Charley turned toward the house, but Uncle Brother called her back.
“Hold up. I got a surprise for you, niece.” He opened the Bronco’s back hatch. There was a lot of grunting and swearing, and he had to try three times, but he finally lifted out the enormous turtle, which, to Charley’s immense relief, was already dead. Its head was the size of a football, and you could fit a whole honeydew melon in the gaping mouth. Its tongue was as big as a cow’s and its shell was the diameter of Miss Honey’s coffee table. Its tail, covered in what could easily be vinyl flooring, was as long as a Labrador’s and four times as thick. Uncle Brother leaned backward as he struggled to balance the turtle on his knees. He grinned broadly at Charley and said, “Thought I’d make my special turtle soup in your honor. Welcome home.”
It was eleven o’clock. It was noon. Relatives arrived in steady waves like a river’s rising tide — Great Aunt Rose from Opelousas with her high cheekbones and Charley’s same smile; Uncle Oliver and Aunt Madeline, with the same red tint in their complexions; cousins Screw Neck and Joe Black, Buzzard Gravy and Maraine, who, as a young woman, moved all the way to San Francisco, where she worked as a maid at the Mark Hopkins Hotel and saved enough money to buy the real fur coat that she was wearing in a photograph that showed her waiting on the corner for a trolley. People two-stepped to blues and zydeco humming through Uncle Brother’s rigged sound system. In one corner of the yard, folks slapped dominoes on the rented tables, while in another, men gathered at the barbecue grill as smoke drifted into the woods. And Charley, struck by the wonder of it all, let herself be drawn in. She listened to Uncle Arthur’s story about growing up in a sharecropping family on Old Man Hebert’s farm, of shopping at Hebert’s store, where a nickel bought a bottle of Hadacol or Woodbury After Shave Powder, and a dance wasn’t a dance without a little Rose of Sharon hair tonic to make a fella’s hair look fine. And just before they ate, Charley joined in the moment of silence when the entire family paused to hold hands and say a prayer for Ernest, funeraled and laid to rest way out in California, may his soul rest in peace. These blessings we say in Jesus’s name. Praise the Lord. Amen.
The afternoon stretched away. People gathered around Charley, between rounds of bid whist and second helpings of potato salad, to tell her how proud they were of her and to ask about the farm. How had Ernest made enough money to buy so much land? It felt wonderful, like being tucked in at night, to know people were interested in her story, to hear them express their concern and wish her well.
Charley had just helped Miss Honey rearrange a table loaded with lemon cakes and sugar cookies and popcorn balls made with real molasses, when a man who looked to be in his early forties, wearing a pith helmet and shabby army fatigues, pushed a lawn mower into the yard and parked it along the fence.
“There you are, Hollywood,” Miss Honey said, her face brightening. “Didn’t know if your mama would let you come.”
“Hey there, Miss Honey. Comment ça va?” He took off his helmet and clutched it to his chest as he kissed her cheek. “You know I wouldn’t let nothing keep me away.”
“This is my great-grandbaby, Micah, all the way from Los Angeles of California,” Miss Honey said, waving Micah over. “And this is my granddaughter, Charley. The one I was telling you about.”
Hollywood bowed to Micah and kissed her hand. “Enchanté. I see Miss Honey gave you the camera. I found it in her back room when I was cleaning.”
His accent — part French, part Southern, and something else too — reminded Charley of NeNee Desonier and her granddaughter. Only, Hollywood’s skin was pale, his eyes blue, his coarse graying hair brushed back in gentle waves. He didn’t look black, but she was sure he wasn’t white either. “Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand, ready to shake, but Hollywood saluted her instead. She looked for stripes on his sleeve, bars on his collar, then to Miss Honey for an explanation. But Miss Honey only took out her handkerchief and dabbed her forehead.
They stood awkwardly for a few seconds, then Charley pointed to the fence. “Nice mower.” Someone had soldered banana bicycle handlebars where the regular lawnmower handle should have been.
“Hollywood has a nice business cutting lawns for people in the Quarters,” Miss Honey said.
Hollywood glanced at Charley and blushed deeply. “Just a little something to keep me busy.” He brushed grass clippings off his pants and turned to Miss Honey. “I just finished Miss Ivy’s and came to tell you I’ma run home real quick, clean up, but I’ll be back.” He turned to Charley. “So you’re Ralph Angel’s baby sister.”
Charley’s breath caught. She was accustomed to being referred to as Lorna and Ernest’s daughter, as Micah’s mother, as Davis’s widow. Since she’d been in Saint Josephine, she’d started to think of herself as Miss Honey’s granddaughter. But she still wasn’t accustomed to being called Ralph Angel’s sister.
“Hollywood and Ralph Angel grew up together,” Miss Honey said.
“We been knowing each other more than thirty years,” Hollywood said.
“They were like brothers from the beginning. Ain’t that right?”
Hollywood fingered his helmet and looked off toward the street. “I guess.”
“Lord knows you’ve eaten enough meals at my kitchen table,” Miss Honey said. “Which reminds me. When are you coming over to finish cleaning the back room?”
“Friday afternoon if that’s okay. Right after I cut Miss Maggie’s grass.” Hollywood put on his helmet, preparing to go.
“Well, don’t forget. ’Cause Charley and them are sleeping up front in Ralph Angel’s room and I know they’ll change their minds once they see how big that back room is.”
Micah made a tiny sound and stepped on Charley’s foot.
The afternoon they arrived, they followed Miss Honey through the den with the faux wood paneling and down the narrow hall, past a laundry room, past the half bath, and the sunporch with a washing machine and a deep freezer that hummed loudly.
“Won’t have anything back here to bother you but the sound of your own voice,” Miss Honey had said. She stepped into a darkened room where the air was noticeably cooler, and yanked the cord dangling from the ceiling. Harsh white light flooded the room. “It’s the biggest room in the house,” Miss Honey had said. “And it’s private.”
Standing on the threshold, Charley looked past Miss Honey into a room crowded with garden tools, old bicycles and vacuum cleaners, mountains of browning newspaper, boxes of old clothes, and shopping bags brimming with mismatched shoes. She spotted a king-size bed piled with clutter, just visible beneath a small window. And worse than the sight was the smell — ointment and mothballs, mildew and dust. Odors that lingered, Charley thought. Odors that would hang in her clothes and hair.
“It’s so messy,” Micah had whispered. “And it smells like old people.”
“Don’t mind this junk, sugar,” Miss Honey said, and went on to explain that she’d hired Hollywood, her gardener and all-around handyman, to clear away all the boxes. “He only got to half of what’s back here, but when he’s through, y’all can make this your home away from home.”
That’s when Charley interrupted. Said, as delicately as she could, that it was too much trouble.