Sugar

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  I’m wriggling, fighting like a catfish on a line.

  Billy touches my arm. “Relax.” His voice is soft.

  He taps the tube, so hard and bright.

  “Don’t pull,” he says. “Push.”

  I push my fingers, and, magically, they’re free; the tube slips off, falling into Billy’s hand.

  “What’s it called?”

  “China finger trap. Pa thought I’d like it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. ’Specially with grown-ups. Boy, do they get mad!” He tosses the tube into the air.

  I wish I had one.

  “I was only playing,” says Billy. “If I wasn’t, I would’ve let you squirm all day.”

  Billy’s not much older than me. But this is the first time we’ve played together. Mainly, I work. Billy’s tutor makes him read books. Sometimes, he practices a violin with the windows open and it sounds like a screaming cat.

  “I knew you were playing.” I say, smiling. “Want to touch a turtle? They’re good luck!”

  Me and Billy walk side by side. We’re both soaking wet and happy. It’s two miles back to River Road. Me, to my gray shack; Billy, to his yellow plantation home.

  “You shouldn’t come near the house. We’re not supposed to be together.” Billy ducks his head. Mud has rinsed off his face. His cheeks are puffy white like a cloud.

  Billy must be as lonely as me. Anthony, his older brother, was sent to a New Orleans school. One day Anthony was there, then gone—like Ma was there, then gone. Except Ma is never coming back.

  “Is it true you don’t sleep on the floor?”

  “I’ve got a bed and pillows and blankets.”

  “What’s a pillow?”

  “A cushion for your head. Don’t you know anything?”

  “I know plenty,” I say, but I’m thinking, What do you need a head cushion for?

  All I’ve known is my bed sack filled with hay.

  I hug my shawl closer. I’ve known Billy all my life, but I don’t really know him.

  “Each to his own place,” Mister Wills says. “God didn’t intend for races to mix.”

  “You’re free now, Sugar,” Ma would say, but warned, “Stay away from the big house. Trouble follows where you’re not wanted. And black folks are never wanted.”

  Over my shoulder, I look at the sun setting. It looks as if it’s floating on the river. I’m glad Billy followed me.

  Billy’s hands are stuffed in his pockets. Freckles run from his nose to his ears.

  He starts whistling. I whistle, too. But I’m not as good at it as him. My whistle cracks, loses air. I wait for Billy to say something mean, but he doesn’t. He just says, “Try again.”

  I do. My whistle trills high.

  We make music all the way home.

  “Night,” Billy says. We squat, surrounded by bushes. Both of us don’t want to leave. He’s twirling the magic tube, and I’m watching the colors blur.

  “Night.” He moves toward the big house.

  I stay low, hiding. Candles flicker in windows. There’s dozens of them. I smell meat. My stomach rumbles.

  Billy stops. He turns, runs back, a swaying shadow, and stoops, whispering hurriedly, “I have a secret—you can’t tell. Pa says he’s sending for Chinamen.”

  My brow wrinkles.

  “They might be on the ocean now.” Then Billy dashes toward the house, leaps up the porch steps, and disappears through a door bigger than any man.

  I’m shivering, trembling again. I don’t know what Chinamen means.

  I’m scared. Billy has told me a secret.

  Secrets are bad.

  Pirate Captains

  Me and Billy run off, adventuring four days in a row. I don’t care if we’re not supposed to! We pick wild chicory leaves; dig river holes, filling them with twigs; fish with balls of cornmeal (we don’t catch nothin’); and try to trap a skunk. Grits for bait doesn’t work.

  We’re happy.

  Missus Beale isn’t happy.

  Every day at dusk, I try to sneak home. Missus Beale is always waiting, on the porch, frowning, hollering at me, “Sugar, there’s work to do. Off-season’s short. Have you started sewing your shift?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Where’ve you been all day?”

  “Outside.”

  “I know outside,” she says, exasperated. “But where? Doing what?”

  I squirm, wiggle my toes. Ma taught me not to lie. But Missus Beale would be mad if I told the truth.

  “You’re not getting into trouble? Acting foolish?”

  “Let her be,” says Mister Beale, rescuing me. “She’s promised not to go too far. Let her be.”

  “She’s motherless. My duty to see her right.” Missus Beale, lips pressed thin, isn’t happy about her “duty.” I wish she’d quit.

  “Tomorrow, Sugar,” she says sternly. “Tomorrow, we’ve got to get on with your chores.”

  Behind my back, I cross my fingers. “Tomorrow.”

  I’m not promising. Just repeating.

  The Beales are snoring, deep and quivering. I hear it through the wall.

  Not quite dawn, I wipe sleep from my eyes, then stand, grab my shawl, shoes, and tiptoe toward my door. I push gently. The hinge squeaks, and cold creeps across my face.

  Toe, heel, toe, heel, I reach the bottom porch step.

  “Sugar!” Missus Beale is fuming, her face red. Her eyes are sharp, black like a beetle’s. “There’s work to do.”

  I tremble. My feet won’t move as Missus Beale starts down the steps to snatch me.

  “Eugenie,” pleads Mister Beale from the door. “Let her go, Eugenie.” His voice sounds so forlorn. “Let her be a child. You wanted the same for our children.”

  Missus Beale’s eyes water. I’m not sure why. Turning, she reaches for Mister Beale’s hand.

  I take off running. I know Missus Beale loves Mister Beale. She just doesn’t love me.

  “Sugar! You come back here,” shouts Missus Beale.

  I keep running.

  I run to the riverbank. The ground is grassy, squishy. “Billy. Billy!” His yellow curly head pops up. He’d been lying so still, I couldn’t see him. “You made it!”

  “ ’Course I did,” he answers. “I tied my tutor’s foot to the bed. When he wakes, he’s going to holler something mad.”

  “Your folks, too?”

  “Yep. Ma’s fuming. Says I’ll never be a gentleman. Pa says he’s gonna whip me if I miss another lesson. But he won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Says ‘moderation.’ ”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I only know he thinks I shouldn’t study all the time.”

  “Moderation,” I say gaily. “Like Mister Beale thinks I shouldn’t work all the time.”

  Billy looks at me funny, his eyes squinting, his skinny arms hanging loose.

  “Missus Beale is like your ma. ‘Work, work, work.’ No time for fun.”

  Billy squints, like he’s trying to see me better. Maybe he thinks I have freckles, too?

  “Pirates,” he exclaims. “Let’s be pirates. Pirates make their own rules.” He leaps, dashes off. “Come on, Sugar. Come on!”

  I run after him, feeling Ma running beside me. Feeling free.

  “Look,” says Billy, though I’m not sure at what. There’s a bend in the river. Rough and quick, he pulls back bushes, branches. “Our raft. Me and Anthony built it.”

  The raft is the sorriest thing I ever saw. Mismatched pieces of gray crackling logs strapped with moldy rope. Two people could barely fit.

  “I’m not getting on that.”

  “You have to, if you’re going to play pirates.”

  I stare at the raft. Brown river water laps all over it. “It won’t float.”

  “Will, too. It’s floating now. All I got to do is untie the rope. And we’re off. Hunting treasure.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, low. I don’t tell Billy I can’t swim. Splashing
close to shore in shallow water is all I know.

  “Scared?”

  “No.” But I am. “I’m captain.”

  “Girls aren’t captains.”

  “Then I won’t go.”

  “I never get to be captain,” squeals Billy. “Anthony’s always captain.”

  “No turns?”

  “No,” says Billy, shaking his head. “I’m always crew.”

  I should be nice and polite, say, “Billy, let’s take turns.” But if I’m going to risk my life, I want to drown as captain.

  “We’ll both be captains.”

  “Ahoy,” crows Billy.

  “Ahoy,” I holler, not knowing what ahoy means.

  Floating feels finer than anything I ever imagined. I’m not tied to land, sugarcane. My heart beats fierce. Even though the raft keeps close to shore, I feel a fine tingling of fear.

  Billy uses a long branch to keep mud, muck, and plants from dragging the raft down. The Mississippi just pulls us along. The river’s nice, lapping at the wood, gentle-soft.

  On the water, I feel how big the river is! Wide, long, and deep. I can’t see bottom. That scares me. But I see fish I’ve never seen up close and alive. I see a silvery bass, a carp, even a fat catfish, before it dives and disappears. Mister Beale’s fish are always gutted dead.

  Over his shoulder, Billy looks at me. “Isn’t it fine, Sugar?”

  “It’s fine, Billy Wills.” No grown-ups yelling, just me and Billy, floating. Smelling river air, balancing, as the raft bobs. I think this must be what freedom is. On the river, hearing water while a soft wind strokes your cheek. Seeing blue sky, bright sun, and a horizon that never ends.

  Wordless, Billy points. A white egret soars. Billy jabs at muck and grass. He’s not as strong as me, but he steers fine. I relax, feeling the best I’ve felt since Ma died.

  Billy grins, shouts, “Want a turn?”

  The branch is twirling, swirling in the deep, dark water. “You’re doing fine. You be captain,” I say.

  I don’t say, I like being scared. But not too scared.

  In the river’s middle, I see white-crested waves and ripples; beneath, I think, are wild and invisible currents. There the river runs faster. There I know our raft would bob, flip, and drown. I bite my lip.

  Still, body swaying, hearing the whoosh-whoosh waves, seeing land pass by, the empty cane fields, I feel happy, free. Then I remember Billy’s secret about Chinamen crossing the sea.

  As if he knew what I was thinking, Billy murmurs, “Won’t be long, Sugar. The Chinamen are coming.”

  The sun hides behind clouds. I can’t help it. I shiver.

  Lizzie’s watching us from shore, her face and fists tight.

  “You’re going to be in so much trouble!” She’s not looking at me; she’s looking at Billy. But she’s talking to me. A jump rope dangles from her hand.

  “Hey, Lizzie. Come help.” She runs forward and helps us drag the raft into the cove. Mud sucks at the wood; water slaps it.

  “We’ve got to hide it,” says Billy, tossing branches and bush leaves on the raft.

  And like she did it every day, Lizzie helps. We wedge the raft into river grass and dirt. Finished, all three of us smile.

  “Lizzie, want to play?”

  “Not with him,” she says.

  “I don’t want to play with you, either,” says Billy. “Pa says blacks are less than nothing.”

  I crinkle my brows. Billy doesn’t believe what his pa says, does he?

  “If you weren’t Mister Wills’s son, I’d kick you.”

  “Pa would have you whipped.”

  I think Lizzie’s really going to do it—kick Billy.

  Usually, Billy’s nice. Lizzie, too. But Lizzie’s trying to protect me and Billy’s not used to back talk. Both look like skunks ready to fight.

  I step between them. “Stop. We’ll all get in trouble. Pretend nothing happened.”

  Billy scowls; he looks as mean as his pa.

  “Billy, please. For me.”

  Billy glares. He blinks, uncurls his fists, and stomps off.

  I turn to Lizzie. I want to hug her—my brave, best friend. Instead, I say, “Don’t tell, Lizzie.”

  “He can’t be your friend. White folks are different. They have their place. We have ours.”

  I follow Lizzie back to our shacks. Dirt doesn’t swirl or make sounds like water. Sailing down the river, me and Billy were both pirates.

  The same.

  A Story for Ma

  New Year’s Day, I hide beneath an evergreen. Boughs hang down like curtains. Lying on my elbows and belly, I feel safe and warm, smell crisp and clean. Dry and fresh needles scratch my legs and arms. It’s quiet. Cozy dark.

  A perfect place to remember Ma.

  “Being comfortable isn’t everything,” Ma would say. “Life’s hard. But still you’ve got to find joy where you can.”

  Two years ago today, Ma died.

  Last days before she died, Ma fretted, “I’ll be getting up soon. Just need rest, Sugar. A little rest.”

  “I love you, Ma.”

  “Your pa will come back. I just know it. No matter what—you stay put.”

  I did stay put. I kept my promise. But I’ve been waiting and waiting, and Pa still hasn’t come. I don’t know what to do.

  Nights, fever burned in Ma. Sometimes she didn’t make sense. Sometimes she talked “sorry” talk. Sorry for staying at River Road, for Pa being sold. Sorry for me working cane. “Sorry I got sick,” she whispered, hoarse. “But we fooled Mister Wills. We kept the secret. Didn’t we, Sugar?”

  My first big secret.

  I sit up, feeling my chest tightening. Tree bark scratches me. Pine needles cling to my hair.

  I hated our secret. Knowing each time Ma swung her machete, she gritted her jaw in pain. Inside her, something was wrong. We didn’t tell anybody. But I think Missus Beale guessed. Ma didn’t tell anyone in case Mister Wills found out.

  “I don’t pay for sick folks to cheat me of honest labor,” Mister Wills says. Except he is the one who cheats, steals. One sick day and he withholds the whole season’s pay.

  After collecting last year’s dollars, Ma lay down and didn’t get up again. To comfort her, I told stories. Rubbed her feet. Placed cool rags on her brow. She’d repeat, “We kept our secret, didn’t we?” I’d answer, “Yes, Ma. We kept our secret.”

  Two days before Ma died, her mind was calm. She spoke, clear. “Do. See. Feel.” Then she closed her eyes. She died without ever seeing me again.

  Exhaling, I wipe my eyes.

  Hugging my knees to my chest, I whisper, “Ma. Do you still like stories?”

  The branches shudder. Morning dew shimmers, and a worm inches over pine.

  I think about Mister Beale’s special stories. “Ma? Br’er Rabbit is the best trickster. He makes me laugh.”

  I hold my breath. I hear bells. Not the harsh clang of the cowbell on the plantation, but something more delicate, tinkling. Maybe it’s Ma, answering me?

  I tell her a story. Tell her how Br’er Rabbit isn’t really lazy. He just doesn’t like being told what to do. Doesn’t like masters, or orders. Being smart and tricky makes him happy. Br’er Rabbit’s free.

  Evening, I find a plate of black-eyed peas and collards at my door. Collards are supposed to bring good-luck dollars in the new year. The peas bring coins. As far as I know, it doesn’t work. Still, each year, everybody eats them.

  My stomach growls. I lift the plate. The Beales’ door opens slightly.

  “Thank you, Missus Beale.”

  Missus Beale doesn’t answer. She softly shuts the door.

  I add kindling to the log in the fireplace and strike flint to make a spark.

  I scrape collards and peas into a pot and hang it on the fire hook.

  Manon and Annie only cook for cane workers during harvest.

  “Cooks work hard. But cooking doesn’t wear the body down,” Ma would say. “Not like sugar.”

  Cooks never sti
nk of dirt. Manon and Annie have a shack near the big house. They live better than us in the old slave yard. Quieter. Cleaner. They were given to Missus Wills when they were little girls. I hear they don’t have dirt floors but wooden planks. They even have a window.

  My shack is windowless. The space is ten steps forward, back, and sideways. Very small.

  I eat my peas, chewing them to mash before swallowing.

  I wish Ma could’ve been a cook. Maybe she wouldn’t have died. Collards slide down my throat. Only juice is left on the plate.

  I feel better. Full.

  “Thank you, Missus Beale,” I whisper into the air.

  Maybe she didn’t answer because she didn’t know what to say.

  I know what to say.

  I feel like a skunk in a trap.

  How come I’m not really free?

  Left Behind

  It’s morning and the sun looks like a wobbly egg yolk in the sky. The air is flinty green. Gray clouds are disappearing.

  Me and Mister Beale are sitting on the porch steps.

  The Beales were a wall away when I was born.

  “You were fussy even then. Screamed all day, all night,” Mister Beale tells me. He’s smiling. I wrap my hand around his tough leather hands. I love to hear about when I was born.

  “You had spunk.”

  “Still do,” I say.

  He gently taps my nose. “Tell me what trouble you’ve been into.”

  “Really?” Mister Beale is the only one who likes to hear my tales. I wish I could tell him about Billy.

  Mister Beale blinks. He’s waiting, hoping I’ll make him laugh, erase the tiredness and sadness from his face.

  I say, my voice low, “I pulled a tail feather from Rooster Ugly.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” I say, poking out my chest. Rooster Ugly, scrawny, with red eyes, is as mean as they come. “Ugly pecked at the littlest hen.”

  “The one you call Peanut?”

  “Yes. Peanut wasn’t doing nothin’. Just eating grain. Ugly pecked her. So I pecked Ugly. Plucked his feather!”