It was a Wednesday morning, the third week of June. The sun had risen high enough to bake the fields and the air was warm, but still held a little of its coolness from the night’s embrace. Charley had just settled into the ratty desk chair and was sorting through old bank statements and outdated copies of American Truck magazine when Denton poked his head in the office.
“Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m going to teach you how to fish,” Denton said. “Like I told you that day you came to see me, the time for laying-by has almost passed.”
“Laying-by,” Charley said envisioning the notes on her yellow pad. “That means cleaning up the rows.” She felt like a kid at a spelling bee.
“Correct, and Frasier should have done it way back in May.” Denton slid a finger under his baseball cap and scratched his scalp. “But if we work quick and double up on fertilizer, we might be able to catch up.” He led her out into the yard. “I found an old disc plow behind the shop. The discs were rusted, but the iron case held up pretty good. I cut up some of that rebar you found in that box of pipes and made us this three-row. It’s basic, but it’ll get the job done.”
Charley knelt before the length of extruded pipe. Denton had welded three metal spikes long as chef’s knives along the length of it—one on each end and one in the middle. “I can’t believe you made a piece of farm equipment,” she said. With the circular patterns on the spikes, and the spray of rust along the extruded shaft, the contraption was more suited for a museum sculpture garden than a cane field. “How do we get it out there?”
Denton pointed to the tractor. “We hook it to the back and pull it through the rows where all the weeds are growing. I spaced the spikes far enough apart so they won’t tear up the cane. Frasier should have gotten to the weeds when they were low. Now they done took us. You got stands out there that are tied up from end to end. That’s lesson number one, Miss Bordelon. Never let them weeds get out ahead of you.”
They rode out to the second quadrant, Denton on the tractor, the three-row clanging like church bells as he rumbled over ruts, and Charley following close behind in his pickup, the sun reflecting softly off the hood’s dull paint, the dogs pacing in the truck bed, where they barked at every bird or insect that happened by and lifted their noses in the breeze. She gazed out over her fields. Almost a month, and she was still not accustomed to the way the land looked—no mountains or rolling hills, even, to break up the horizon; the sky lower somehow than it was in California; the land for as far as she could see flat as a sheet of paper—and Charley wondered how long it would be before the place felt familiar, how long before she felt in her bones that she was truly home.
Ahead of her, Denton signaled that they’d arrived. He pulled over, climbed down from the tractor, and stood on the headland. Charley joined him.
“See what I mean about this field being tied up?”
Charley squinted and, for the first time, noticed thin green vines dotted with bright red poppy-like flowers twisting among the cane stalks. “Is that kudzu?”
“Tie vines,” Denton said. “Also known as morning glory. And it’ll smother your cane if you don’t stay on top of it.” He walked back to the tractor, lowered the three-row, and secured the hitch. “We’ll go up and down the rows, pull up the grass first, then we’ll come through with the fertilizer. The trick is to get down to the seeds and the roots so the vines don’t come back again. I’ll take the first row so you can see how it’s done, then I’ll turn it over to you.”
“But I don’t know how to drive a tractor,” Charley said.
“Time for you to learn.”
As Charley stood by, Denton climbed onto the tractor, turned the engine, and fishtailed back and forth until the three-row, like an enormous comb, was directly behind him, then he slowly guided the tractor into the field, being careful to line the tractor’s tires up with the furrows so the cane passed underneath the chassis. He pressed the clutch, gave the engine a little gas, and the tractor lurched forward, the three-row’s spikes sinking deep into the earth like a dog bite, pulling up the roots and turning over clots of soil in three rows as it dragged along. Brilliant, Charley thought, and her heart leaped as she watched Denton roll through the field. When he reached the far side, Denton swung around and came back.
“Amazing,” Charley called over the engine noise. “Mr. Denton, you’re a genius.”
But there was no time for compliments. “You’re up,” Denton said stoically, and shifted into neutral, set the emergency brake. Heart thumping, Charley climbed into the seat. “Now release the clutch.” Charley obeyed. “Now grab hold of that lever and switch into first, then release the brake.” Denton was patient but firm, and Charley followed his instructions like a schoolgirl—shift into first, release the brake—letting out a small cry of delight as the tractor rolled forward. “Now look-a-here,” Denton called, walking beside her, “as long as you keep the tires in the furrows, the three-row will do like it should. It’ll follow behind like a duckling. Don’t be hasty. Turn around and check every few yards or you’ll tear up your cane. You get to the other side, swing around wide and come back. Understand?”
“I think so.” Charley gave a tentative thumbs-up.
“Remember. Go slow. This ain’t the Kentucky Derby.” And then Denton stopped walking, stopped talking, and let her go.
Charley was halfway down the row and feeling lightheaded before she realized she was holding her breath. Her hands sweated from gripping the gearshift so tightly. She exhaled, sat back in the seat, glanced quickly behind her to check that the three-row was still there, and was relieved to see that it was, the spikes cutting through the soil, tearing up weeds and roots, the earth folding in on itself like cake batter. Charley turned forward and straightened the wheel to keep the tractor in the row. From up there in the seat, she had a different view of her fields entirely. Overgrown as they were in places, scraggly and neglected in others, when taken all together, they still held a certain beauty; it was like floating on a sea of green tea, and she felt the tiniest bloom of satisfaction knowing that with a lot of hard work and some luck, she might, just might, be able to tease a miracle out of those plants.
When she returned to where Denton stood, he nodded approvingly. “Not bad, Miss Bordelon,” he said, squinting up at her.
“Thanks.” Charley beamed.
Denton tugged his hat brim lower over his eyes, and Charley thought she saw a smile curl in the corners of his mouth. “Just a hundred fourteen rows to go.”
Lunchtime. Back in the shop, Charley and Denton dragged two folding chairs just inside the shop door, where, if nothing else, it was a few degrees cooler.
“Tomorrow, maybe the next day, we’ll hit those rows with nitrogen,” Denton said. He peeled the top slice of bread off his sandwich, which Charley had picked up on her way in, and regarded the remaining layers of sliced turkey, cheese, and tomato with disappointment.
“Do you not like it?” Charley asked, thinking she should have ordered the plate lunch.
“I remember when I could eat for twenty-five cents a day,” Denton said. “Ten cents for a piece of ham thick like this.” He held his thumb and forefinger a few inches apart. “Fifteen cents for a soda water. Now it’s ten dollars and you can’t even see what you got.” He looked across the road where afternoon sunlight leached through the gathering clouds. “Truth is, everything cost more, nowadays. Labor done doubled. Insurance done tripled, fuel done tripled. Meanwhile, the price of cane’s been the same for the last seven years. You couldn’t have picked a worse time to get into this business, Miss Bordelon.”
Charley felt an ache spread through her gut. Her mother, too, was a straight shooter, often brutally so. “It’s a cold world out there, Charlotte,” her mother had said. “You have no idea. You go down to Louisiana trying to be a sugarcane farmer, all you’ll be is a pretty face.”
She turned to Denton. “Maybe,” she said, “but anyone who tries to stop me,” and here she thought of Landry, with his slick smile and flashy sedan, “anyone who thinks I can’t do this, can go to hell.”
Denton turned to look at her, and for a few seconds he didn’t say a word, just stared. Then he smashed the top bread slice back on his sandwich and took a bite. “I like that you’re willing to work hard,” he said. “May turn out to be good at fishing after all.”
Ten straight days of clearing the morning glories, and tearing out johnsongrass, and spraying double doses of fertilizer. Ten straight days of dirt and dust and sweat from places Charley never knew she could sweat. Ten straight days of rumbling up and down the rows—up and down, up and down, up and down—while the sun blazed overhead and heat rose from below, and finally, finally, Charley’s second quadrant, and then the rest of her farm, was neat as a pinstriped suit. The cane was still stunted, much to her dismay, and in some places looked worse than it had before, but Denton assured her that now that the rows were clear, it had a chance to grow properly.
“What’s next?” Charley asked, as they rode to the hardware store late one afternoon. An order of wrenches had come in.
“Time to run your drains,” Denton said. “All that dirt we cleared between the rows has piled up on the ends. Have to clear it out or your fields won’t drain right, and the last thing you want is for water to get hung up out there. Cane likes to be damp, but it hates to be flooded.” He turned left at the junction and rolled down his window. “Good news is, most of your land is the perfect combination of sand and loam. It drains well. Go over it with a piece of equipment, you can hardly see where you passed. It’s that Black jack land, all boggy and filled with clay, that’ll hold water and tear up your machines.”
“Who knew laying-by was so involved,” Charley said.
Denton nodded. “It’s critical. You’re giving the cane your final Amen. You’re saying, ‘That’s it. I’ve done all I can do.’ Everything goes like it should, it’s the last time you’re in your fields till grinding. After laying-by, you stand back and let Mother Nature take over.”
From the passenger seat, Charley looked at Denton, and for the hundredth time was overcome with relief and gratitude. It wasn’t simply the knowledge that she couldn’t have done any of this without him. No, it wasn’t simply that. It was the feeling she got in his presence, a sense of peace, a quiet calm, as though she were standing in the shadow of an old redwood. They didn’t make them like Denton anymore; she couldn’t have asked for a better mentor. She’d noticed that sometimes, whether it was driving the tractor or operating the drill press or mixing a batch of fertilizer, he seemed to hold himself back, forced himself to step aside so she could learn, rather than doing the work himself. At least three times she’d walked into the office to find him scribbling on a pad, sketching pieces of equipment he planned to make. And was she imagining things, or did he seem to be walking with a newfound lift in his step?
“So, we run the drains and then we’re finished?” asked Charley. They were approaching the little town of Jeanerette, where LeBlanc’s Bakery on Main Street had been baking French bread and ginger cakes since 1884. Over the front entrance with its big picture windows, the red light glowed brightly, signaling that fresh loaves had just come out of ovens and were ready for sale; all you had to do was walk around to the side door. The air was heavy with a sweet, yeasty aroma and Charley inhaled. She’d have to pick up a couple loaves on her way home.
“We won’t be sitting around eating bonbons, if that’s what you’re thinking. Still lots to do before grinding.” Denton scratched his forehead thoughtfully. “And that’s if Mother Nature doesn’t throw us a curveball.”
“What could go wrong?”
Denton inhaled, as though he, too, was tempted to stop for a loaf and eat it right there in the car, if only they could afford the time. “What could go wrong?” He looked out over the hood then at Charley. “Plenty.”