13

Mid-July now, Friday, and after the rainy false start, summer asserted its full magnificence with velvety morning air and peachy skies that turned glacier blue by noon, then a brilliant marbled red and purple at dusk. Laid-by and borer-free, the cane grew lustily, the swordlike leaves thickened, the roots deepened, the stalks pushed eagerly upward in the generous sunlight until they stood eleven notches high. And as Charley rolled along the northbound highway—the Polyester Power Hour, sixty uninterrupted minutes of seventies funk played on radio K-AJN, a glass of Tang nested in the cup holder, and two buttered slices of raisin bread wrapped in paper towel on the dash—she marveled at how far she’d come. A month ago, she hadn’t known the difference between a combine and a chisel plow. Now she read the Louisiana Sugar Bulletin like it was the New York Times and tuned in to Ag call-in shows with the same regularity she used to reserve for NPR’s Morning Edition. And while she still couldn’t spout the yield potential of 384 versus 321, she could eyeball a stand of cane and determine whether a wild boar had been in it; could tell the difference between Roundup and Paraquat. As the Kisatchie’s piney woods studded the horizon ahead, and Saint Josephine’s emerald cane fields shrank in her rearview, Charley thought she might be an honest-to-goodness cane farmer after all. It was enough to make a girl want to sing.

The auction was Denton’s idea. So far, they had gotten by on his ingenuity and a few pieces of jerry-rigged machinery, but the serious work of grinding was still ahead of them, and at eighty thousand dollars for a new tractor, two hundred fifty thousand for a combine, new equipment was out of the question. On their measly operating budget, used equipment was all they could afford.

Turning off the highway, Charley followed the trail of neon flyers down the service road and pulled in beside Denton’s pickup. She had assumed the auction would be held in some kind of warehouse or possibly an airplane hangar, but this place was no more than an open lot with patches of Saint Augustine grass forcing its way up through the gravel. Ahead of her, Charley saw rusted spray rigs and ditch diggers, fertilizer tanks and tires, tractors and level liners all arranged more or less by size and stretching out in long, ragged rows. The place looked like an enormous archaeological dig, the farm equipment like dinosaur bones baking under the unforgiving sun.

There must have been two hundred farmers in attendance, Charley guessed, as she got out of her car. She maneuvered through the roiling sea of men in cowboy hats and baseball caps, men whose necks and arms tanned a deep, brick red, and whose creased faces bore out their years of struggle and worry. She’d never seen so many discouraged and defeated white men; it was like Shiloh, Gettysburg, Antietam, and Verdun all rolled into one. She moved among them, nodding when her eyes met theirs. She passed a farmer who looked like he’d just learned his house had burned down with his entire family inside, while a beady-eyed man with a hyena’s skulking posture stared into faces as if trying to identify the weakest in the herd. Strings of multicolored flags wagged limply in the morning heat, country music wafted over the sound system, and the air smelled faintly of hot dogs, but it was impossible to ignore the gloom underlying the carnival excitement.

At the far end of the lot, Denton, dressed in yet another pair of Liberty overalls, leaned under the hood of a battered John Deere 4840—a make of tractor Charley recognized from pictures at the Blue Bowl.

She knocked on the chassis. “You didn’t tell me it would be so crowded.”

“I’m surprised as you.” Denton yanked an oily cloth from his back pocket and wiped his hands. “It’s late in the season, but I guess everyone’s looking for a deal. Got a lot of good equipment out here, but most of it’ll go for a fraction of what they paid.” He handed her a catalog. “Might want to flip through this before the bidding starts.”

CHESTER GROVELAND AUCTIONS

Liquidations, Bankruptcies, Asset Recovery

“‘We believe our commitment to God, ethics, and integrity can help turn your assets into cash,’” Charley read. She opened the catalog and studied photos of tractors and forklifts, sleek quarter horses and stocky Texas longhorns. “At least we can buy some cattle if we’re outbid on everything else.” It was a bad joke, Charley knew, but it was all she could manage. Truth was, she was nervous about their chances. They had budgeted thirty thousand for equipment, which was like strolling up to the high rollers’ table in Vegas with a dollar in your pocket. God help them if they were outbid.

Every few minutes, a farmer recognized Denton, called out to him across the yard or came over to say hello. The men shook hands, slapped each other’s shoulders. They exchanged news about other auctions, shrugged over interest-rate hikes for production and equipment loans, shook their heads mournfully over news of farmers who’d gotten out or gone under. Charley was surprised at how many people Denton knew. The younger farmers addressed him with respect, even admiration, while the older men greeted him like a brother. Though he was the only black farmer on the lot, he seemed at ease, Charley thought, carried himself with the quiet confidence of a diplomat, and while she couldn’t quite forget the story Denton told about the sealed bid and inside baseball, she guessed that in the end, every man there was just struggling to survive.

“You register yet?” Denton asked, when the last man moved away.

“I wanted to find you first.”

Denton stuffed his oily cloth in his pocket. “Well, hurry up. Things move pretty fast once the bidding starts.”

Inside the office, a woman in floral capris and a flip-flop-wearing teenage girl—the only other women Charley had seen all morning—sat behind a card table sipping Big Gulps and fanning their necks with paper plates. Over the roar of the industrial fan, the older woman explained the buyer’s premium and the 4 percent parish tax while the girl recorded Charley’s license number and handed her a bidder’s card.

Charley was on her way back through the crowd with twin cups of Community Coffee when she saw Denton a few feet from where she’d left him, talking to two men. She recognized Jacques Landry just as Denton saw her, waved her over.

“Good morning.” Charley handed Denton a coffee.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Bordelon,” Landry said. He flashed a big white Pepsodent smile.

“You, too,” Charley said, coolly.

“I’d like you to meet my boss, Samuel T. Baron. He’s the head of Saint Mary’s.”

Baron was twenty years Landry’s senior. His hair was spun sugar. The skin on his neck hung loose like a Brahman bull’s. “Welcome to Louisiana,” Baron said.

“Well, gentlemen,” Charley said, sipping her coffee, “if I’d known you were coming, I’d have baked a cake.”

Baron and Landry laughed, but Denton stayed quiet. Charley glanced at him, struck by the change in his demeanor. Fifteen minutes ago he was shaking hands, slapping men’s backs, now he stood with rounded shoulders and seemed to have taken a step back from the conversation. She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

Landry turned to Charley. “I understand you’ve hired ol’ Prosper here. You’ve got a fine employee, Miss Bordelon. Worked for my daddy for many years.” He laid a heavy hand on Denton’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Denton said. “Your daddy was a fine man.”

Charley’s heart jolted. She stole a glance at Denton, whose expression had gone vacant, as though the man she’d been working with the last three weeks, the man who could recite every cane variety produced since 1957, and just yesterday had fashioned an oil filter from mesh screen and duct tape, had slipped out the back way.

“Hell, Prosper,” Landry said, “if I’d known it was this easy to lure you out of retirement, I’d have asked you to come back to us. But to tell the truth, I’m a little disappointed. Of all people, I’d have thought you knew better than to mislead this lovely lady into thinking she could be a cane farmer.”

Charley imagined Denton’s wife in their tidy kitchen, where all the dish towels were folded neatly into thirds and the counters were clear. She imagined Mrs. Denton fixing her husband’s dinner, arranging the food just the way he liked it, placing it on the table set with water in a pink Depression glass pitcher. She imagined her leaning through the side window and calling out to the garden, Prosper, time to come in. Quick, before supper gets cold, saw Denton raise a hand to let her know he’d heard as he staked the last tomato plant. And then Charley imagined the two of them—two decent, hardworking people—sitting down together as they’d done every evening for the last fifty years: napkins spread over their laps as they bowed their heads in prayer, eating and talking quietly, and maybe even laughing as the radio played.

“It’s Mr. Denton,” Charley said. She stepped closer to Denton, hoping to jar him out of his stupor.

Landry blinked.

The temperature was in the low nineties, but with the heat index it felt over one hundred. Charley poured the rest of her coffee in the grass, and when she wiped her forehead, Landry suggested they move into the shade.

“So, Miss Bordelon . . .” Landry squinted out over the crowd. “You sure are a long way from Los Angeles. You do much surfing when you were young?”

“Some,” Charley managed. Her hands felt pasty. Sweat trickled down her back, into the waistband of her jeans.

“Well, now.” Landry squared his class ring on his finger and looked right at her. “A black surfer chick.” His gaze slid down to her breast and then down to her crotch and he grinned. “I’m trying to picture that.”

Charley stood very still. She was hot and cold at the same time. She had wondered when this day would come, because you don’t move to a tiny Louisiana town, way out in the middle of nowhere, and expect life to be a stroll through the park; you couldn’t expect to be the only woman in an industry filled with men and not think someone would eventually say something stupid; you couldn’t ignore the long, dark, tortured history of Southern race relations, or pretend everything would be fixed overnight. And maybe you couldn’t force an old black man to stand up for himself, which was deeply disappointing, and not at all what you would have expected for someone otherwise so dignified, and something you’d think about for a long time. But you could be brave. Even while your heart threatened to split your chest open it was pounding so hard, and your ears were ringing, and the hair on your arms was standing up because you instantly knew, in a way you never knew before, what it meant to be black in the South, and this might as well be 1945 with Jim Crow and lynchings, and Ku Kluxers burning down black merchants’ stores and running families out of town. Even then, you could draw a line in the sand. You could do that. Because it was like your father said, You have to bring ass to kick ass.

Charley pulled her shoulders back. “And I’m trying to imagine your tiny pink prick.”

Landry’s head jerked and for a moment it looked like Charley had won. Then the color came back to his face.

But before Landry could respond, Baron cleared his throat and stepped forward. “It appears we’ve gotten off to a rocky start,” he said, in a deep buttery voice. He spoke slowly, as though he didn’t have anywhere in particular he needed to be. “Please excuse us, Miss Bordelon. My apologies for Mr. Landry’s behavior. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by that last comment, and I suspect he was only praising Mr. Denton’s work ethic. But I’m sure you’re already aware of Mr. Denton’s stellar reputation.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Charley said. “I’m honored to have Mr. Denton as a partner.”

“Partner?” Baron gave Denton a congratulatory nod. “Splendid. Then I hope you’ll both accept my apology, our apology, and allow me to propose we start over.” He offered his hand.

Charley stared at Baron then looked away. All around her, men were inspecting equipment, raising side panels, kicking tires. A few spoke in hushed tones as if they were in a university library. “Accepted,” Charley said.

And suddenly, Denton was back. He took Charley by the elbow, said, quietly, “We should go.”

But before she could follow, Baron cleared his throat again. “I’m sure Mr. Denton’s already told you, Miss Bordelon, that cane farming is a tough business. Every day, there’s a report of another farm going under, another mill shutting down. It’s depressing after a while.” For an instant, he looked genuinely mournful.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Baron,” Charley said. “We have a good idea what we’re up against.”

“I beg your pardon, but I don’t think you do.”

Denton leaned over. “You don’t have to put a dog in this fight.”

Charley ignored him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Baron.”

Baron’s laugh had a serrated quality to it. “I tell you what. I’m going to make you an offer. I want you and Mr. Denton to go at this cane farming hard as you can. Give it everything you’ve got. And if there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, I want you to feel free to come to me. But I also want you to make me a promise.”

“I’m fresh out of promises.”

“Promise that when it gets to be too much for you, you’ll come to us first. Mr. Landry was right about one thing, Miss Bordelon, you’ve got a fine spread. But it’s like anything else. One can only exploit an opportunity with the right resources.

“What could you possibly know about my resources? My resources are fabulous.”

Baron shrugged. “If your resources were so fabulous, you wouldn’t be looking to buy one of these rusted heaps.” He smiled with front teeth square as Mahjong tiles. “Come to think of it, I’ll sweeten the deal. On behalf of Saint Mary’s Sugar Co-op, we’ll be glad to take that land off your hands whenever you’ve had enough. We’ll offer a fair price, of course, and I may be able to convince our board to throw in some lagniappe for your efforts.”

Charley looked at Baron. She should walk away, she knew she should. It was what Denton had been asking her to do for the last five minutes. But she couldn’t. “Save your offers. As a matter of fact, you two can go fuck yourselves. Mr. Denton and I will do fine.”

Baron looked at her without blinking. “Feisty,” he said. “I like feisty. Don’t lose that. But remember this: It’s one thing for you to make that claim when you’re working for someone else, Miss Bordelon. It’s different when the land is yours. When, pardon the expression, it’s your ass on the line.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Yes, Miss Bordelon, we will.”

•   •   •

A voice over the loudspeaker announced the auction would start in ten minutes, and the noise level rose as farmers hurried to finish their appraisals. Charley waited for Denton to speak but he only cleaned his glasses on a napkin. The seconds dragged on.

“I didn’t mean to speak for you, Mr. Denton,” Charley said, unable to wait any longer. “I’m sorry—I just couldn’t—”

“What’s the best piece of equipment you reckon you saw this morning?” Denton’s voice was quiet. He pulled the catalog from his back pocket and flipped through it.

Charley pictured the rows of machinery and tried to recall whether she’d noticed men gathered around any single piece. “I guess the John Deere you were looking at.”

“Wrong.” Denton slid his catalog toward her, a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture. “That one.” He tapped a picture of an I.H. 1066. “International Harvester. That’s the machine we’re going to buy.”

Charley studied the picture. “But you spent all your time at the John Deere. How can you be sure the I.H. is better when you didn’t even—”

Denton shook his head like he wasn’t surprised she was dumb enough to overlook it. “It was right up front by the entrance. I know the farmer who owned it. His initials are on the chassis. He was a good man, a talented farmer, always took good care of his equipment. But his wife got sick, something with her heart, and he couldn’t pay her medical bills and cover farm expenses. Pretty soon he was underwater.” Denton shook his head. “It’s a shame.” He rolled the catalog into a scroll, slid it in his pocket.

•   •   •

Exactly on the hour, a pickup with a camper shell, a hole the size of a car window cut into the side, the auctioneer peering through it, pulled up at the far side of the yard.

“All right, boys,” the auctioneer said, through a bullhorn, “let’s get started so we can get out of here.”

When the camper swung around, Charley saw the two women from the office perched on stools just inside the camper’s back door.

At the sound of the auctioneer’s voice, the men under the trees dragged themselves out into the open, where the heat rose off the gravel in waves, and that was when the reality of why they were there hit Charley hard. She and Denton were there to benefit from others’ misfortune like everyone else, brotherhood and slapping backs be damned. And if the wind didn’t blow in her favor, Charley thought, she could easily be back here in a year, standing at the back of this very same crowd while these vultures picked the last scrap of flesh from her bones.

A rap of the auctioneer’s gavel started the bidding. “Lot ten-dash-four,” he announced as if calling a square dance. “A Taylorway twelve-inch disc. Like new. We’ll start at five hundred. Five, five, five hundred. Five hundred dollars. Come on, boys, let me see the money.”

Men signaled their interest with nods and hand gestures. Charley followed along as best she could, struggling to decipher the auctioneer’s warbling, making notes in the margins of her catalog. There was a new energy, a fresh excitement in the air. Suddenly, everything moved faster. The small stuff went first. Tools and farm implements, things, Charley imagined, that would wind up in a roadside antique mall if they weren’t put to some farm use.

An hour later, the lot was even more crowded, and the bidding was going strong. They’d moved to the large items. Charley flipped to the catalog page that showed the I.H., surprised at how anxious she felt.

Denton leaned close. “I want you to sit tight. Don’t show your hand.” He scanned the crowd, his gaze resting on one face and then another, as though he were sizing up their competition.

“Lot one twenty-four,” the auctioneer called. “We’ll start the bidding at eighty-five hundred. Eight five. Eighty-five in the back. Eight five, who’ll show me nine?”

Without looking at her, Denton tapped Charley’s leg. “Put up your card.”

“But it’s an Allis Chalmers,” Charley whispered, consulting her catalog.

“Nine. Nine. Do I hear nine five?” The auctioneer’s voice drove the crowd forward. “Nine five down in front. Who’ll give me ten? Anyone gonna elbow in?”

“I know what it is,” Denton said. “Raise your card.”

“Ten down in front. Who’ll give me ten five? How ’bout ten and a quarter?” Ten and a quarter, ten and a quarter for lot one twenty-four. Ten and a quarter in the second row. Let’s have ten five.”

Charley started to raise her card, then hesitated.

“Please, Miss Bordelon. Do like I’m telling you. Remember what you promised at the Blue Bowl?” The force of Denton’s tone stung her. Charley raised her card.

The auctioneer nodded. “Ten five in the back. Who’ll give me eleven? Eleven on the side, thank you, sir. Eleven for the Allis Chalmers. Can I get eleven five?”

“Keep going,” Denton said.

Charley raised her card again. “But we don’t want—”

“Eleven five in the back. Thank you, madam. Do I have twelve? Twelve on the side again.”

Charley saw Denton glance over at the last bidder, a man standing on the far side of the lot with his arms folded. He didn’t look in their direction, but something in his manner, the way he stared straight ahead, told Charley he was watching them.

“That’s the rainmaker,” Denton said.

“What the hell is a rainmaker?”

“Someone who bids just to drive the price up,” Denton explained, and went on to say most times, they worked for the auction house, but sometimes for the person who was selling. “I wanted to put some bait out there, see what we caught.”

“What did we catch?”

“Baron. Riding your tail. Bidding you up.” Denton ran his hand over his face. “Give me a second to think.”

The bidding was at thirteen thousand. The auctioneer scanned the crowd. “What y’all thinking, boys?”

Denton nudged Charley. “Sit tight.”

He was gone before Charley could ask where he was going, and the Allis Chalmers sold while she waited patiently. The I.H. would be up soon. Charley tried not to look at the rainmaker, but when she glanced around for Denton, their eyes met. He nodded and touched the brim of his cap, a small gesture, one that could be mistaken for a bid if a person didn’t know better, but Charley felt certain it was a signal for her—a threat, or worse, a promise—and for a moment, she couldn’t decide who was more terrifying: Baron and Landry in their corporate uniforms, wielding their power in her face, or the rainmaker, looking like a KGB agent in his dark glasses and devil’s goatee. And then Charley’s mind cleared and she was annoyed with herself for being afraid. Maybe Denton had jumped to conclusions. Maybe the man wasn’t a rainmaker. Maybe he was just being polite.

Denton reappeared. “We’re changing up the plan,” he said, slightly winded. “We’re not bidding on the I.H. anymore.”

“Not—what?” Charley said. The auctioneer was calling for lot one thirty-five now. The I.H. was lot one thirty-six. “You said it’s the best tractor here. We need it.”

“Next up, lot one thirty-six,” the auctioneer called. “An I.H. 1066. Crank it up, Billy. All right, boys. Let’s put a little money up. We’ll start at seven thousand.”

A man climbed up into the I.H. and started the engine. It was the closest thing Charley had heard to a machine purring. She got her card ready. Denton grabbed her wrist. “Just hold on.” He leaned forward and stared at the ground as though he were trying to hide.

And suddenly, Charley disliked him. The slight hump in his back—his old man’s back—as he leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees; his fingers with their wrinkled knuckles and nails like rinds of parmesan; his ridiculous pressed overalls and his old-fashioned shoes. They needed that tractor, she needed that tractor if she wanted anything close to a chance of making it, and she’d be damned if she sat back while some old man who was afraid of his shadow told her what to do. This wasn’t 1945, Charley wanted to say. There was nothing to be afraid of. No wonder her father hated the South. No wonder he ran for his life.

“Eight thousand for the I.H.,” the auctioneer called. “Who’ll elbow in? Eight. Can I get eight and a half?”

“Here.” Charley raised her card as all heads turned to look.

“Eight and a half, right there. Thank you, madam. Who’ll show me nine?”

Denton glared at her. “What are you doing?”

“That guy’s not the rainmaker.”

“Nine down in front,” the auctioneer said.

“There, you see,” Charley whispered. “He didn’t bid.”

The auctioneer called for nine and a half. A man the next row over gave a signal.

“Nine and a half. Can I get ten?”

The auctioneer called for nine five again. The man in the next row bid. Charley raised her bidder’s card. Denton grabbed her arm. “I’m trying to tell you,” he said, but she ignored him. Denton never swore, but Charley heard him swear under his breath. “I’ll be g’all damned.”

“Ten five,” the auctioneer said.

Charley kept her card raised. The tractor wasn’t worth more than thirteen, that’s what Denton said. Anything over thirteen, they’d agreed they’d walk away. The man in front dropped out of the bidding; it was just her and the man in the next row. Maybe she’d get it at ten five. Maybe eleven. The rainmaker hadn’t made a peep. Charley turned to him. She stared him right in the eye, dared him to jump in. He seemed not to see her, didn’t move or look in her direction, and she was flushed with relief. She was right. He was just another farmer, an ordinary man. The auctioneer asked for eleven and Charley’s card was still raised. Another few seconds and the tractor would be hers. She’d show Denton that times had changed.

“Eleven, going once.”

The rainmaker signaled—two fingers.

“Thirteen!” the auctioneer cried.

For a moment, Charley couldn’t move. When she did turn her head, the rainmaker met her gaze and she saw that thing in his expression that Denton must have seen earlier: a coldness, a steely indifference that made her shudder, and she understood she’d done exactly what he knew all along she’d do.

“Thirteen.” The auctioneer looked at Charley. “Do I have fourteen?”

If she continued, she’d be over her limit. She’d have paid more than Denton swore the tractor was worth. If she dropped out, Baron and Landry would have won.

Charley raised her card.

Fourteen. Fourteen five. Each time she bid, the rainmaker bid higher. Fifteen. Fifteen five. Denton leaned over and whispered something to her, something hot and blistering, though she couldn’t make out the words for the rushing in her ears. Then he pushed his way through the crowd. And though she panicked to realize Denton was gone, Charley reasoned, somewhere in the back of her brain, that when it was all over and the tractor was theirs, he’d understand and agree she’d done the right thing. It all would have been worth it. She’d won.

“Sixteen thousand.”

The auctioneer seemed to spot someone far behind her. “Seventeen thousand in the back. Come on, boys, somebody put me in the money. Can I get seventeen five?”

Charley stole a glance at the rainmaker. He didn’t move or look her way, but she knew he was waiting for her, ready to pounce if she kept bidding. Now someone else had thrown his hat in the ring. For all she knew, it was another of Baron’s cronies. Silence hung over the crowd. It lasted only a few seconds—but it was enough for Charley to realize the harm she’d done, the damage she’d cause if she continued this ridiculous game. She had no idea where Denton was, what he was doing, but she was pretty sure he’d given up on her. And who wouldn’t? Who’d want to work with someone who refused to listen, refused to learn? Who had that kind of time to waste?

“Seventeen, going once. Twice.”

Charley folded her bidder’s card and shoved it deep in her pocket. There would be other tractors.

“Last call for lot one thirty-six. Sold! For seventeen thousand.”

•   •   •

After the fiasco with the I.H., Charley tore up her bidder’s card, then watched through a fog of humiliation and distress as the rest of the equipment, tractors included, sold for a fraction of what she bid. She barely noticed who bought what and stayed only because she would rather have slept on a bed of nails than walk through that crowd. Denton was right about one thing: one’s heart went out to the farmer who once owned all that stuff. It was tough seeing a three-row chopper, probably eight or nine thousand dollars new, go for two hundred bucks. A whole life’s work, years of struggling to make ends meet. How could farmers stand it?

Behind the office, the people at the hot dog booth were packing up. Someone had slashed through the prices with a red marker and hot dogs were only a quarter. Charley was not thirsty, but she bought a Coke, hoping the carbonation would settle her stomach. The air had that heavy, expectant feel, as though at any moment someone would shout or fire a gun. In a couple hours the regular afternoon showers would turn the sky a steely gray, and crooked fingers of lightning would illuminate the horizon. The storm would only last half an hour, Charley thought, but by the time she got back to Saint Josephine, it would be too wet and maybe too dark to do anything on the farm. Better to go back to Miss Honey and Micah, lick her wounds tonight and crawl back to Denton tomorrow.

•   •   •

The rainmaker, Landry, and Baron were long gone. Up and down the rows, farmers loaded air compressors, old sinks, and batteries into their trucks. Standing alone in the shade of a shabby oak, Charley was afraid to check the parking lot for Denton’s truck. Just the thought that he’d quit made her light-headed with shame. She’d acted foolishly. Now she had to go home and tell Micah and Miss Honey how badly she’d blown it. She’d have to sit there while Ralph Angel laughed in her face.

The empty Coke can still in her hand, Charley walked toward the parking lot, braced for the sight of the empty spot where Denton’s truck had been. But his truck was there, and yes, thank God, there he was, leaning against its door as he flipped through a stack of receipts, the ones, Charley recalled, he stuffed above his visor. She had never been so happy to see those Liberty overalls, the bald head, or that raggedy old truck, as she was right now. Her first impulse was to run over, hurl herself on the ground, and beg for forgiveness. She would apologize for everything: the bidding, the money, all the stupid questions she’d ever asked—all of it—if he’d just give her another chance. And she was just about to when Denton looked up, noticed her, and she saw something in his expression. Disgust? Disappointment? All Charley knew was that she had never seen him look so unfriendly. Denton stared at her for a moment, then went back to his receipts.

“I was afraid you’d gone,” Charley said, chastened, and then, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. You were right about the rainmaker. No. You were right about everything and I don’t blame you for quitting.” If she thought Denton wouldn’t find it girly and manipulative, she’d cry. And for an instant, she thought she might. Her head was buzzing and there was that tightness again, like some gigantic, soggy wool sock was being wrung out inside her. But then it lifted. Just enough for her to say one word. “Please.”

Nothing. No reaction at all. Denton turned away as though he hadn’t seen or heard her, as though her plea was nothing more than an atmospheric disturbance. He leaned over the wheel and stuffed the receipts back onto the sun visor, then lifted himself into the seat, slammed the door, started the engine.

Well, Charley thought, that’s it. It’s over. She stood clear as Denton backed up and swung around. A furious spray of gravel flew out from the tires and there was that awful grating sound, the sound of spinning tires over loose rocks and dirt, the sound of someone who couldn’t get away fast enough. She could barely see Denton’s truck for all the dust and dry grass that blew up in her face, and she listened for the roar of his engine, wondering if she could hold off crying until he was gone. But the sound never came, and when Charley opened her eyes, Denton’s truck was idling right there in front of her and he was leaning across the seat. And now he was reaching for the handle, and the door was swinging open. It wouldn’t be until later that night, when she was at Miss Honey’s and had time to think back on it, that Charley would understand there was a difference between kowtowing and letting people’s assumptions work against them; that there was a beauty and honor in the Japanese bough that bent but didn’t break, and she finally, truly, appreciated what a decent man Denton was. That just when she thought her life was over, just when she thought she’d screwed things up (again), forgiveness and grace would be bestowed upon her with two simple words: “Get in.”

•   •   •

Given all that had happened, Charley knew better than to ask questions. For once, she was grateful Denton wasn’t much of a talker, and barely dared to breathe as he threw the truck into drive. She had no idea where they were headed or how long they would be gone, and frankly, she was too tired to care. Normally, she hated not knowing the plan, but right now, she didn’t want to think. As long as Denton didn’t put her out of the truck, she was satisfied.

The drive turned out to be short—just a few hundred yards. Denton pulled around to the other side of the office, parked, then went over to talk with a white man who was busy strapping equipment down on a long goose-neck trailer. Charley couldn’t see the man’s face, just his two tanned arms sticking out from his faded red T-shirt, but she knew he was another farmer simply by the way he was dressed: the requisite baseball cap, Wrangler jeans stuffed sloppily into the tops of his work boots.

From the way he and Denton talked, the way they both nodded and stood back to admire the equipment, they must be friends. It was nice to see, Charley thought, the pleasure Denton could take in someone else’s success; clearly the guy had done well. Just look at all the equipment he’d managed to buy: the Ampco flat chopper she and Denton had looked at, a shaver, and a ditch digger. Why, there was even the cultivator that went for one hundred and seventy bucks. Denton seemed genuinely happy despite the fact he was walking away empty-handed, and Charley wondered whether this wasn’t part of his secret, the reason he’d lasted all these years. Because you would have to be forgiving. You’d have to have a huge heart. You’d have to insist on seeing the good in people to deal with all the Landrys and Barons and who knew who else, and not go a little nuts down here.

Eventually, Denton waved her over. “So it ought to run real good,” he was saying by the time Charley joined him. “Something wrong, it’d be smoking in idle. A new hose and it’ll run up and down the rows for a long time.”

“Still can’t believe I got that chisel plow for four seventy-five,” Denton’s friend said, wedging his thumbs through his belt loops. “The way it rakes up roots, turns them around? Oh, man. It’ll be just like combing hair.”

It was such a relief to see Denton in a good mood that Charley felt a surge of gratitude for his friend. Thank God. You’re a lifesaver. You really have no idea, she wanted to say. But instead, she offered her hand and said, simply, “Congratulations.”

“This here’s Remy Newell,” Denton said, a smile brightening his face.

Remy Newell looked at Charley strangely. “Congratulations for what?”

Charley looked from Remy to Denton, who gave a little shrug. “She never gave me a chance to tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

“You mean she doesn’t know?” Remy Newell shook his head and laughed. “Good Lord, Mr. D.”

Denton massaged his forehead. “You mighta noticed she’s not too good at listening, so I stopped talking.”

“Tell me what? What’s going on?” Charley stared at Denton.

“Like I was trying to tell you earlier. When I saw what Baron was doing with the rainmaker, I had to go to Plan C.” He stepped aside. “I had Remy here bid for us. That’s where I went after you bid on the Allis Chalmers. Congratulations, Miss Bordelon. All this equipment is yours.”