“He’s one of the best farmers around,” Denton said. He looked weary all of a sudden, like an army captain who’d lost too many men. “Knows everything there is to know about sugarcane and then some. Which reminds me. Guess who I saw up at Groveland’s?”
“Don’t tell me,” Alison said, waving a hand. “I don’t even want to know.”
“Baron and Landry.”
“Those sons of bitches? Jesus, Denton. Now you’ve ruined my whole day.”
Denton winked at Charley. “Yeah, but we got ’em, didn’t we?”
She smiled back, still embarrassed about the way she’d behaved at the auction, but he’d clearly forgiven her. Twice yesterday, he had shown her how to attach the spray rig to the tractor, and twice she’d backed the tractor into the fertilizer tanks. But he hadn’t lost his temper, hadn’t even raised his voice. Charley watched Alison pace an invisible cage. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re losing your farm?”
“’Cause I can’t ever get out of debt.” Alison shook another cigarette from the pack. “Hey, look. When I first got into this business you had thirty-eight-cent diesel and cane was twenty cents a pound. Now diesel’s over five dollars and cane sells for nineteen cents.” Years ago, Alison went on to explain, a farmer could make twenty-five thousand dollars a year. “I didn’t get rich but I made a living. Then they started messing with things.”
“They?”
“The mills,” Denton said. “They built warehouses.”
“Sugar warehouses.” Alison leaned against Denton’s truck and gazed at some point in the distance. “Here’s the way we work in this business. Say you’re a roofer, and I hire you to reroof that barn over there. I say, ‘I’ll give you five thousand dollars.’ So you say okay.”
Denton broke in. “But then I say, ‘I won’t give you five thousand straight up. I’ll pay half now and half next year.’”
“‘Unless I have a bad year,’” Alison added, “‘in which case, I’ll only give you fifteen hundred now — that okay with you?’ Meanwhile, you have all the cost of reroofing my barn. And you’re paying interest at a percent and a half a month to stay alive.”
“You see, Miss Bordelon,” Denton explained, “these days, a farmer gets paid over a twelve-month period rather than all at once. The crop you’re trying to get ready for grinding in the fall? The mill won’t finish paying you for that until next September. It used to be the mill paid you within a month of delivery. By January, you had all your money. You’d pay everybody off — the bank, your suppliers — your cost went down. Now they’ve taken that money they owe you and stretched it out.”
“They?” Charley said.
“The mills,” Denton and Alison said in unison. “Guys like Landry and Baron.”
Alison pulled his cap down over his eyes. “Freaking capitalist system. That’s why I’m becoming a socialist a little more each day.”
Denton had explained some of this before. It had made sense, but in an abstract way, as if he were explaining how electricity or the Internet worked, which was sort of unbelievable if you really thought about it. But now, hearing Alison’s story, Charley was beginning to understand. “So the mills expect us to carry all the costs?”
“Exactly,” Alison said. “Excuse me, Miss Bordelon, but it sucks.” He turned away and stared out over the fields, as if looking back through the years. “This used to be a good business. You got your money up front. But forget it now. And that dimwit we had in the White House? Jesus. Between the price of sugar and whatever happened with CAFTA—” Alison shook his head. “Let’s hope this new fella’s got more sense.”
“I asked Alison to come over,” Denton said. “We’re in good shape from the auction, but I got to thinking about what we still need. Thought Alison might be interested in striking a deal. And just so you know, he’s hearing this for the first time, same as you.”
“What kind of deal?” Charley and Denton had agreed on a sixty-forty split, assuming they brought in enough cane to make a profit. She wasn’t sure they could afford another partner.
“The way I see it,” Denton said, “we can help each other. Alison’s got two combines, three tractors in pretty good shape, and a handful of cane wagons. That’s equipment you won’t have to buy, Miss Bordelon. We each give up seven and a half percent, Alison lets us use his equipment and comes to work here.”
“Give me a minute to digest this.” Charley walked over to the Volvo and put her hands on the warm hood. She let her head hang as she puzzled through Denton’s scheme. On one hand, she’d be getting the full benefit of Alison’s experience, and heavens knew, she needed his equipment. And why shouldn’t she trust Denton? Didn’t his decisions at the auction prove his judgment was sound? If he said Alison was an excellent farmer, then she had no reason to doubt him. A few yards away, Charley saw Alison light another cigarette. On the other hand, she’d be working with someone she didn’t know, and there was no denying Alison was, well — eccentric.
Charley rejoined the men. “What do you say, Mr. Delcambre?”
“I can’t wait to stick it to those sons of bitches over at the mill,” Alison said. “Believe me, Miss Bordelon, it’ll do me good to see those boys get licked. And just wait till they find out they got beat by a black woman. That’ll raise a breeze.”
Charley’s heart skipped. If the situation were different, if Alison weren’t having his land yanked out from under him, if he were wearing loafers and khakis instead of those filthy overalls and work boots, would he give her the time of day?
Charley tried to imagine what her father would say. It’s your land now. She wished she could ask him, “By any means necessary?” but she knew she had to pull the answer from the ground herself. She turned back to the men and offered her hand. “If you’re in, I’m in.”
“Excellent.” Alison took one last drag on his cigarette and looked Charley square in the eye. “Where do I sign?”
Holiday Hills, the subdivision where Violet lived in the next town over, had a golf course in the middle, with a small, man-made lake filled with water dyed a troubling shade of aquamarine, and a ribbon of walking path that wound past the empty guard booth and out to the patch of woods that stood between the development and the surrounding sugarcane fields. And since Violet still refused to come over to Miss Honey’s, Charley swung by Tortilla Flats, the Mexican restaurant in the casino, and showed up on Violet’s doorstep with shredded taco salad to share and two frozen margaritas.
It was after dinner now, and Charley sat in Violet’s family room admiring her shadow-box coffee table. Violet had arranged an assortment of seashells and plastic crustaceans — lobster and crabs — and brightly framed sunglasses on a bed of sand underneath the glass top.
“First lady of the church and an interior decorator,” Charley said, accepting the piece of lemon icebox cake Violet offered her.
“I love flipping through all those home magazines when I get my hair done,” Violet said. “I always find good decorating tips. Then I run over to the Dollar Store to see what I can throw together.”
Charley nodded. Violet’s house wasn’t large; in fact, it seemed to be the smallest home in the neighborhood of Acadian-style brick houses, but it was twice the size of Miss Honey’s: a kitchen filled with shiny appliances overlooking the family room, and a decent-size patio with space for the Rev’s barbecue grill and Violet’s potted tomato plants.
“Mother was angry with me when we moved out here,” Violet offered. “She wanted me to buy Mr. Delrose’s house down the street from her. But I told her, I want to be exposed to new things, meet new people, get some fresh information.”