.

“Hollywood and Ralph Angel grew up together,” Miss Honey said.

“We been knowing each other more than thirty years,” Hollywood said.

“They were like brothers from the beginning. Ain’t that right?”

Hollywood fingered his helmet and looked off toward the street. “I guess.”

“Lord knows you’ve eaten enough meals at my kitchen table,” Miss Honey said. “Which reminds me. When are you coming over to finish cleaning the back room?”

“Friday afternoon if that’s okay. Right after I cut Miss Maggie’s grass.” Hollywood put on his helmet, preparing to go.

“Well, don’t forget. ’Cause Charley and them are sleeping up front in Ralph Angel’s room and I know they’ll change their minds once they see how big that back room is.”

Micah made a tiny sound and stepped on Charley’s foot.

The afternoon they arrived, they followed Miss Honey through the den with the faux wood paneling and down the narrow hall, past a laundry room, past the half bath, and the sunporch with a washing machine and a deep freezer that hummed loudly.

“Won’t have anything back here to bother you but the sound of your own voice,” Miss Honey had said. She stepped into a darkened room where the air was noticeably cooler, and yanked the cord dangling from the ceiling. Harsh white light flooded the room. “It’s the biggest room in the house,” Miss Honey had said. “And it’s private.”

Standing on the threshold, Charley looked past Miss Honey into a room crowded with garden tools, old bicycles and vacuum cleaners, mountains of browning newspaper, boxes of old clothes, and shopping bags brimming with mismatched shoes. She spotted a king-size bed piled with clutter, just visible beneath a small window. And worse than the sight was the smell—ointment and mothballs, mildew and dust. Odors that lingered, Charley thought. Odors that would hang in her clothes and hair.

“It’s so messy,” Micah had whispered. “And it smells like old people.”

“Don’t mind this junk, sugar,” Miss Honey said, and went on to explain that she’d hired Hollywood, her gardener and all-around handyman, to clear away all the boxes. “He only got to half of what’s back here, but when he’s through, y’all can make this your home away from home.”

That’s when Charley interrupted. Said, as delicately as she could, that it was too much trouble.

“Back here, you’ll have room to spread out, get comfortable,” Miss Honey had said, waving Charley’s protest away. “I saw all those suitcases and bags you brought with you.”

But Charley had pushed. “I remember another room.” She’d pressed her finger to her lips. “Up front. It had a window that looked out onto the porch.”

Miss Honey had hesitated. “Ralph Angel’s room. Besides, there’s but one bed in there.”

That was the first time Charley had heard her half brother’s name in years. “Really, we’ll manage,” Charley had said.

Miss Honey shook her head. “Mighty silly to crowd two people into that little room.”

“I like that room,” Micah had said. “I like little rooms.”

“We’ll manage,” Charley said.

Miss Honey had sucked in her cheeks. “Big room like this going to waste, but if that’s the way y’all want it.” She gave the light cord another quick yank plunging the room into darkness.

Now, with Hollywood promising to finish the job, Charley imagined what might have nibbled through the stacked boxes, made nests in the piles of old clothes, given birth to litters of pink blind hairless babies the size of her thumbnail. She squeezed Micah’s hand. She looked at Miss Honey and thought, She may be the ringmaster, she may be the Grande Dame, but there was no way in hell they were staying in that back room.

•   •   •

Uncle Brother’s turtle soup and Miss Honey’s gumbo had been devoured. There was still a wedge of Violet’s lemon pound cake left, though it wouldn’t last long, and the last carton of Blue Belle ice cream was melting. But Charley’s crudités with garlic hummus sat untouched as the Impala cruised past Miss Honey’s and parked.

Charley looked up from the clutch of older women seated on the porch and watched the latecomer as he stepped through the gate. She nudged Violet. “Who’s that?”

And because it took Violet a long moment to answer, Charley thought she had forgotten the man’s name, thought that the long afternoon of laughter and old stories and a beer or two had made her aunt a little tipsy and forgetful. But Violet said, clearly, “Good Lord. What’s he doing here?” which made Charley and everyone else on the porch look again. Even Uncle Brother, who had planted himself at the bid whist table two hours ago and not gotten up once, put down his cards and stared in disbelief.

The man stood just inside the gate. A small boy called, “Pop, wait,” from the car.

“Well, come on, then,” the man said, and held the gate open as the boy climbed out, then broke into a gallop that was lighthearted and, Charley thought, a little desperate. They stood together in the grass, waiting.

“Pop?”

“Don’t worry.” The man threw his arm over the boy’s shoulders, pulled him close. “This is your family.” He cleared his throat and stepped forward, the child clinging to his wrist. “Well, hell. Somebody say something.” He gave his son’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You all are making my boy here uncomfortable.”

The boy’s shirt, with a truck decal on the chest, was one long smear of chocolate fingerprints.

Uncle Brother balled his napkin and stood up. “What are you doing here, Ralph Angel?”

Charley was twelve the last time she saw Ralph Angel, and he was nineteen. He came to her parents’ house for Christmas dinner, his first visit since their father sent him home, and he’d surprised her with a chemistry set—the small metal cabinet with a black leather handle and real glass beakers, copper sulfate, aluminum bicarbonate, and citric acid in brightly labeled bottles. He was a college freshman, he said, planned to major in engineering then work for a big oil company after he graduated. But what Charley remembered most clearly was that he gave her ten dollars. And it wasn’t the money as much as the way he gave it: pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, licked his fingers, and peeled off a ten, which he folded in half and held between his fingers, flicking his wrist as if to suggest he had money to throw away.

The metal locker, Charley thought now. The roll of bills. Ralph Angel. Her big brother. Here he was.

A quiet had descended upon the yard.

Ralph Angel smiled at Uncle Brother, who had come down from the porch and stood on the walkway. “Now, c’mon, uncle. Is that any way to greet your favorite nephew?”

Ralph Angel took a toothpick from his jacket pocket and slid it into his mouth. He looked like a guy who wouldn’t fight fair; not at all like the boy she’d followed around or the young man who gave her ten dollars.

And just as Charley was thinking these things, she saw John rise from his chair and walk to his father’s side. His fingers grazed his hips, Charley noticed, though of course, there was no holster. He drew himself up to full height, spread his feet, squared his shoulders. “Is there a problem here?” His tone was respectful, but cautious.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ralph Angel said. “Look at you, man. All grown up.”

They stared at each other, then John bent to shake the boy’s hand. “Hey there, Blue. I need to talk to your daddy for a minute, okay?”

Blue. Charley wondered at the mother who would name her child something so sad. But his solemn expression, the way he looked up, pleadingly, at his dad—somehow, the name suited him.

Ralph Angel put his hand on Blue’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry about my boy, John. Blue is just fine.” But when Aunt Rose from Opelousas hurried down the step and took Blue’s hand, saying, “Let’s get you some lemonade,” Ralph Angel let him go.

Uncle Brother stepped closer to Ralph Angel. “I asked you a question. What are you doing here?”

Ralph Angel put his hand over his heart. “What makes you think I wasn’t invited?”

In a fluid gesture, John put a firm hand on Ralph Angel’s arm. He was twenty years younger than Ralph Angel but stood a foot taller, and was, Charley guessed, at least thirty pounds heavier. “Why don’t we take this out to the street?”

Something flashed across Ralph Angel’s face. Charley saw it. Ralph Angel looked at John’s hand on his arm and pulled away slowly. “I don’t want to take this out to the street. I’d like to say hello to the rest of the family.” He stepped forward, but John blocked his path.

“I can’t let you do that, cousin. I’m sorry. Not before we straighten this out.”

Ralph Angel stared at John. After a long moment, he laughed. “Come on, man. Why you want to hassle me?” He brushed past John, quick as a running back, and made his way up the walk. He stopped at the bottom step and looked up at Charley. “Hello, sis.”

Charley recalled what Violet had said about Ralph Angel pushing Miss Honey. Something about the way he stood there with that toothpick in his mouth made her think he might be capable of it. Still, he’d held Blue’s hand with great tenderness. That counted for something. A lot, actually. How harmful could he be? Charley moved down the steps. “Hello, Ralph Angel. It’s good to see you.” She heard Violet gasp behind her. Unsure whether to hug him or shake his hand, she took a chance and opened her arms. Their embrace felt wooden.

Ralph Angel broke away first. “Yeah. It’s been a long time.”

The screen door creaked, and Miss Honey, wiping her hands on her apron, stepped out onto the porch. “Why is it so quiet?”

“Hello, ’Da,” Ralph Angel said.

“Hello, Ralph Angel,” Miss Honey said. She barely blinked.

Ralph Angel tipped his head toward the side yard, toward the tables and chairs, the last of the food on dishes covered with crumpled foil. “Looks like I missed the celebration.”

“Mother,” Violet said, standing up now, “did you call Ralph Angel?”

Miss Honey looked almost dreamily at Violet, then out into the street, where a car—a dark blue Monte Carlo, Charley saw—approached. Music pulsed and young, defiant voices rang out over heavy bass. The driver honked and waved. Everyone looked, out of habit, to see who was behind the wheel. “That’s sister Martin’s boy,” Miss Honey said, more to herself than anyone. “Where does he think he’s going?”

“Mother, I’m asking,” Violet said. She inched up to Miss Honey and held her shoulders just the way she’d held Charley’s that day she’d begged her to go to Sugar Town. “Did you call Ralph Angel? Because someone did, and now he’s here.”

The music blaring from the car’s speakers was swallowed by the heat. Miss Honey’s yard fell quiet again. But Charley still heard layers of sound—the hiss of insects in the trees, the creature whine rising from the gulley, faint voices of neighbors up and down the block, and beyond that, the faint drone of cars whipping over the asphalt. She heard all of it, felt herself drawn down into the mucky clay and the stalks of cane.

Miss Honey pulled away from Violet’s grip. “What if I did? What’s wrong with wanting my family to come together? Yes, I called him, and now it’s done. Now I want you and Brother to welcome Ralph Angel home.”

Violet and Brother exchanged glances.

“No, Mother,” Violet said. “I’m sorry.”

Miss Honey glared at Violet. “I’m booking you, girl.” She turned to Uncle Brother. Her voice was raw. “I’m going to say this one time, so y’all better hear me, because I’ve come to the end of my row. Y’all may be grown out there in the world, but when you come to my house, you better leave your manhood and your womanhood under my porch step. If Charley can welcome Ralph Angel, so can you.” She paused to wave a finger across the porch and over the yard. “As a matter of fact, all y’all can.”

Charley looked at her relatives, at Screw Neck in his workday overalls and Maraine, small and birdlike in her compression stockings and orthopedic shoes, whose name, Charley had learned earlier, was actually Clemence, but who went by Maraine, which meant “godmother” in French. She searched every face, waiting for someone to say something, wondering what they knew. No one moved.

“Forget it, ’Da,” Ralph Angel said. “Don’t force them.”

And as Charley struggled to make sense of what was happening, Violet pulled the screen door open. “I’ll see you later, Mother.” She disappeared into the house, emerging a moment later with her purse.

“Where are you going?” Miss Honey called.

Down the steps now, Violet paused in front of Charley and took her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry this had to happen today. I’m sorry this had to happen when you have so much on your plate.”

“Violet,” Charley said. “Whatever is going on, whatever happened before, I’m sure we can work it out.” Who knew why Miss Honey never told anyone she had invited Ralph Angel to the reunion, but in the end, what did it matter? He’d stay for a couple days, and yes, it would be uncomfortable, but then he’d go back to wherever he’d come from.

Violet shook her head. “You’re sweet. But no, darling, we can’t. We won’t work this out. You don’t know that now, but you’ll see.” And with that, she walked past Ralph Angel, past Uncle Brother and John, and out of the yard. Charley felt desperate watching Violet drive away. For Violet was the one person she’d come to feel at home with in her new home. Violet was family. When she turned back, she saw Ralph Angel give a little shrug. Then he looked to her.

“So, sis, what’s going on? Long time, no see. And by the way, I heard the good news. Congratulations on your farm.”

•   •   •

The party was over. Charley tossed the empty bottles and paper plates in the trash, dragged the garbage can to the street, and was about to go inside when she heard someone call her name. Hollywood, walking fast down the street.

“Was that Brother and John I just seen?” he asked, breathless, pointing over his shoulder in the direction he’d just come from then peering into Miss Honey’s yard. “Where is everybody?”

He’d showered and shaved, combed his hair and changed his shirt, though he still wore his shabby army fatigues and reeked of cologne, underneath which Charley smelled laundry detergent and the deep odor of armpit perspiration run over with a hot iron. “Gone,” Charley said, and looked back at the trampled grass, the tables and folding chairs stacked neatly near the bottom step. Within an hour of Ralph Angel’s arrival, everyone left.

Hollywood’s face fell. Though he was certainly older than Charley—he had to be close to Ralph Angel’s age—Hollywood’s disappointment made him look much younger. “Aw, man. I thought y’all would be partying all night.” He gazed down the street like a boy who had missed the parade. “Doggone,” he said, quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Charley said. Twilight had declared itself with a rush of cooler air, and though she wanted to sit by herself for a while, sit and try to make sense of the day, Charley said, “Why don’t you come in? At least let me fix you a plate to take home.”

“I don’t know.” Hollywood jammed his hands into his pockets. “I should go.”

“But you walked all the way over here,” Charley said, thinking of the compound three miles down the road. Miss Honey had pointed it out one day as they ran errands in town—the handful of ramshackle trailers scattered around the cleared lot like boxes of crackers; the children, barefoot and pale, who played on the broken-down swing or in the rusted-out cars or jumped on the old mattress they used as a trampoline. “That’s the Arnaud Plantation,” Miss Honey had said. “Hollywood, my gardener, the one who’s gonna clean the back room, lives there,” and she’d gone on to explain that the Arnauds were a clan of Creoles—a mix of African, Spanish, French, and Anglo—who stuck to themselves and intermarried to preserve their fair skin; had for generations. They owned a cemetery back in the woods where all of the black folks in town were buried, where she’d be buried when her time came. “Miss Honey won’t like it if you leave without saying hello.”

“Well, okay. I guess,” Hollywood said, following her into the yard. “You know my maman don’t like that I’m always over here in the Quarters, cutting grass for black folks, but I tell her I love spending time over here.” He gazed at Miss Honey’s house. “I can’t imagine a day without seeing Miss Honey. She’s more like a maman to me than my own.”

In the kitchen, Charley tugged the cord that sent the fan blades whirling. The sink was filled with dishes and plastic trays, the counters cluttered with Barq’s root beer cans, brown paper sacks of cracklins, and the remains of crawfish boudin that Joe Black brought all the way from Hackett’s Cajun Kitchen in Lake Charles. While Hollywood sat at the table, Charley fixed his plate, tucked the last wedge of Violet’s lemon pound cake on the side, and wrapped the whole thing in foil.

“Most days, by the time I get home, Maman’n them have already ate,” Hollywood offered. “I eat over at my brother’s sometimes.”

Charley nodded, wondering again what it was about Hollywood that struck her as odd. Something was missing; some small thing, like a bearing in his mower, but definitely something.

“Hello.” Micah, barefoot but still wearing her party dress, stepped into the kitchen. She held an empty bowl and a spoon. “Seconds,” she said. “Miss Honey said I could.”

“Go tell Miss Honey Hollywood is here,” Charley said.

“Okay.” Micah moved toward the freezer. “Ice cream first.”

“No,” Charley said. “Miss Honey first. Do it now, then you can come back.”

Micah rolled her eyes. “Tu me rends dingue. Va je foutre.”

“Translation,” Charley said. “I’m being snotty and rude and I don’t want any ice cream.”

“But I didn’t say—”

Hollywood sat forward, said, calmly, “Tu ne devrais pas parles à ta maman comme ça.”

Micah froze. She gawked at Hollywood. Charley did too.

“Une gentile fille dit pas de gros mots. T’es grande fille maintenant—tu peux plus faire comme ça! T’as pas honte? Dis-elle pardon.”

Micah turned to Charley. “I’m sorry.” She glanced at Hollywood, who nodded with stern approval. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or be impolite.”

“Now,” Hollywood said, gravely, and pointed toward the den, “go tell Miss Honey I’m here.”

When Micah was gone, Charley gaped at Hollywood, asked, “What was that?” Micah’s stunned expression still playing through her mind.

Hollywood shrugged. “I told her nice girls don’t swear. And then I told her she was too grown to act that way, that she was embarrassing herself.”

“Well, I owe you one,” Charley said. “She’s given me hell lately.” She felt a sisterly affection for him, though she barely knew him, and hoped they could be friends.

Hollywood pulled a glossy movie magazine from his back pocket, set it on the table, and smoothed the cover. “Miss Honey says y’all lived in Hollywood.”

“Not exactly,” Charley said, and thought of the little Spanish bungalow south of Pico, not too far from the Jewish deli where elderly waitresses wore pink uniforms and wigs stiff with spray. There’d been nothing glamorous about it.

“I’m gonna get out there one of these days,” Hollywood said, and gazed through the kitchen window. “Take one of them buses that goes around to all the movie stars’ houses. I’m gonna find Marvin Gaye’s house first.” He flipped to a dog-eared article and read haltingly, running his finger beneath each word. “‘On April first, nineteen eighty-four, at eleven thirty-eight a.m., the world lost a musical genius when Rhythm and Blues legend Marvin Gaye was shot at point-blank range by his father after a heated argument.’” He paused, stared at the article, then looked up at Charley. “Marvin Gaye was a great singer. He had everything a man could want, but he was still unhappy. Made everyone around him unhappy. I wonder if that’s what his daddy was thinking when he shot him?”

“I wonder,” Charley said, and couldn’t help but think about Ralph Angel, who—if Violet’s story was true, and why wouldn’t it be?—seemed to be haunted by his own demons. Maybe he still was. A current of regret rippled through Charley for not knowing.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Look who’s here.” Ralph Angel stepped into the kitchen.

Hollywood’s face flushed as he turned toward the sound of Ralph Angel’s voice. He pushed back from the table, stood up. “Ralph Angel. Where’d you come from?”

His question made Charley think back on the afternoon, how Ralph Angel had materialized at the gate as if out of thin air.

“Rolled in a couple hours ago,” Ralph Angel said. He set his beer on the counter, walked over to Hollywood, and pulled him close. “Glad to see you, Peanut. What’s going on, man?”

But Hollywood stood stiffly, and Charley remembered how he had hesitated, earlier, when Miss Honey said he and Ralph Angel were like brothers. He had the same uneasy look on his face.

Ralph Angel must have noticed too, because he said, “Relax, Peanut. It’s just me,” and laughed nervously. “Jesus Christ. You’re as bad as the rest of ’em. Everyone’s acting like I’ve got the plague or something.”

“I’m just surprised, is all,” Hollywood said.

Ralph Angel looked from Hollywood to Charley. “I see you met my best friend.”

“I was just fixing Hollywood a plate,” Charley said. “Join us.”

Ralph Angel went to the refrigerator for another beer, then slid into a chair. He picked up Hollywood’s magazine. “Highlife?”

“It tells what all the celebrities are doing,” Hollywood said. “Miss Loretta down at the library gives me the old copies when the new ones come in. Just a little something to keep me busy.” He watched as Ralph Angel flipped the pages, then added, tentatively, “I didn’t know you were home.”

Ralph Angel tossed the magazine back on the table. “Don’t tell me you actually believe the stuff they write.”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s from the library.”

Ralph Angel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. But you can’t go around with your head in the clouds. You’ve gotta learn to think for yourself.” He took a sip of beer. “So, how you doing, Peanut? Seriously. What’s new?”

“Please don’t call me that, Ralph Angel.”

“I’m just messing with you, man. All in good fun. Say, are you still cutting grass with that funny mower?”

“Yeah.”

Ralph Angel gestured to Charley. “That’s one of the things you’ll find down here, little sister; things never change. I come back after all this time, and Hollywood here is still pushing that same goddamned mower. Unbelievable.”

“Who’s swearing in my house? I thought I heard swearing.” Miss Honey pushed into the kitchen, and Charley saw that she’d changed into her housedress and slippers. Miss Honey looked at Hollywood. “Well, I’m glad to see you finally made it. Folks were asking for you.”

“Miss Honey, you didn’t tell me Ralph Angel was coming home,” Hollywood said, but Miss Honey waved the statement away as she moved to the sink and started washing dishes.

“So, how much you charging these days?” Ralph Angel said. “Ten dollars?”

Hollywood blinked. “Five dollars. That’s what I charge. Five’s fair.”

“Five dollars? Holy shit!” Ralph Angel put his hand to his forehead. “Listen here, Peanut. Don’t you know minimum wage is around seven fifty? Hey, Charley, what are you paying the guys who work for you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t hired anyone yet.”

“Well, be sure to put Hollywood on your payroll. He’s a steal. I’m telling you, man, you ought to raise your price. Better yet, you should expand your operation. Seriously. Get some guys to work for you. You could rake in the big bucks.”

“I don’t know,” Hollywood said. “I sort of like working by myself.”

“Boy, I tell you,” Ralph Angel said, and stared into his beer can. “That’s the goddamned South for you. That’s another thing you’ll find down here, Charley. Folks bend over backwards to be polite, even when it’s killing them. Why, this nigger here only charges five measly dollars to cut a whole yard. How long does it take you? An hour?”

Hollywood shrugged. “About that.”

“Five measly dollars an hour,” Ralph Angel said, glancing quickly at Charley. “Ain’t that some shit?”

Hollywood winced, and Charley—seeing how he just sat there, looking as though his shoes were two sizes too small, picking at the threads of his army fatigues like the new kid on the first day of school—thought she should say something. But she didn’t. Because she was trying to reconcile the Ralph Angel from Violet’s story with what she wanted to believe about her brother: that a lot of terrible things could happen to a person in twenty years; a person could run off the rails, and that sometimes it was easier to pick on someone else’s weaknesses rather than face the weakness in yourself. And she also understood, from the way Ralph Angel glanced at her as he spoke, that in his own awkward way, he was trying to impress her, make a good impression.

“Ralph Angel, watch your mouth,” Miss Honey said. “Hollywood’s built a nice business. Folks depend on him. Now, let the man be. He wants to charge five dollars, let him charge it.”

“I’m just talking to him, ’Da. Offering constructive criticism. Ain’t that right, Hollywood? We’re just talking, man to man. And I’m trying to show Charley what she can expect down here.”

Miss Honey glanced at Hollywood. “How you feeling, chère?”

“I’m okay,” Hollywood said, feebly. “But I don’t want to talk about cutting grass no more.”

Ralph Angel nodded. “Fine by me. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” Hollywood said. He picked at the aluminum foil covering his plate. “I’d better get on. Maman’s gonna be worried.”

“You sure?” Ralph Angel said. He sounded surprised, and a little hurt. “You don’t want to stick around and have a beer?”

“Naw,” Hollywood said, standing. He went to the sink and kissed Miss Honey.

“Hey, we should go hunting like when we were kids,” Ralph Angel said, excitedly. “Been years since I fired a gun.”

Hollywood frowned. “It ain’t hunting season. They’ll arrest you.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Charley said, and closed Hollywood’s magazine, relieved to have an excuse to escape.

Outside, the air was cooler, the street filled with sounds of a summer evening in the Quarter’s winding to a close: the easy groove of an R&B tune wafting from a nearby radio, the chime of people’s laughter as they relaxed on their porches, the occasional crack of a screen door closing, the cicadas’ manic winding up and winding down.

“Well, thanks for the eats.” Hollywood started down the steps.

“God, Hollywood. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he’d act that way.”

Hollywood blanched. “It’s all right. Me and Ralph Angel go way back. I’m kinda used to it.” He took his magazine from Charley, slapped it against his palm, then slid it into his back pocket. “You got a good girl there. Don’t worry. She was just being a kid.”

Charley stood by the gate as Hollywood made his way down the sidewalk. She thought he looked lost without his mower. The sun had dropped below the tree line, the sky pinking around the edges, and up and down the street, people’s porch lights were coming on so that every few feet, the aluminum foil covering his plate glowed like a faint star.

•   •   •

Miss Honey’s den was already cozy with her La-Z-Boy, and the sectional upholstered in faded blue plaid, the étagère overrun with her collection of salt and pepper shakers, and the framed pictures hanging askance above the TV, but now it was downright crowded. Stretched out on the couch, Blue slept with his feet in Ralph Angel’s lap, while Micah, changed into shorts now, perched on the arm of Miss Honey’s recliner.

“It’s late, Micah,” Charley said in a hushed voice. “Time for bed.”

Micah groaned.

“So, Charley.” Ralph Angel eased Blue’s legs off his lap and sat forward. “Last time I saw you, you were stuffing Kleenex into your training bra and picking lettuce out of your braces. Now look at you.”

“Yeah, well. Here I am,” Charley said dryly.

Ralph Angel leaned back into the cushion. “Micah here’s been telling me about your farm. Eight hundred acres. Congratulations. Aren’t you the lucky one.”

“I don’t know about lucky,” Charley said. “It’s a lot of work. It could all come crashing down.”

“I bet,” Ralph Angel said. “But it must be nice knowing our daddy loved you enough to leave you a whole plantation. Something to fall back on, know what I mean?”

Charley wasn’t sure what to make of his question. She glanced at the television, where trumpets blared and snare drums rat-a-tat-tatted as Shirley Temple sang the closing number of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

“Guess that makes you the star of the family,” Ralph Angel went on. “I mean, you got ’Da here throwing a whole reunion in your honor, people coming in from Houston and Baton Rouge just to get a look at you; my best friend fawning over you. You must feel pretty special.”

“Miss Honey did a generous thing,” Charley said. “I’m grateful. I said right now, Micah. Time for bed.”

“If you’d come when I called,” Miss Honey said, “you could’ve enjoyed the reunion for yourself.”

Ralph Angel picked at the foam sticking up from the couch cushions, then poked his finger in the hole, making it wider. “Why are you riding me so hard, ’Da? I told you I had to take care of some business.”

“I’m just saying,” Miss Honey said, unfazed by his tone. “It’s your own fault you missed the reunion.”

“Jesus. I can’t drop everything because you pick up the phone.”

“Well, good night,” Charley said. She took Micah’s arm.

“That does it for me, too,” Ralph Angel said. “Think we’ll turn in.” He hoisted a yawning Blue onto his shoulder.

“Ralph Angel,” Miss Honey said. “Y’all are sleeping in the back. Hollywood’s coming Friday to finish cleaning it out. Till then, y’all can sleep on the floor in here.”

“The back? But what about my room up front?”

“I gave it to Charley and them.”

“But that’s my room.” Ralph Angel sounded almost panicked.

“And seeing how she got here first, I told her she could have it. You and Blue can sleep in the back. It won’t kill you. It’s a big room and it’s private.”

“But ’Da—”

“If you got here when I called, it’d be yours to claim. But you didn’t. The front room belongs to Charley unless she agrees to trade.”

Ralph Angel offered Charley a conciliatory smile. “How about it?”

It would be a hassle for her to pack everything and haul it to the back room, Charley thought, but she could do it. Thirty minutes, an hour max, and she could give Ralph Angel his room. Charley looked at her brother, standing there with Blue slumped over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She hadn’t wanted to listen to Violet when she said it wouldn’t work out, or believe Violet’s story about Miss Honey finding Ralph Angel’s drugs. Because, and Charley realized it only now, standing there in Miss Honey’s tight den with that annoying Shirley Temple singing her heart out, she’d sort of hoped she and Ralph Angel could be friends; sort of wished, secretly, ever since Miss Honey first mentioned his name, that he might protect her the way big brothers were supposed to. Because the truth was, without Ernest or Davis, or her mother, Charley was terrified. The farm, Micah, her future—the stakes felt so high. There were days, driving home from the shop, when she felt so alone she thought she might split down the middle. Oh, how she’d wanted to give Ralph Angel the benefit of the doubt! But after the way he treated Hollywood? Teased him like some schoolyard bully, even if it was just to impress her? She couldn’t help but think twice. She’d reserve judgment for now; hold out hope. But in the meantime, she’d stay in the front room. Because you couldn’t just roll over for someone like that, haunted or not, or he’d start thinking his behavior was acceptable. And just like Marvin Gaye, eventually, he’d spoil it for everyone.

“Actually,” Charley said. “We just got settled.”

“That’s it, then,” Miss Honey said, like a game-show host.

Charley tapped Micah’s shoulder harder. “Let’s go,” and peeled her off the recliner. She was just over the threshold when Ralph Angel called after her.

“Hey.”

Charley turned.

“Go ahead. It’s all yours.” Ralph Angel winked. “But just so you know, you owe me one, sis. I’ll have to figure out some way you can repay me.”