resist and started to dance, his eyes growing bulbous as he performed a noodle-legged jig and finally scurried out of the stable. Micah and Miss Honey looked at each other and laughed.
“That’s it,” Charley said. “You’ve got to turn that off. It’s lowering your IQ.” She marched over to the TV, punched the power button. “I’m sorry, Miss Honey, I won’t—First, it’s driving around without a map, then the reunion, now it’s—I can’t keep saying yes all the time. If I don’t find someone right away—” Charley felt her mouth moving, heard her voice, saw Miss Honey and Micah staring at her, their expressions a mix of focused attention and concern. It was the same expression hospital orderlies had, Charley thought, right before they wrestled the crazy lady into a straitjacket. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go without me.”
“Mom? Are you okay?”
“You know what?” Charley said. The realization had dawned upon her and she surrendered to it. “I’m
not
okay. I can’t breathe, because it’s hotter than the Amazon rain forest in here, and my kid is taking social cues from a tap dancing minstrel. I can’t find a manager to run my farm, and I’ve got some corporate thug threatening to run me out of business. All the black workers around here think I’m out to cheat them, I’ve got a stack of bills I can barely pay, and each day that passes, I’m this much closer to losing the whole goddamned thing.” The absurdity of it all. She almost laughed; probably would have, if it hadn’t been so serious.
After a long silence, Miss Honey said, “Well, good heavens. Why didn’t you say that before?”
• • •
Alone on the porch, Charley stirred salt and butter into her grits as a delivery truck pulled up along the gully. Violet sat behind the wheel.
“I thought I’d seen the last of you,” Charley said, jogging out to greet her.
Violet climbed down, brushed the back of her shorts. “Mother didn’t tell you I was coming?”
“After yesterday? She threw you out, remember?”
Violet raked her fingers through her hair. She had replaced her ringlet hairpiece with a long, straight ponytail. “If I took every mean thing Mother said to heart, I’d never speak to her.” She threaded her arm through Charley’s. “Mother wants to have this reunion, I say let her have it. The quicker she throws it, the quicker you can get back to business with your farm. I brought the van so we could get everything at once.”
It was actually more of a truck than a van, with “Frito Lay” stenciled on the side above a faded potato chip bag, TRUE VINE BAPTIST CHURCH arching over everything in bright red letters.
“Rev bought it at an auction in Baton Rouge.” Violet slid open the driver’s door and invited Charley to look inside. “He welded the bus seats.”
“Impressive,” Charley said, stepping down. “But I can’t go. The farm. It’s dying.” Stunted cane overrun with weeds, rusting equipment, broken tools scattered on the shop floor, paperwork she couldn’t begin to make sense of.
“It’s Sunday,” Violet said. “Everything’s closed. All you’ll do is wring your hands and make yourself crazy.” She took Charley by the shoulders and shook her gently, as if trying to rouse her from a bad dream. “Come on, girl. Let your mind air out a little.” Violet shook Charley’s shoulder again and looked at her expectantly. “Just for a few hours. It’ll do you some good.”
Charley looked out over the yard, past the camellia bush with its explosion of juicy red blossoms, past the towering live oak whose branches filtered the morning’s sunlight. “All right,” she said. “Especially if it’ll drag your mother and my daughter away from
The Littlest Colonel
.”
Violet scowled. “Good Lord, I hate that movie.” She crossed the yard, climbed the porch steps, then called through the screen door, “Mother, come out of there,” as though she and Miss Honey had
“That’s it,” Charley said. “You’ve got to turn that off. It’s lowering your IQ.” She marched over to the TV, punched the power button. “I’m sorry, Miss Honey, I won’t—First, it’s driving around without a map, then the reunion, now it’s—I can’t keep saying yes all the time. If I don’t find someone right away—” Charley felt her mouth moving, heard her voice, saw Miss Honey and Micah staring at her, their expressions a mix of focused attention and concern. It was the same expression hospital orderlies had, Charley thought, right before they wrestled the crazy lady into a straitjacket. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go without me.”
“Mom? Are you okay?”
“You know what?” Charley said. The realization had dawned upon her and she surrendered to it. “I’m
not
okay. I can’t breathe, because it’s hotter than the Amazon rain forest in here, and my kid is taking social cues from a tap dancing minstrel. I can’t find a manager to run my farm, and I’ve got some corporate thug threatening to run me out of business. All the black workers around here think I’m out to cheat them, I’ve got a stack of bills I can barely pay, and each day that passes, I’m this much closer to losing the whole goddamned thing.” The absurdity of it all. She almost laughed; probably would have, if it hadn’t been so serious.
After a long silence, Miss Honey said, “Well, good heavens. Why didn’t you say that before?”
• • •
Alone on the porch, Charley stirred salt and butter into her grits as a delivery truck pulled up along the gully. Violet sat behind the wheel.
“I thought I’d seen the last of you,” Charley said, jogging out to greet her.
Violet climbed down, brushed the back of her shorts. “Mother didn’t tell you I was coming?”
“After yesterday? She threw you out, remember?”
Violet raked her fingers through her hair. She had replaced her ringlet hairpiece with a long, straight ponytail. “If I took every mean thing Mother said to heart, I’d never speak to her.” She threaded her arm through Charley’s. “Mother wants to have this reunion, I say let her have it. The quicker she throws it, the quicker you can get back to business with your farm. I brought the van so we could get everything at once.”
It was actually more of a truck than a van, with “Frito Lay” stenciled on the side above a faded potato chip bag, TRUE VINE BAPTIST CHURCH arching over everything in bright red letters.
“Rev bought it at an auction in Baton Rouge.” Violet slid open the driver’s door and invited Charley to look inside. “He welded the bus seats.”
“Impressive,” Charley said, stepping down. “But I can’t go. The farm. It’s dying.” Stunted cane overrun with weeds, rusting equipment, broken tools scattered on the shop floor, paperwork she couldn’t begin to make sense of.
“It’s Sunday,” Violet said. “Everything’s closed. All you’ll do is wring your hands and make yourself crazy.” She took Charley by the shoulders and shook her gently, as if trying to rouse her from a bad dream. “Come on, girl. Let your mind air out a little.” Violet shook Charley’s shoulder again and looked at her expectantly. “Just for a few hours. It’ll do you some good.”
Charley looked out over the yard, past the camellia bush with its explosion of juicy red blossoms, past the towering live oak whose branches filtered the morning’s sunlight. “All right,” she said. “Especially if it’ll drag your mother and my daughter away from
The Littlest Colonel
.”
Violet scowled. “Good Lord, I hate that movie.” She crossed the yard, climbed the porch steps, then called through the screen door, “Mother, come out of there,” as though she and Miss Honey had
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