“Miss Honey,” Micah said. “She said I can use part of the empty lot next door.”
“Well, that’s creative,” Violet said. “But I warn you, folks down here take their gardens very seriously.”
Micah beamed.
“It’s a terrific idea,” Charley said, wishing she’d been the first one to offer encouragement. On warm summer evenings when she was a girl, she gardened for hours beside her father in the small yard behind his condo. There was nothing finer than the smell of fresh dirt and the feel of her bare feet in the warm grass. Sometimes, they gardened till it got dark, and Charley held the heavy-duty flashlight with its car-size battery and beam like a Broadway spotlight, while he bent over clay pots and raised beds. “Marigolds are on sale down at the hardware store,” Charley said, remembering the ad in the morning’s paper.
“I don’t want flowers,” Micah said. Her tone was matter-of-fact but she averted her eyes. “I’m having vegetables.”
“Okay, vegetables then. Vegetables are good. We can start next weekend.”
Micah hesitated. “I kinda want to do this myself.”
“Oh. Well — of course,” Charley said. “That’s good. It’ll give you something to do every day while I’m at the farm.” She tried to ignore the little stab of pain under her breastbone and gave Micah’s shoulder a congratulatory squeeze. But when she glanced at Violet, Violet offered her a sympathetic smile, one that said, Don’t worry, she still needs you. Charley wondered how Violet, childless since her only daughter was killed in a car accident years ago, managed to get through the days.
Pots clanged in the kitchen.
“Mother?” Violet called, and they all filed out of the living room.
• • •
At the kitchen table, Miss Honey spooned leftovers onto plates. “Y’all come and eat. I can warm up some green beans if you don’t think this is enough.” The table was set for three.
“Hey, Mother,” Violet said, and kissed Miss Honey’s cheek. She washed her hands, then took the water pitcher from the refrigerator, and another place mat from the drawer. “Mother, I was just telling Charley how much I love her hair.”
Miss Honey grunted. “She looks like a man.”
“That’s terrible,” Violet said. “Now why would you say such a thing?” She stepped behind Miss Honey and swept the candy curls away from her face. “How ’bout it, Mother? You want a style like Charley’s? We can do it right now. Quick, Micah, hand me some scissors.” She winked at Charley.
“Get away from me with all that foolishness,” Miss Honey said, batting Violet’s hand away. “Go sit down.”
They each pulled out a chair, Violet said grace, and after spreading her napkin across her lap, she reached across the table for Charley’s hand and squeezed it. “Beams of heaven, as I go. Through this wilderness below,” she sang. Her voice was strong and warm, and she closed her eyes, gently rocked in her chair as she sang the chorus. When she stopped, a quietness and sense of lasting peace hung in the air.
“It’s good to be here.” Tears stung Charley’s eyes as she bathed in the fading glow of Violet’s voice. She could soak up Violet’s warmth for a lifetime. She was the buttermilk pancakes to Violet’s maple syrup, the white bread to Violet’s bacon grease, and if she had a thousand more awful days like she’d had today, at least she had Violet to balance things out. “So what’s this about a new church?” Charley said, wiping the corners of her eyes. She passed the French salad dressing to Violet.
“Girl, we finally did it. Found a place over on Chalmette, just off Third Street. It used to be a pool hall, but you’d never know it now. We’ve got new pews, new lights. Did most of the work ourselves. And the Rev? Charley, he’s a new man. BP tried to talk him into staying, but you know what it’s like when you hear the call.”
“That’s right,” Miss Honey said, passing the rice dressing. “When God calls, you’d better answer.”
“I guess that makes you First Lady of the church,” Charley said.
Violet waved away the praise. “No sense getting bigheaded,” she said, though she sat up a little straighter. “But look who’s talking. You’re a big land owner now.”
“I wouldn’t say all that.”
“Now who’s being modest? Eight hundred acres is nothing to sneeze at.”
“More like eight hundred problems.” In the last week, after Frasier and Denton, after Landry and NeNee Desonier’s granddaughter, Charley had cursed her father’s name more than once for pressing this so-called gift into her hands. Yesterday, at the shop, she’d almost torn up the maps and photographs, shredded the legal documents, and turned her back on the whole enterprise.
“Well, I think what you’re doing is wonderful,” Violet said. “If more black folks around here took a page out of your book, we wouldn’t be in such a fix. We got all these smart, talented young men around here wasting away in the Bahamas.”
“The Bahamas?”
“Prison,” Miss Honey said. “That’s what they call it.”
“Call it anything they want, it’s still the same.” Violet shook her head. “All those young men. Stop ’em on the street, half will admit they’ve done time. Some have the nerve to be proud of it.”
“Violet,” Miss Honey said, her voice tightening. “You should watch dipping your finger into that Kool-Aid when you don’t know the flavor. People go to prison for all sorts of reasons.”
“I’m not saying they aren’t good people, Mother. I’m just saying something’s wrong when doing time is normal.” She turned to Charley. “What do you think?”
Charley looked from Violet to Miss Honey. In the past week, she’d seen the way Miss Honey marched around town — calling to people she knew, asking why they hadn’t been to church, reprimanding children she thought looked idle, telling them to tuck in their shirts, go home and put lotion on their ashy knees — and understood that Miss Honey considered Saint Josephine to be her own personal domain. Why, just yesterday she flagged down the mayor as he rolled through town in his red Cadillac Seville, and scolded him for not cutting the weeds by the playground. “Is something burning?” Charley said, and started to get up from the table. “I think I smell smoke.”
“I still say something’s happened to us black folks,” Violet continued. “You may not want to hear it, Mother, but we both know I’m telling the truth. Just look at Ralph Angel.” She paused. “No offense, Charley, I don’t mean to speak ill of your brother.”
At the mention of Ralph Angel’s name, Charley felt emotions pass through her like shadows across a hillside as clouds drifted over. Even now, her foot stung from the time he aimed a stone at an egret at the water’s edge, which it missed, hitting her so sharply, tears rushed to her eyes. At the time, she had thought it was an accident, but the way he always misbehaved with her made her wonder how much of an accident it really was. She remembered the look of hurt and bitter disappointment that darkened her father’s face when, a few years later, he discovered Ralph Angel had continued to cash the tuition checks he sent, even though he’d dropped out of school.
“Stop right there, Violet,” Miss Honey said. “I won’t have you talking about Ralph Angel outside his name. Besides, he never went to jail.”
“That’s about the only thing he hasn’t done,” Violet said under her breath.
Charley was about to ask what else Ralph Angel had done, when Miss Honey cleared her throat, glancing at Micah.