20

At seven o’clock the next morning, the forecasters downgraded the hurricane to a category two. Good news, but they still had to be cautious. In Miss Honey’s den, Micah and Blue broke into the games Charley had purchased when she shopped for groceries, spreading Monopoly money and Uno cards over the floor.

“I’m going out,” Ralph Angel announced, appearing in the doorway.

“But it’s still too dangerous,” Miss Honey said.

Ralph Angel looked past her to Blue. “Mind your grandmother.” And when Blue asked where he was going, whether he could go too, Ralph Angel refused without explanation, which was something Charley had never heard him do. The front door slammed and she could just hear the Impala’s engine below the wind.

By afternoon, the sky was a gray slab filled with a confusion of churning clouds. Wind flurries worried the trees, tossing leaves and small branches across the yard. The outer rainband dumped showers on Saint Josephine in twenty-minute bursts, and when Charley couldn’t stand to watch one more newscast with its high-definition graphics and endless loops of storm footage, she retreated to her dark bedroom, where every few seconds the wind rattled the plywood she and John had nailed over the windows. She lay on the bed, listening to the wind. It really did whistle, she marveled, trying not to imagine how much havoc the hurricane was wreaking in her fields.

The storm made landfall in the dead of night. And though it was much weaker than first predicted, there was no doubting its power to destroy. For eight hours, it tore trees up by their roots, peeled roofs off stores and churches, shredded trailers like tissue boxes, and flooded the streets downtown with dark gray water. Out in the country, sediment churned in the rising tide, and hundred-mile-an-hour winds battered the cane fields until the proud stocks lay flat in submission.

At Miss Honey’s, while she listened to the wind’s high whine as it sliced across the yard, and a downpour that sounded like a thousand coins spilling on the roof, Charley said a prayer. Please God, protect my family. Leave something behind on the farm so I’m not completely ruined. Let me have one chance to see what I can do before you take it all away. As she whispered the words, Charley felt a sense of peace settle over the room.

By morning, the winds had died. The rains had ceased. Sun broke through the clouds in bold rays. Charley unbolted the front door and stepped out onto Miss Honey’s porch to survey the damage

It was as if someone had plucked all the leaves from the trees, then systematically plastered them across the lawn and pasted them to the side of Miss Honey’s house. Branches thicker than a grown man’s arm hung perilously or lay cracked and twisted every few feet, from the woods all the way out to the street. In Micah’s garden, all the plants had been ripped up by their roots. It was an awesome sight, proof of nature’s ferocity and indifference, and standing in the yard, Charley knew she would remember this day for as long as she lived. The wind had torn the metal flashing off one side of Miss Honey’s house and sections of the sunroom were flooded. All in all, though, they came through the hurricane intact. Or so Charley thought until the phone rang and Miss Honey shouted for her that Denton was on the line.

“Are you at the farm?” Charley mashed the phone to her ear and closed her eyes. “How’d we do?”

Silence. Then Denton sighed. “How quick can you get out here?”

•   •   •

On her drive out to the farm, Charley began to grasp the full extent of the destruction and appreciated, for the first time, why storms were named after the Carib god of evil, Hurican. Folks had already started piling their waterlogged possessions—splintered furniture and mattresses, sheets of soggy drywall and chunks of ravaged insulation, dead washing machines, sopping curtains, and parts of swing sets—in heaps along the roadside. To hear some people talk, Charley thought, you’d think only black folks lived in the buckled trailers and shotgun shacks with abandoned cars askew in the front yards, but no; as many poor whites scraped by on the back roads as poor blacks. Maybe that was the hidden blessing: the hurricane was the great equalizer; its wrath indiscriminate. In the end, the blessing, if there were one, was that for a short time, everyone would come together in order to survive.

Less than six hours since the storm passed, and Charley was amazed to see all the animal carcasses—raccoons, possums, and armadillos run over by last-minute evacuees, no doubt—that littered the roads. In the black bayous, fish were bloated into silvery balloons that reflected the morning’s light. The air reeked of death, even with her window rolled up.

•   •   •

Heart punching, Charley turned onto what was once the dirt road leading to her shop but was now an obstacle course of branches and twisted metal scraps, and finally pulled up in front to find Denton and Alison waiting.

“Your houses?” Charley asked, looking from one tired face to the other as she slid out of her car. “Your families? Please tell me no one was hurt.”

Alison stubbed out his cigarette. “A tree branch took out our bedroom window,” he said, “which really burns me up because I was going to prune it this weekend. But the boys are fine.”

Charley looked at Denton.

Ever the stoic, Denton wiped his glasses on his shirttail. “Nothing broke I can’t repair.” He opened his pickup door. “Get in. Let’s take a drive.”

Neither man had much to say as they rolled past fields where the cane lay flat as a bad comb-over against the ground, but Charley gasped at the sight, shook her head in disbelief, saying, over and over, into her palm, “Oh my God. This can’t be happening.” Two days ago, she couldn’t see the trees across her fields, the cane was so high, but now she had a clear view. For the first time since that day Frasier quit and she’d looked out over the expanse of earth, she was struck by how much land she actually owned.

“I know it looks bad,” Denton said, soberly. “But as long as the wind hasn’t dislodged the stalks from their root boxes, we can get the combine through. All it needs to stand up again is a week’s worth of sun. But we won’t know for a day or two how bad it’s bent.”

“Bent or straight, what difference does it make?” Charley said, still grappling with the notion of six hundred trampled acres.

“Makes a huge difference,” Denton said. “We’re using some of this as plant cane over in Micah’s Corner. Crooked stalks are harder to plant. How’re you gonna plant a crooked stalk in a straight row?”

Alison scribbled on the back of an envelope to illustrate Denton’s point. “Even if you can get most of each stalk in the row,” he said, thrusting the envelope at her, “the ends stick up, which means the eyes on ’em won’t sprout.” Charley looked at his drawing: two parallel lines with squiggles jutting out from both sides. “Which means we’ve got to cut more cane to compensate, which means our diesel and labor costs are higher. Plus, any cane that’s not covered with dirt dies soon as it gets cold, and that affects next year’s yield.”

Charley handed the envelope back and listened to Denton and Alison estimate what it would cost to repair the fields, the figure jumping by the thousands. “So, you’re saying we’re screwed,” she said, and reached for Alison’s cigarette. God knew what she would do with the damn thing since she’d never smoked before, but it felt good to hold something in her hand. She was down to twenty thousand dollars, which she needed to cover payroll and buy fertilizer, and every day more invoices arrived with the afternoon mail.

“Let’s hope Micah’s Corner didn’t get the worst of it,” Denton said. “If there’s water hung up out there—” His voice trailed off.

“Just say it.” Charley sucked on the cigarette, coughed and choked.

Denton shook his head. “Let’s wait and see.”

“Hell, I’ll say it,” Alison said. “Close as that quadrant is to the bay, it’s bound to have some water on it. You heard about the tidal surge, didn’t you? Everything south of Patterson is underwater. And don’t get me started about the damage out at the Point.”

Denton punched Alison’s shoulder. “Shut up, Alison.”

“Why you barking at me, Denton? Hell, I didn’t do it. I’m just telling her what she’s in for.” Alison turned to Charley. “Brace yourself.”

But there was no bracing herself for the way the tidal surge, the great wall of rushing water blown in from the Gulf, had had its way with Micah’s Corner. Half the quadrant was under hip-deep water. Where it had receded, a thick layer of sludge and grit coated the fields, as though someone had dredged the Mississippi and smeared its sediment across her land. For a long time, the three of them could only stare.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Alison said, a match trembling in his hand. “I thought this was a category two.”

“It wasn’t the wind,” Denton said. “It was the water. Storms are getting wetter every year.”

Neither man, normally strong-willed and confident in his own way, had the courage to look at Charley. And standing between her two partners, a peculiar coolness settled over her, a sensation similar to the calm she figured most people experienced just before they died. “I don’t see any point in kidding myself,” Charley said. She looked out over her fields and thought how her mother always accused her of being a dreamer. Well, she wasn’t a dreamer anymore. “It’s over. I’m ruined.”

•   •   •

Yet, back at the shop, Denton insisted it wasn’t over. While Charley wondered how she’d tell the crews she couldn’t afford to keep them on, Denton retreated to her office.

“An extra twenty-eight thousand,” Denton announced an hour later, tossing the yellow pad on the desk. They’d need pumps to drain the water, money for extra diesel and overtime, and a petty cash fund for spare parts since they’d be running equipment twice as hard. “We’ll have to cut more premium cane to replant Micah’s Corner, so that’s less we’ll have to sell come grinding. You’ll have to include those lost dollars in your costs.”

Charley looked at him blankly. “You know I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Got anything you can sell?”

For one criminal instant, Charley saw The Cane Cutter’s broad back and steady gaze. If she sold him, she’d be selling her father’s memory; she’d have sold everything he cared about. “I’ve got nothing,” she said. “I’m telling you, it’s over.” Denton pushed the yellow pad toward her. Without looking at it, Charley tore off the top sheet where he’d made his calculations and jammed it in her back pocket, saying, “I’ll take care of it.” She waited till Denton left the office, then she walked calmly behind the shop where no one could see, planted her hand on the side of the building, and vomited on her boots.

Tapped out. Finished. Done. That was what Charley thought as she slid into the Volvo and drove away from her farm without another word to Denton or Alison. In minutes, she was out on the road still littered with branches and debris. But for the devastation, it was a beautiful day with the blue sky wide open, the big yolky sun overhead, the dark trees lengthening along on the horizon. Charley increased her speed and felt the wind’s moist breath on her face. She could drive out to San Francisco or New York, assume a new identity and start over. But what about Micah? How would she explain that they were leaving again, and not just leaving but running away? How could she look Micah in the eye and tell her she’d given up because cane farming was too hard; because she was exhausted and afraid and out of ideas; because the life she’d dreamed of wasn’t turning out as she expected?

•   •   •

The gently rolling hills and golden pastures dotted with hay bales and the wide dry riverbeds of the East Felicianas looked nothing like the south Louisiana Charley had come to know, and as she crossed into the parish, northeast of Saint Josephine and an hour’s drive from Baton Rouge, her eyes drank up the scenery. She followed the country road through Slaughter, where the ragtime legend Buddy Bolden lived before he moved to New Orleans and lost his mind, and less than an hour from the Mississippi state line, she stopped at the gas station in Clinton and bought a Coke, then sat in her car for a long time, watching people come and go from the courthouse in the tidy town square. The courthouse, made in the Greek Revival style and painted a crisp, gleaming white, matched the row of lawyers’ offices across the street, their columns looking like matchsticks, the way they lined up so perfectly. The whole town looked like a picture postcard, Charley thought, so serene and unblemished, having never been touched by the storm; nothing at all like the wreckage she’d left behind in Saint Josephine. Why was it that some places had escaped nature’s wrath while her small corner of the world seemed constantly tormented by misfortune? It didn’t seem fair.

When Charley finished her Coke, she checked her watch—almost three o’clock, which meant it was almost one o’clock in Los Angeles. She took out her cell phone and dialed her mother’s number.

Lorna answered on the first ring. “Charlotte?”

Charley heard glasses clinking in the background, silverware tapping delicately against bone china plates, the echoey voice of a woman speaking into a microphone followed by applause, and guessed that her mother was at a fund-raising luncheon for one of her charities. Until that moment, Charley had decided, stubbornly, not to call, reminding herself every time she was tempted that her mother had mocked her decision to move to the South. But Lorna’s voice was like warm milk, and hearing it now, all of Charley’s defenses and justifications fell away and all the rawness she’d worked so hard to ignore came right to the surface. Her eyes filled immediately with tears, her chest tingled with a silvery tightness, and just like that, she was five years old again, aching to be held and comforted.

Charley took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “Hi, Mom.”

“Where are you? Where’s Micah? I’ve been watching the news. Please tell me you’re okay.”

“We’re all fine,” Charley said, thinking nothing could be less true, and heard Lorna sigh with relief. “John boarded up Miss Honey’s windows, which I think made all the difference.” She went on for a few minutes, but at some point it seemed pointless trying to describe what the hurricane had been like. It wasn’t something you could sum up with words. It was like Mr. Denton said, you had to live it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” Lorna said. “I was worried. People here have been asking and I didn’t know what to tell them,” which Charley understood was Lorna’s way of chiding her for not calling.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “I should have called before now. It’s just I’ve been so busy since we got here. There’s so much to do. But you can tell everyone we’re fine. A little shaken and there’s a lot to clean up, but I think we were lucky.”

“That’s very good,” Lorna said. “I’m so relieved, because from here the news reports looked so frightening—all that rain, and the flooding, goodness. I really can’t imagine.”

“I know,” Charley said, and swallowed against the tightening she felt in her throat. She pictured her fields, which looked like nothing more than a big brown pond now with the cane stalks barely poking through. “You have to see it to understand.”

There was a long pause, which seemed to stretch out endlessly, and as she searched for something to say, Charley mourned that things between her and her mother had become so awkward and strange. The whole conversation made her feel antsy and agitated, as though she were trying to fit into a sweater whose sleeves were tight.

“And how are you, Mom?” Charley said, finally. “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, Charlotte, you know me. I always have a thousand things on my plate. Busy, busy, busy, all the time.”

“That’s good.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m at a function right now.”

“Yes,” Charley said. “I can hear.”

When she dialed her mother’s number, Charley had not planned to ask for a loan—not exactly. She’d only wanted to hear her mother’s voice and feel a little bit of the warmth she’d felt when she was young enough to sit on her mother’s lap. Had she hoped her mother would ask about the farm? Yes, she had, and maybe even offer to help. But it seemed Lorna had no intention of asking or offering anything.

“Actually, things aren’t good,” Charley said. “I’ve had a setback on the farm. The hurricane flattened everything. My crop is probably ruined, three of the four quadrants, anyway, and Mr. Denton—that’s my manager, I don’t know what I’d do without him—anyway, Mr. Denton says even if we’re lucky enough to salvage a few acres, we’ll need additional capital to make it to grinding. Even more than we needed before.” Charley paused.

“My goodness, listen to you,” Lorna said. “Quadrants? Capital? Grinding? Good heavens, Charlotte, you sound like a real farmer.”

“I guess I do,” Charley said, and felt a small burst of warmth spread over her. “I told Mr. Denton I’d find the money, and I wondered—you know I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate—but I wondered if you’d help me. I need a hundred and two thousand dollars total, but I’ll take whatever you can spare.”

Charley waited.

“My goodness, dear, that’s an awful lot of money.”

“Yes, it is.” Charley thought of her father. He’d always told her she should never make assumptions about other people’s time or their money, and that’s the way she’d tried to live. The moment she asked her mother, she regretted it, but the question was out there now. “It would be a loan, not a gift.”

“I’ll take Micah,” Lorna said, finally.

“You’ll what?”

“Send Micah to me. That way you can focus all your attention on your farm without distraction. You can get a second job without worrying who’ll take care of her.”

In the late-afternoon sun, the courthouse cast off warm yellow light and looked even more stately than it had an hour before, with the row of columns throwing long shadows across the grass and the sky blue as a robin’s egg. The air was warm and the breeze carried with it the faint fragrance of willow and pine.

“That’s very generous of you,” Charley said, biting back tears, “but Micah’s fine right here.”

“Very well,” Lorna said, “but if you change your mind, you know I’ll always take her.”

Through the receiver, Charley heard another round of applause and the clatter of dishes being cleared. “I should let you get you back to your lunch.”

“Yes,” Lorna said. She sighed again, and Charley pictured her sipping coffee from the china cup, her lips barely touching the rim. “I almost forgot,” Lorna said, “I sent Micah a party dress. You can tell her it’s an early Christmas present. I hope it fits.”

“I’m sure it will. I’ll make sure she calls when it arrives.”

“Very well,” Lorna said. “I’m glad you called. And don’t worry, Charlotte, you’re resourceful, just like your father. I know you’ll figure out something.”

•   •   •

The loan officer at First Bank of Baton Rouge had hair plugs, and Charley, sitting at the corner of his desk in his padded cubicle, couldn’t stop staring at the fine hairs, like chick fuzz, and the constellation of tiny punch holes laid out in even rows. The irony of the situation was not lost on her, and she almost laughed out loud because there was as much chance those plugs would take as there was of her getting the loan. Charley knew, because this was the tenth loan she had applied for in the last two days; the tenth time she’d sat across from a loan officer in a bad suit and pleaded her case, and it would likely be the tenth time she would be turned away.

As if on cue, the loan officer glanced up from her application. His skin was pale under the fluorescent lights, his expression grim as an undertaker’s. He tapped his pen against his chin.

“And you’re sure you don’t have any collateral?”

“I’m sure,” Charley said.

“Anyone willing to co-sign?”

Charley thought again of her mother. “No.”

The loan officer flipped the pages and frowned.

“My credit is decent,” Charley said, massaging her ring finger. “Not perfect, but certainly not the worst. I just need enough money to get through grinding.”

But the loan officer closed her file. “I’m sorry, Miss Bordelon. Since the meltdown, banks are more cautious than they used to be. I’ll do everything I can, but I can’t see how underwriting is going to approve this without you at least putting up some collateral. I’m afraid you present—”

“I know,” Charley interrupted. “Too much of a risk.” Every banker she had talked to from Saint Josephine to Baton Rouge had used that phrase. She gathered her backpack. She had begged the first three loan officers to reconsider; she was tired. “Thanks very much for your time.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” the man said. “Good luck to you. And if you find a co-signer, I’d be happy to resubmit your application. My dad farmed sugarcane in the eighties, so I know what you’re up against.”

“I appreciate you saying that.”

He held the door open for her. “Well, be careful out there. The roads are still pretty dangerous.”

On the drive back to Miss Honey’s, staring out over fields that only three days before looked almost tropical in their lushness, Charley knew she should be grateful. She had the best two business partners anyone could ask for; she had her family; she had her health; and yet she was overcome with a sorrow so great she feared her chest would crack open. She pulled over to the side of the road and laid her head against the wheel. If only her father or Davis were there to tell her to keep going, or better yet, say it was all right to stop and rest for a while.

By the time Charley got back to Saint Josephine, it was evening, and the Quarters, buzzing with neighborly activity all summer, were quiet, Miss Honey’s street hushed now that school had started and folks had shifted into their autumn routines. Charley pulled up alongside the gully and parked. The yard was still a mess. Miss Honey stood in the window. By the time Charley reached the porch, she had opened the door.

“I thought you were Ralph Angel,” Miss Honey said, standing there in her faded housedress and slippers.

“Nope,” Charley said. “It’s just me.” Miss Honey looked tired. Her eyes weren’t bright as usual, her complexion washed out, her shoulders slumped. She tucked a wadded Kleenex in her pocket and Charley wondered if she’d been crying. “He hasn’t been home?”

“No,” Miss Honey said, sharply.

Two days since the storm and no sign of Ralph Angel; that was strange for a person who seemed interested in little more than hanging around the house. Driving home, Charley had noticed all the boarded-up stores and restaurants along Main Street, the owners still busy dragging tables and dishes, computers and racks of soggy clothes out to the sidewalk. Only the Winn-Dixie had opened for business. Charley set her backpack on the couch. “Where could he have gone?”

“How should I know?” Miss Honey snapped. “Do I look like a fortune-teller?” She took the Kleenex from her pocket and twisted it.

Stung, Charley stepped back. “I’m sorry.” In all the months she’d lived under Miss Honey’s roof, Miss Honey had never spoken harshly to her. Charley watched as Miss Honey went to the window again, pulled the curtains open, and peered out at the street. A little sigh of worry, almost a whisper, escaped her lips as she pressed her face to the glass.

“I know you’re worried about Ralph Angel, but I’m sure he’s fine,” Charley said. “He’s probably safe in a hotel somewhere, or he might even be driving home right now. I-10 is still jammed with all the people trying to get back from Arkansas and Mississippi. I should know—it took me twice as long to get back from Baton Rouge just now. How about if I call Hollywood? I’m sure he’d come over to clean up the yard.”

“The yard ain’t the problem! Can’t you see that?” Miss Honey flicked the curtains closed and turned toward Charley. “Ralph Angel is out there alone. He could be hurt or dead, for all we know. It’s time you starting thinking about someone other than yourself, girl. You’re not the only one who has problems, so stop all that whining.”

Charley was stunned. As many evenings as she’d come home from the farm with stories about her day, she’d never thought of it as complaining. If anything, she’d always thought Miss Honey was interested in her progress. “I didn’t realize I was whining. I apologize.”

“Well, you were,” Miss Honey said. “And I’m not in the mood for it. Not tonight.”

“Then I’ll get out of your hair,” Charley said, coolly, and thought of Violet, who twice had walked out of Miss Honey’s house. Now, she understood more than ever what Violet must have felt—the hurt, the anger, the deep sadness at being treated so badly for no reason she could see. Charley picked up her backpack. She’d clearly overstayed her welcome. It was like her father said: Never make people glad twice—glad to see you come, and glad to see you go. Charley walked through the dining room, past the china cabinet filled with cut-glass figurines and milky green cups and saucers, the ones Miss Honey collected from oatmeal boxes decades ago, and was almost at the kitchen door when Miss Honey called out.

“I’m responsible for that boy.”

Charley turned. “Ralph Angel is a grown man.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Miss Honey sat on the edge of the couch. She closed her eyes, and for a moment Charley thought she was praying. “Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done,” she said.

Charley walked back into the living room and sat down. Outside, the sun had set, and beyond the sheer curtain, twilight, soft and purply, pressed against the window.

They sat in the silence as the living room grew darker, until finally, Miss Honey said, “Ernest felt guilty for getting that girl pregnant and causing her to lose her scholarship,” and it took Charley a few seconds to figure out that Miss Honey was talking about Emily, the girl Ernest had dated in high school, Ralph Angel’s mother. “He wanted to marry her and stay here in Saint Josephine, but I wouldn’t allow it,” Miss Honey said. “I couldn’t bear the idea of Ernest giving up his dream, especially after what LeJeune did to him. I told him to leave Emily, go out to California like he planned, and when the baby was born, I’d help her take care of it.” Miss Honey dabbed her nose. “Ernest wanted to take Emily with him. But I knew she’d weigh him down. Something about her wasn’t right—she was smart, but fragile as a little bird. Ernest needed a fighter, a woman strong enough to stand with him against the world. So I offered Emily’s family two thousand dollars—all the money I had—to keep her away until Ernest left town. Emily’s parents were sharecroppers. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money.” Miss Honey stopped talking and stared out the window. “I think the strain of taking care of a child made Emily’s condition worse.”

“If you knew she was struggling, why didn’t you help her?”

“I tried,” Miss Honey said. “I wanted to keep my promise. But her folks told her what I did, how I sent Ernest away and paid them, and she was so angry with me, she wouldn’t let me near Ralph Angel when he was born. Not for two whole years, and by then, she was having all kinds of trouble. They put her in Charity Hospital for a while and that helped, but she wouldn’t stay. The only way I got to see Ralph Angel was when Ernest came home to visit. He brought Ralph Angel over here every day—such a pretty little boy. I’d hold him and rock him like he was my own. But when Ernest went back to college, he had to take Ralph Angel back to Emily, and I wouldn’t see him again until the next summer. I heard about all the jobs Emily lost, how she struggled. It weighed on my heart. But she was Ralph Angel’s mama. I didn’t have custody.”

“Does Ralph Angel know what you did?”

“No.”

“Do Violet and Uncle Brother know?”

Miss Honey shook her head. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told. Back then, they were all too young to understand, and when they got older, well—I was too ashamed.” She paused for a long moment, struggling to fight off the tears. “Besides, after Ernest and Lorna sent Ralph Angel back from California he came to live with us. All the reasons why and how didn’t matter.” Miss Honey looked at Charley, almost pleadingly, then reached for her hand. “So, you see, Ralph Angel is my responsibility. Whatever happened to him all those years he was with Emily, happened because of me. Whatever troubles he has now, he comes by them honest.”

Charley looked at her grandmother, then she rose and stood by the window.

“I only wanted Ernest to have a chance,” Miss Honey said.

Charley nodded, because part of her understood exactly why Miss Honey did what she did. If Micah fell in love with someone too frail or weak to help her stand against the world, would she interfere? She probably would. And yet, and yet. How many lives had Miss Honey ruined, and if not ruined, altered in a way that couldn’t be fixed? Charley felt a small burst of fury, like a match being struck within her. Sometimes there was no fixing a life once it was broken; love, devotion, shortsightedness, ignorance—none of it mattered. Sometimes it was too late.

•   •   •

Charley woke early the next morning with a sick feeling. Her first instinct last night after hearing Miss Honey’s confession had been to call Violet, but Violet wasn’t home, and Charley had only said, in the message she left on Violet’s voice mail, that she needed to talk.

The sun had barely risen as Charley climbed behind the wheel. She’d just turned out of the Quarters when she spotted Hollywood ambling along the road’s shoulder, pushing his mower in her direction. The sight of him in his fatigues and baseball cap instantly lifted her spirits. She honked and pulled over.

“You think your regular customers would mind if I hired you for a couple hours?” Three days since the hurricane and Miss Honey’s yard was still a mess. The sunroom wasn’t flooded anymore—what water hadn’t evaporated, she’d mopped up or pushed out last night before she went to bed—but underneath the half inch of sludge, the floor had buckled. “I have to get to the farm, but I’ll drop you off so you can get started. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Before she could ask how much he’d charge, Hollywood had lifted the Volvo’s back hatch, tossed in his mower, and slid into the passenger seat.

•   •   •

Now it was later that evening and Charley, back home after a full day with Denton and Alison, leaned the push broom against the doorjamb, wiped her face on a strip of old bedsheet. Miss Honey’s sunroom opened onto the side yard where just weeks before all the family had gathered for the reunion. It felt like ages ago. Charley stepped out into the warm evening. “Maybe Walmart sells linoleum squares,” she called.

Hollywood had spent the entire day at Miss Honey’s and Charley couldn’t believe the progress he’d made. By the time she got home, he’d hauled all sunroom furniture into the yard so it could air out, pulled up all the waterlogged linoleum flooring—an enormous task—so the sunroom’s pine plank floors could dry. Now he tossed another tree limb on the burn pile—a smoldering heap of trash and leaves and splintered branches—he’d made in the yard’s far corner. “I reckon,” Hollywood said. “They sell everything else.”

Only now was Miss Honey’s yard beginning to look normal. Charley glanced at her watch. Almost seven o’clock.

“If you’re tired, I can finish up here,” Hollywood said, walking over. “Walmart’s open till midnight. I’ll go over there later to see what kind of flooring they got.”

Charley pictured Hollywood struggling to push a basket of linoleum squares all the way back to Miss Honey’s. “Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll drive together, then I’ll buy you dinner. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done today.” She looked at Hollywood standing there in fatigues now stained with sludge and ash. “Where would you like to go?”

“We could go to Sonic?”

“I’d rather take you someplace you’ve never been. You’ve gone above and beyond.”

Hollywood looked at Charley then back at the burn pile. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I’ve always wanted to go to Shoney’s in Morgan City. I’ve heard folks talk about the all-you-can-eat buffet. They say it’s real nice. I’ve seen the commercials on TV.”

“You got it,” Charley said, and imagined the family restaurant just off the four-lane. There were at least three restaurants between here and there that served better food, but oh well. “We can take the highway or the back roads. You pick.”

“I don’t know.” Hollywood’s face darkened. “I’ve never been to Morgan City.”

“Never been to Morgan City?” Charley laughed. “But that’s just down the road; couldn’t be more than twenty miles.”

Hollywood slid his hands into his pockets and Charley knew he was reaching for the comfort of his movie magazine. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not making fun of you. I guess I’m just surprised.”

Her apology was enough to set Hollywood at ease again. His face blossomed. “That’s okay. I know you’d never do that.”

•   •   •

At Shoney’s, Hollywood spent fifteen minutes surveying the buffet choices, then joined Charley at the booth by the window. He tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and bowed his head to say grace. Charley put her fork down and bowed her head too, and when she opened her eyes, she watched with quiet amusement as Hollywood stared in wonder at the mashed potatoes, meat loaf, fried chicken, string beans, pasta salad, and fried catfish he’d piled on his plate.

“I think something’s wrong with Miss Honey,” Hollywood said, and took a sip of his Mello Yello. “She usually comes out to talk to me when I’m working. Today she hardly said a word.”

And because Hollywood sounded genuinely worried, and because Violet still hadn’t called her back, and she needed someone to talk to, Charley confided in Hollywood. She knew she was betraying Miss Honey’s confidence, but she repeated Miss Honey’s story anyway, including the part about paying Emily’s family. “I know she loved my dad, but I can’t believe what she did.”

“I remember Miss Emily,” Hollywood said. “She lived in a little house on Saint Bernard, right before you get to the boat ramp. Liked to sit on her front porch and smoke cigarettes.”

Charley sat forward. All these years and she’d never really thought about Ralph Angel’s mother. “Ralph Angel never talks about her. Maybe one day you could take me to meet her. Or if you don’t feel comfortable, just tell me where she lives and I’ll go. She’s part of the family. Miss Honey should have invited her to the reunion.”

Hollywood set his fork on the table. “Miss Emily’s dead.”

Charley gasped.

“She killed herself,” Hollywood said. “Jumped off the bridge. I remember ’cause she did it the same summer Ralph Angel went to live with his daddy in California. It was in the paper.”

•   •   •

Half a dozen small children, snaggle-toothed and barefoot, ran up to the gate and stared at Charley’s car as she pulled up to Hollywood’s family compound.

“I had a fine time,” Hollywood said. “Thank you. It’s gonna be a long time before I have that much fun again.”

“I’m glad we went,” Charley said.

“Shoney’s is even better than it looks on TV. Maman’s gonna be jealous.”

“Then it’s a good thing you brought something back for her.” Charley handed Hollywood the bag of takeout. “And thanks again for today. That was a lot of work to do all by yourself. You’re a good friend to Miss Honey, Hollywood—and to me.”

Hollywood wiped his hands on his fatigues. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” Charley said, and braced herself. Hollywood was looking at her with such urgency, such earnestness, she was afraid of what he might be about to confess.

“You know how I said I’d never been to Morgan City before?”

Charley nodded.

“Truth is, before today, I’d never been out of Saint Josephine.”