“I know,” Charley said, and swallowed against the tightening she felt in her throat. She pictured her fields, which looked like nothing more than a big brown pond now with the cane stalks barely poking through. “You have to see it to understand.”
There was a long pause, which seemed to stretch out endlessly, and as she searched for something to say, Charley mourned that things between her and her mother had become so awkward and strange. The whole conversation made her feel antsy and agitated, as though she were trying to fit into a sweater whose sleeves were tight.
“And how are you, Mom?” Charley said, finally. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, Charlotte, you know me. I always have a thousand things on my plate. Busy, busy, busy, all the time.”
“That’s good.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m at a function right now.”
“Yes,” Charley said. “I can hear.”
When she dialed her mother’s number, Charley had not planned to ask for a loan — not exactly. She’d only wanted to hear her mother’s voice and feel a little bit of the warmth she’d felt when she was young enough to sit on her mother’s lap. Had she hoped her mother would ask about the farm? Yes, she had, and maybe even offer to help. But it seemed Lorna had no intention of asking or offering anything.
“Actually, things aren’t good,” Charley said. “I’ve had a setback on the farm. The hurricane flattened everything. My crop is probably ruined, three of the four quadrants, anyway, and Mr. Denton — that’s my manager, I don’t know what I’d do without him — anyway, Mr. Denton says even if we’re lucky enough to salvage a few acres, we’ll need additional capital to make it to grinding. Even more than we needed before.” Charley paused.
“My goodness, listen to you,” Lorna said. “Quadrants? Capital? Grinding? Good heavens, Charlotte, you sound like a real farmer.”
“I guess I do,” Charley said, and felt a small burst of warmth spread over her. “I told Mr. Denton I’d find the money, and I wondered — you know I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate — but I wondered if you’d help me. I need a hundred and two thousand dollars total, but I’ll take whatever you can spare.”
Charley waited.
“My goodness, dear, that’s an awful lot of money.”
“Yes, it is.” Charley thought of her father. He’d always told her she should never make assumptions about other people’s time or their money, and that’s the way she’d tried to live. The moment she asked her mother, she regretted it, but the question was out there now. “It would be a loan, not a gift.”
“I’ll take Micah,” Lorna said, finally.
“You’ll what?”
“Send Micah to me. That way you can focus all your attention on your farm without distraction. You can get a second job without worrying who’ll take care of her.”
In the late-afternoon sun, the courthouse cast off warm yellow light and looked even more stately than it had an hour before, with the row of columns throwing long shadows across the grass and the sky blue as a robin’s egg. The air was warm and the breeze carried with it the faint fragrance of willow and pine.
“That’s very generous of you,” Charley said, biting back tears, “but Micah’s fine right here.”
“Very well,” Lorna said, “but if you change your mind, you know I’ll always take her.”
Through the receiver, Charley heard another round of applause and the clatter of dishes being cleared. “I should let you get you back to your lunch.”
“Yes,” Lorna said. She sighed again, and Charley pictured her sipping coffee from the china cup, her lips barely touching the rim. “I almost forgot,” Lorna said, “I sent Micah a party dress. You can tell her it’s an early Christmas present. I hope it fits.”
“I’m sure it will. I’ll make sure she calls when it arrives.”
“Very well,” Lorna said. “I’m glad you called. And don’t worry, Charlotte, you’re resourceful, just like your father. I know you’ll figure out something.”
• • •
The loan officer at First Bank of Baton Rouge had hair plugs, and Charley, sitting at the corner of his desk in his padded cubicle, couldn’t stop staring at the fine hairs, like chick fuzz, and the constellation of tiny punch holes laid out in even rows. The irony of the situation was not lost on her, and she almost laughed out loud because there was as much chance those plugs would take as there was of her getting the loan. Charley knew, because this was the tenth loan she had applied for in the last two days; the tenth time she’d sat across from a loan officer in a bad suit and pleaded her case, and it would likely be the tenth time she would be turned away.
As if on cue, the loan officer glanced up from her application. His skin was pale under the fluorescent lights, his expression grim as an undertaker’s. He tapped his pen against his chin.
“And you’re sure you don’t have any collateral?”
“I’m sure,” Charley said.
“Anyone willing to co-sign?”
Charley thought again of her mother. “No.”
The loan officer flipped the pages and frowned.
“My credit is decent,” Charley said, massaging her ring finger. “Not perfect, but certainly not the worst. I just need enough money to get through grinding.”
But the loan officer closed her file. “I’m sorry, Miss Bordelon. Since the meltdown, banks are more cautious than they used to be. I’ll do everything I can, but I can’t see how underwriting is going to approve this without you at least putting up some collateral. I’m afraid you present—”
“I know,” Charley interrupted. “Too much of a risk.” Every banker she had talked to from Saint Josephine to Baton Rouge had used that phrase. She gathered her backpack. She had begged the first three loan officers to reconsider; she was tired. “Thanks very much for your time.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” the man said. “Good luck to you. And if you find a co-signer, I’d be happy to resubmit your application. My dad farmed sugarcane in the eighties, so I know what you’re up against.”
“I appreciate you saying that.”
He held the door open for her. “Well, be careful out there. The roads are still pretty dangerous.”
On the drive back to Miss Honey’s, staring out over fields that only three days before looked almost tropical in their lushness, Charley knew she should be grateful. She had the best two business partners anyone could ask for; she had her family; she had her health; and yet she was overcome with a sorrow so great she feared her chest would crack open. She pulled over to the side of the road and laid her head against the wheel. If only her father or Davis were there to tell her to keep going, or better yet, say it was all right to stop and rest for a while.
By the time Charley got back to Saint Josephine, it was evening, and the Quarters, buzzing with neighborly activity all summer, were quiet, Miss Honey’s street hushed now that school had started and folks had shifted into their autumn routines. Charley pulled up alongside the gully and parked. The yard was still a mess. Miss Honey stood in the window. By the time Charley reached the porch, she had opened the door.
“I thought you were Ralph Angel,” Miss Honey said, standing there in her faded housedress and slippers.
“Nope,” Charley said. “It’s just me.” Miss Honey looked tired. Her eyes weren’t bright as usual, her complexion washed out, her shoulders slumped. She tucked a wadded Kleenex in her pocket and Charley wondered if she’d been crying. “He hasn’t been home?”
“No,” Miss Honey said, sharply.
Two days since the storm and no sign of Ralph Angel; that was strange for a person who seemed interested in little more than hanging around the house. Driving home, Charley had noticed all the boarded-up stores and restaurants along Main Street, the owners still busy dragging tables and dishes, computers and racks of soggy clothes out to the sidewalk. Only the Winn-Dixie had opened for business. Charley set her backpack on the couch. “Where could he have gone?”