I stir carefully. It’ll take hours for the fat and lye to melt and mix. In my mind, I can see Billy climbing trees, see him floating on the raft. See him catching bugs. Even if he’s studying, I still think Billy is having more fun than me.
I sniff. “Billy doesn’t make his own clothes.”
“No. The housemaid does.”
“It isn’t fair.”
“Be happy you’re free. They can’t sell us anymore. At least you’ve got a cotton shift, not burlap.”
I stop stirring. Plain misery. I might as well jump in the pot if I can’t have adventures.
“Sugar.” Missus Beale clutches my free hand. Both our hands are rough; hers are blotchy and wrinkled. “You got to learn to do for yourself.”
“I know. ’Cause Ma’s gone. And you’re so old.”
“I’m not going to die just yet,” Missus Beale humphs.
Mournful, I shake my head side to side. “Missus Beale, you might die soon. You’re already losing your hearing.”
“What?!” Missus Beale shrieks.
“Mister Beale’s in the garden, hollering for me. He really is. I’m so sorry. Real sorry, you can’t hear.”
I peek up. Frowning, Missus Beale is touching her ears.
“He’s been yelling, ‘Moderation. Moderation.’ ”
“Moderation? What’s that mean?”
“Less chores!”
I start running.
Smack. I run into Missus Thornton! Hands on her hips, she blocks my way. “Apologize to Missus Beale.”
I sigh. Turn. “I’m sorry, Missus Beale.”
Missus Beale is very unhappy. I rock back on my heels, bow my head. “I’m mistaken, Missus Beale. Nobody’s calling me.”
I pick up the dropped rod.
Soap—who needs it? Sugar smells don’t fade. Dirt never goes away.
Missus Beale makes me sit on the porch steps. I’m not allowed to do anything. Not even chores.
I count cracks in the wood. Search for spiders and ants in the dirt. Scratch the scabs on my knees. Untie and tie my pigtails. Try to guess how many clouds there are in the sky. Try to remember Ma loved me. Try to forget Lizzie. (She probably has a dozen new friends.) Try to forget Billy has a better life than me.
Worse, sitting on the steps, I see how slow the old folks shuffle. See their sad and worried faces. Hear their whispering. It’s like our yard is filled with drowsy, fretting moths. Mister Petey is talking low with Mister Bailey. Reverend is whispering to Missus Ellie. Mister and Missus Beale grumble, scattering chicken feed. Even Missus Thornton is sewing on her porch, mumbling to herself.
I listen hard. “Chinamen.” Whisper-whisper-whisper. “Chinamen.”
It sounds like a storm rolling in from the horizon. Mumble—whisper—rumble. “Chinamen.” Like gray, black clouds are sweeping in, making River Road folks uneasy.
“We’re going to lose our jobs,” they say. “Lose our homes.” “Have to leave River Road.”
Even though the day is bright, worry and fear are striking like invisible lightning and silent thunderbolts.
“Are you ready to work now?” Missus Beale asks. Her face is a map of wrinkles.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ve got to be practical, Sugar. Stop filling your head with stories. Use some sense.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t be thinking I wouldn’t treat my daughter just the same.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Let’s get to work.”
I help Missus Beale pour the squishy, harsh soap into pans. When it cools, it’ll harden, and we’ll cut it into bars.
I shouldn’t have tried to trick Missus Beale. It’s just more fun acting like Br’er Rabbit.
Pebbles
Since dawn, I’ve been standing outside the big house. I’ve gathered a handful of pebbles.
“Keep to your own.” Nobody asked me what I thought. Or Billy. Why can’t we decide for ourselves?
Still, doing something is better than doing nothing. Even though it’s scary. But I can’t let Missus Beale keep me close. I dreamed of me and Billy rafting.
I have to know: Does he still want to be friends?
No Name cat watches me. He’s black with a white belly. Six toes on his paws. His eyes are curious, almost entirely black.
No Name does whatever No Name wants to do. He licks himself in the sunshine, sleeps as much as he wants, and hunts for mice in the sugar mill. He’s got a better life than me.
I’m going to throw and throw pebbles until folks realize without Billy I don’t have any adventures, any fun.
Missus Beale’s going to be mad when she realizes I didn’t sleep, that I slipped out in the dead of night to escape chores, to escape her.
Days were better when I had Ma. Working, doing chores, we’d smile. Laugh. Talk. Dream of better days. Without Ma, shouldn’t I be trying to make days better?
If Ma were alive, I think she’d like Billy. She wouldn’t mind me breaking rules. She’d understand me and Billy mix together, just fine.
I think, Billy’s following the rules. He’s not used to being in as much trouble as me.
I think, He’s forgotten we’re pirates. “Pirates don’t follow rules.”
Billy’s room is on the second floor, on the far right corner. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve seen him poking his head out the window.
I pick up a pebble and throw. It doesn’t even hit the house.
I throw another pebble. It hits closer to Billy’s window.
No Name meows.
I throw again. The pebble hits the window frame. I hold my breath. Nothin’! Billy doesn’t wake up.
I throw, another and another.
Clawing, No Name rolls my pebbles.
“Scat,” I say. Then, picking up a handful of pebbles, I throw. Crack. Crack. Crack. Pebbles bounce off the house and window. Still Billy doesn’t wake up.
I grab a rock and throw. The window breaks. I hear shouts, screams from Mister and Missus Wills.
Through the broken glass, Billy looks down. I wave.
“Sugar!” Mister Wills yells from a window on the left. “I’m going to tan your hide.”
I take off running.
I run to the river, slip off my shoes, and start kicking up waves.
Behind me, I hear footsteps, grunts as Billy falls to the ground, kicking off shoes. He stands. Together we kick up waves.
I bend, scoop up muddy water, and toss it at Billy.
Billy shakes his head, sending water and mud flying.
I hold my breath. Will he be angry?
Billy hoots, smiling, like a burst of light, “Come on, let’s fight.”
Gleeful, I don’t duck when Billy splashes me. Water and river mud drip down my face and shift.
We splash and splash like we’re trying to empty the river. Billy rushes close. Stooping, he scoops up a mountain of water. I can’t see! The Mississippi is filling my eyes, soaking my hair.
“Oh,” I explode. I chase Billy down the shoreline. He zigs, zags; so do I. Mud sucks at our feet, making smacking sounds. Billy turns, runs onto shore. Chest heaving, he collapses, saying, “You… win.”
Billy is covered with mud. Breathing, but not as hard as he is, I fold my legs beneath me. “You’re a mess.”
He answers, “You should talk.”
We giggle.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you. A hyena is like a big, dumb fox. It lives in Africa.”
Billy sits up, his eyes bright. “ ‘Rabbits are smart. Hyenas are dumb,’ you said.” He wrinkles his nose. “Are you saying I’m dumb?”
“I thought you were. But now I think you’re smart, a rabbit like me.”
The sky is clearest blue, except for a streak, a white ribbon cloud. I wish I could sail on it. Just float away. I’d find another cloud for Billy.
Still, I’m uneasy. Waking Billy is the worst thing I’ve ever done. I bite my lip.
I ask what I’ve always wanted to ask. “Billy, what’s be
yond River Road?”
“Malveaux Plantation is far north. South is the DeLaviers Plantation. They plant flowers, too. At least a quarter acre. Pa says it’s a waste of good cane land.”
“Will you take me? To the DeLaviers’?” I want to see flowers, growing, on purpose.
“It’ll take a while. Hours, rafting.”
“An adventure. You be captain.”
“Ahoy,” crows Billy.
Rafting is better than I remember. Waves and currents lull, making me think of Ma. How holding each other, we danced and swayed.
Water rushes over wood, tickling me and Billy’s legs and feet. There’s a whole water world beneath us. Catfish, turtles, bluegills, and all kinds of small and large creatures I can’t see.
On water, seeing algae clinging to our raft, I feel special. A bug-eyed fish blinks. My heart beats in time with the lapping waves. A flock of blackbirds shoot like arrows across the blue, white-speckled sky.
I can’t live in water. I can’t live in the sky. But thanks to Billy, I’m living on water.
As if I called his name, Billy turns his head and smiles. I think, If he’s really my friend, he won’t say a word. He’ll know that this moment—here, now, skimming across water—is perfect.
Billy’s mouth opens. His teeth are even, white. Then he closes his lips, faces forward. I sigh, content.
Our raft curves with the river. “There,” says Billy. A patch of green bushes, a few green shoots poke through dirt. “Nothing’s flowering yet. Come summer, this will be filled with red, yellow, blue, and white flowers. You’d like it, Sugar.”
Behind the garden, I see fallow fields waiting for cane.
“Get your pole.”
I lift the pole and dig it in the muck. In unison, me and Billy pull and lift, pull and lift, maneuvering the raft to shore.
Billy leaps off the raft, extends his hand. “Come on, Sugar.”
I step, for the first time, on dirt that’s not River Road. I can’t help it. I cry.
Billy pretends not to see.
“Tomorrow?” I ask. The sun is low, orange-red, making the clouds glow. We’re back at River Road.
“It’ll be harder to escape.” Billy finger-combs his hair, dirtying it more. “We’re in such trouble.”
“Everyone’s always mad at me.” Instead of feeling carefree, I feel sad.
“Ma and Pa have strange notions. They’d rather I be lonely than play with you. If I like you, why can’t I play with you?”
I don’t answer.
“I’m going to tell the Beales,” I say, determined. “Mister Beale will be disappointed. Missus Beale might punish me. Might make me get a switch.” I shake myself. “No secrets no more, Billy. I’m tired of them. Secrets are too much like lies.”
“Pa wanted to keep the Chinamen secret. I overheard him talking to Mister Tom. Saying Chinamen was going to solve his problems. Him and Mister Tom started arguing. ‘Change,’ Pa kept saying. ‘It’s here. Whether we like it or not.’ Mister Tom cursed. Slammed the door.”
“Why’d you tell me, Billy? About Chinamen?”
“Didn’t seem right not to. ’Sides, I always wanted to play with you. And Lizzie, Mo, Ulysses. But ’specially you. Seemed you liked adventures.
“All I had was Anthony. Ma says Anthony’s going to be a gentleman. He’s not a gentleman with me. He’s tough, mean. He never wanted a brother.”
I feel sorry for Billy. Once, I had lots of friends. Then, I had only Lizzie. Billy had no one, except a brother who didn’t like him.
“Billy, I don’t think we’re bad.”
“Me, either.”
Billy cocks his head. “I wish I’d known you sooner, Sugar.”
“So do I.” I quiver, hold my breath as Billy extends his hand.
Our hands wrap together like the colors on the finger trap. My hand is scratchy, tough; his hand, smooth, soft. Billy grimaces, like seeing a black and a white hand shaking isn’t right. I’m not sure it is, either.
But we both hold on.
Billy looks at me, serious, his blue eyes piercing like sky through a storm. “Next time,” he says, “let’s do blood.”
I swallow. “Yes.”
Billy chortles, dashing off. “Pa’s going to be mad. Ma, madder!” Saying it, Billy sounds happy.
I’m happy, too. I’m not alone. Two in trouble is better than one.
I holler, “Billy. Next time, don’t sleep so heavy!”
Punishment
Oh, no. Mister Wills is on our porch! Right in the workers’ quarters!
Everybody’s outside—dinner, chores stopped—milling in the yard, like bees to honey, watching Mister Wills meet with Mister Beale.
Faces are grim. Missus Beale digs her nails into her palms.
“Can’t have it, Jem. Keep her”—Mister Wills points at me—“away. Keep her with her own kind.”
“Yes, sir.”
I blurt, “I like Billy. We just want to be friends.”
Missus Beale pinches my arm.
“If you were still a slave, I’d have you whipped,” says Mister Wills. “I still might have you whipped.” He has Billy’s bright blue eyes, but his face is snarling. His skin is creased, rough.
“You’re on this property because I allow you to be. All of you,” he says, turning, his hands flailing. “Any time, I can order you off my land.
“Tell me why I should shelter Sugar? She’s a menace.”
“It’s hard without Sugar’s ma,” says Mister Beale. “I promise, we’ll keep a closer eye.”
“You do that. That’s what we agreed, Jem. Otherwise, I’ll run her off. You, too, if I must.”
I’m shivering, frightened, furious at the same time.
Mister Wills and Mister Beale glare. Even though Mister Beale is old, he looks tough. Like he won’t back down. He’s skinny, tall; Mister Wills is short and round.
Mister Beale says, “I’ll take care of Sugar.”
Mister Wills thinks for a moment. “Someone has to pay for the window.”
Mister Beale, angry, nods at Missus Beale. She goes inside the shack.
“How much?”
“A dollar.”
“A dollar?” I gawk.
“Hush, Sugar,” says Mister Beale. Missus Beale hands him a mostly empty jar. He fishes for a dollar.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, Mister Wills. I’ve got dollars. Mine and Ma’s. Let me pay.”
Missus Beale grips my shoulder, stops me from getting my money jar. “This is between the men, Sugar. Your money’s your future.”
Sorrier than I’ve ever been, I hang my head. I didn’t mean to hurt Mister and Missus Beale.
“Just ’cause slavery’s ended doesn’t mean blacks, whites are equal,” says Mister Wills.
“And Chinamen?” asks Mister Beale. “They equal?”
Mister Wills is surprised, caught off guard. Scowling, River Road folks grumble.
“No disrespect. Will Chinamen help your profit?”
“Yes, Chinamen,” booms Mister Wills. “I need workers. Need to expand my crop. Times are hard. During the war, Union soldiers burnt crops. The stable and the mill.”
“We gonna lose our jobs?” asks Mister Waters.
“Cane work is all I know,” shouts Missus Celeste. “River Road is all I know.”
Missus Ellie weeps, “Don’t got nobody. Nothing.” Reverend comforts her.
“Jem,” says Mister Wills, turning to Mister Beale. “We’ve known each other for a long time. You saw me grow up. Gave me my first taste of cane. But I’ll run you and everyone else off if you question my judgment. Do your work—that’s all I care about. I expect you and the Chinamen to work hard. I’ve always been a fair man.”
I think, Not true. Else Ma might still be alive. When we were slaves, Mister Wills never stopped Mister Tom from lashing, yelling when folks’ legs buckled or they fainted from heatstroke.
Now my heart’s pounding. I’m ready to explode, thinking how unfair Mister Wills’s been.
Mister Wills sold my pa.
“Jem, you keep your people in line. Else all of you can go. Leave River Road.”
Our yard is crackling loud. Everybody’s upset. But the porch is quiet, tense. Tight veins pop up on Mister Beale’s neck. He and Mister Wills stare like no one else exists.
“We still work for you,” says Mister Beale, his voice even. “You set the wages. Your right, but it’s our right to worry about the future.” Mister Beale pretends he’s tipping a hat. “Good evening, Mister Wills.”
“Good night, Jem.”
I step forward. “ ’Night, Mister Wills.” I want Mister Wills to see me. But even though his eyes are bulging wide, he doesn’t. I want to tell him that I like Billy better than I like him. Instead, I curtsy. “I won’t break windows no more.”
Mister Wills thumps down the steps.
“When? When are they coming?” Mister Petey calls. River Road folks are circling, swarming about Mister Wills. “Chinamen. When they coming?” “When?”
Mister Wills doesn’t look back, just shouts, ferocious, “Day after tomorrow.”
Everyone, even Missus Beale, heads back to their shacks.
Mister Beale hasn’t moved; he stands, straight back, looking out over the empty yard. Like the patch of dirt is his world, his home, his land. Like he’s an African king.
The community fire is out. The yard, empty. I hear mice rustling, an owl hooting. I stare across the fields, flat, not furrowed. Fallow.
“I’m sorry, Mister Beale. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
Mister Beale pats my head.
“I’ve got a dollar.”
“You keep it, Sugar.”
“You’re always looking out for me.”
“Everybody in River Road looks out for you.”
I start unraveling my pigtail. “I know,” I say, but I don’t really. Folks always seem to wish I’d be quieter, obedient, uncomplaining.
“Ma said, ‘Sugar’s hard. Awful.’ ”
“That it is.”
Then, bending on his knees, Mister Beale searches my face. “You’re not talking about you, Sugar? Don’t be thinking it. You’re not awful. Your ma never meant that.”
“I know.” Though I still don’t know why she named me Sugar. “When I was born, Ma said I smelled ‘fresh.’ ”
Sugar Page 4
