Sugar

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “That’s spunk, Sugar. It means you’re you. You’re bound to get in trouble.”

  “I don’t mean to get in trouble. Don’t mean to upset things. I just get restless.”

  “I lost spunk, Sugar,” murmurs Mister Beale. “Lost it when they brought me here. To America. When I started working cane. Don’t lose yours, Sugar. I don’t think I could stand it. Can you try to get in a little less trouble?”

  “I’ll try. Sometimes, I just got to be spunky. I need to. Even when spunky is scary, like riding a raft—”

  “When’d you do that?” Mister Beale asks sharply.

  “Don’t worry, Mister Beale, I didn’t drown. Me and Billy had fun. Like Br’er Rabbit.”

  “Stay out of the river. Rafting’s dangerous.”

  “I liked it.”

  “Sugar, do as I say,” shouts Mister Beale, “or I’ll tan your hide myself.”

  “Don’t be angry, Mister Beale. Please.” Tears are choking my voice.

  Mister Beale stands. “As long as you work for Mister Wills, Sugar, you’ll do as he says. No rafting. No Billy.”

  I stare at our shadows, lying, side by side, on the porch wood. Big shadow, small. Mister Beale moves.

  The door opens and closes.

  Only one shadow left. Mine.

  Eagle Bright

  I hide in bed.

  Tomorrow, the Chinamen come. Yesterday, I got in so much trouble. The day after tomorrow is Planting Day. Cane season. Chinamen. Can’t do nothin’ about either.

  Do Chinamen have big ears like Mo Johnson? Or yellow hair like Billy? I don’t think they’re going to like me.

  They must be so brave to travel so far. Chinamen must be giants.

  I sniff beneath the sheet, wipe my eyes with my arm.

  I want to forget yesterday. Forget Mister Beale being mad.

  I’d see Billy every day, even if I got in trouble. But I can’t bring trouble to the Beales. Ma wouldn’t want me to hurt them.

  “Ma,” I whisper, wishing she could answer.

  But I know what she’d say. “As long as you can, Sugar, get up. Every day. Do. See. Feel.” Mom got up until she couldn’t.

  She wouldn’t want me to hide in bed.

  So I throw off my sheet. Grab my shawl and slip on my shoes. I run, jumping off the porch, my arms outstretched like wings, shouting, “It’s Eagle Day.”

  “Lord, lord,” says Mister René, his gooseneck shaking.

  “You’ve lost your wits,” says Missus Thornton.

  Even Mister Beale, rocking on the porch, looks at me quizzically. Grown folks mutter, murmur, “Silly child”; “No sense whatsoever”; “Just foolishness. Plain foolishness.”

  It’s noon. I can’t believe I wasted the morning hiding.

  Just like I can’t believe folks wasted all morning, moaning, groaning, saying harsh words about everything. Chinamen. The Willses. The weather, sugar. Me. Louisiana. The whole wide world.

  I know eagles nest and birth in winter. Winter’s dying, almost over. That’s how we know it’s time to plant cane. Eagle eggs should all be burst open.

  Still, I’m hoping for magic. A miracle.

  Ma said, “Miracles happen.” That’s why she believed Pa would come back one day. “He loves us, Sugar.”

  “I’m going to find an eagle’s nest,” I holler, loud and clear. “With eggs in it!”

  Missus Thornton screeches, “Somebody ought to do something with that child!” She makes sure everyone hears her. She’s pointing her finger at me. Making a ruckus. “She’s wild. Needs a good licking.”

  The Reverend nods.

  If Missus Thornton is going to make a fuss, I’ll make a bigger one!

  I start flapping my arms like wings.

  Missus Thornton squawks, “Wild. Witless. Needs a spanking.”

  Then I splash water from the trough onto the ground. I make mud and plaster some on my face. I run in circles.

  Missus Thornton faints, but I think she’s pretending. The Reverend bends over her; all the busy-bee neighbors rush toward her and away from me.

  On the porch, Missus Beale frowns. Mister Beale, his arms crossed, watches me.

  “Bye, everyone! I’m off to hunt for eagles.”

  I race off.

  I see steamboats churning water into foam.

  I’m going to climb at least fifteen trees. One tree for each year I’ve been alive. Then five trees for the years I’ve been free.

  Nothin’. Not a single bird. Just empty nests shaped with twigs. The nests are strong, heavy. Abandoned.

  My legs and arms are scratched and tired. I’m angry I let the season pass without searching for an eagle.

  Miracles don’t happen. Pa didn’t make it back after Mister Wills sold him. When slaves were freed, Ma kept saying for years, “Any day now, he’ll be back.”

  But miracles don’t happen. At least not to me.

  I’m losing my spirit. Thirteen trees climbed, two more to go. I made a promise to myself: fifteen trees. So even though I don’t want to, I do it! I dig my toes against bark, stretch my arm, and clutch a branch, then another and another. Dig toe, stretch arm. Bark tears at my shift. Ants scatter.

  I feel the cypress breathing. It’s an old tree, maybe older than River Road Plantation. Spanish moss hangs from its branches, all gray and swinging like clumps of rope. The leaves are shaped like feathers with tiny, spiked leaves.

  I climb higher and higher. Higher than I’ve climbed before. There’s a nest, its bottom tight with brown, gray twigs.

  “Eggs, eggs,” I whisper, hoping. “Waiting to be born.”

  But there aren’t any eggs. The nest is empty.

  I hear “wee-aaaaaaaaa, wee-aaaaaaaaa.” It’s a bald eagle. Flying free.

  Balancing in the tree’s arms, I watch the bird circle, its brown wings wide, cutting through clouds and blue sky.

  The bald eagle knows I’m watching it. Circling closer and closer to the cypress, its white head, tilting right, its beady, yellow eyes seeing me, I feel so very, very happy.

  “Wee-aaaaaaaaa.” The eagle soars high, its wings and head sparkling. High, higher it flies until I have to close my eyes against the sun.

  Knee-How

  They’re here, they’re here,” Reverend Thornton shouts. Coming down the road, two horses pull a wagon. I run fast to stand at the front of the line.

  All the River Road men line up, trying to look fierce, strong. Like warriors. Except they’re stick-skinny in their baggy overalls.

  Mister Wills is looking pleased with himself.

  Overseer Tom just looks angry. He taps his whip on his boot.

  Anxious, I shuffle from foot to foot.

  Mister Wills is pacing. Billy is on the big house porch. I wave. (I forgot I’m not supposed to know him.) He waves back. His ma, all bright and lacy, slaps his hand.

  Horses clop-clop, then stop. The wagon has settled in the east side of the yard.

  Mister Wills steps forward. “Welcome.” His face beams.

  “Get up,” shouts the man next to the wagon’s driver. He’s lean, ugly. He jumps down from his seat, carrying a shotgun, and comes around, shouting at the two rows of men sitting on either side of the wagon. “Get up.”

  As one, the Chinamen stand.

  They’re short, with shiny black hair twisted in a braid down their backs. Their hair is longer than mine. They wear black caps. Their skin is warm, much lighter than mine, but sun-kissed in a nice way, not red and rough like Mister Wills’s face. Their pants are billowy and loose. And even though it’s so hot, they wear jackets that reach their knees and have sewn clasps on the front and a high-neck collar.

  Billy’s mouth is hanging open. Mine, too.

  “Welcome,” says Mister Wills.

  The Chinamen move forward; there is a clanging, clinking sound. Mister Beale shouts, “What’s this?”

  Locks are closed around the Chinamen’s ankles; chains link each man to the next. All the men—about a dozen—clamber down. The men try to right
their balance, manage the distance the chains allow.

  Mister Petey starts grumbling, “Not right. Not right at all.”

  Reverend Thornton says, “Lord a’mercy.”

  Mister Beale hollers, “No slaves no more. They shouldn’t be chained. Nobody should be chained.”

  Mister Wills says nothing. His face looks puffy, red, like it’s going to explode. The Overseer stretches his lips into an ugly smile.

  “Had to chain them,” says the wiry man, balancing his rifle. “Got to New Orleans and they wanted to change their minds. Imagine. Wanted to go back. To British Guiana. Like it was better than Louisiana. Said they didn’t like the Americans they met on the ship. I called the law. Told them these yellow men were for Wills’s plantation. They chained them nice. No one messes with Vincent Doucet. Felt good, felt like I was hauling slaves again.” He juts out his hand. “Pay me now.”

  Mister Wills is furious. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out bills. I never saw so much!

  The lean man counts the money.

  “It’s all there,” says Mister Wills. “Unchain these men, Doucet. I want willing men. Willing workers.”

  “You didn’t used to care about willing or unwilling,” says Mister Tom.

  “Slavery isn’t returning, Tom. Like it or not, times are changing. Can’t make a living without willing workers.

  “Jem,” Mister Wills shouts. “Lead these men to their shacks.”

  Mister Beale nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “My job’s done,” says Doucet. “I delivered your workers. Now I’m heading back to New Orleans.”

  “I’ll not be hiring you again,” says Mister Wills.

  Mister Doucet snorts. “Going soft, Wills. Soon blacks and yellows will be running your plantation.”

  The Overseer, looking mean like a rattler, nods, agreeing.

  “Dump their supplies in the yard,” shouts Mister Wills to the wagon man. “Don’t keep nothing that isn’t yours.”

  Mister Beale unlocks the chained men.

  I walk the length of the line. They’re not big. But they look sad.

  I remember Pa’s chains, him being put on a wagon and carted off. Chains are awful. Like eagles with broken wings.

  I come to the end of the line. None of the Chinamen looks at me. At least, I don’t think so. Their heads are slightly bowed and their eyes seem to have curtains.

  The last Chinaman has soft, black shoes. I stare at them. His shoes are better than mine.

  “Ni hao.”

  I look up.

  “Knee-how.” It’s a whispery-soft, trilling sound.

  The Chinaman’s eyes are black, shaped like a leaf. “Ni hao.” He waves his hand, side to side.

  “Knee-how,” I say. We’re saying hello.

  The Chinaman winks.

  “Come on,” shouts Mister Beale. “Let’s go.”

  “Cane time tomorrow,” says Mister Wills with glee. “It’s going to be a good harvest.”

  “Hard work,” shouts the Overseer.

  “Good riddance,” says Doucet. “Chinamen, strange.”

  “Stubborn,” says the driver, cracking the carriage whip. Snap. The horses jolt forward.

  “I’ll show you your quarters,” says Mister Beale, waving his hands at the Chinamen. “Come.”

  The Chinamen follow. There are ten. Soft slippers moving, their pigtails swaying, they walk in a line like Mississippi ducks swimming after their mother or whooping cranes flying, following the lead crane over the marsh.

  But the men aren’t following Mister Beale, not really. They’re following the sunburnt man beside him.

  He’s nodding at Mister Beale’s words, his arms folded across his chest, his hands slipped inside his sleeves. I think he must be their leader. He’s dignified, not as old as Mister Beale. The last man, the one who said “hello,” is younger, maybe the youngest. But older than me and Billy. Watching him, the last in the line, I see him slip his fingers into a pocket and pull out something brown. He drops it.

  No Name, who I thought was sleeping, pounces. He eats whatever it is and licks his paw.

  Excited, Billy runs up beside me. “Isn’t it amazing, Sugar?” Then he darts away before his pa can see him.

  “Sure is,” I say into the wind. I couldn’t have imagined it. At River Road. New people called Chinamen.

  Not black. Not white. A soft sun color in between.

  I splash water on my face, slip on my shoes, and step onto the porch. All the River Road folks are outside, frowning, standing on porches, in the yard, staring at our new neighbors.

  Missus Beale cautions, “Be sensible, Sugar. Not too spirited.”

  “Why I never—”

  Missus Beale peers, squints at me.

  “Well, almost never.” Then I gulp. “I won’t.”

  Missus Beale doesn’t understand me at all.

  “I’m going to visit the Chinamen.”

  “No, Sugar,” says Mister Beale. “We don’t know what kind of people they are.”

  “That’s what I want to find out,” I call, leaping off the porch.

  “Sugar, come here. Come back here.” Mister Beale grabs my arm. “Get back to the porch right now.”

  “Why? I want to know about the Chinamen. Where they come from. How they live.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If Mister Wills brought them, they don’t mean us blacks any good.”

  “How do you know?”

  Mister Beale glares. I can’t stand the look on his face. Lowering my head, I wrap my arms about his waist. Mister Beale has been like a pa to me. But I don’t think he’s right. I used to think he was always right.

  I can’t be with Billy. Can’t be with the Chinamen. “The middle of the yard,” I plead. “Let me go there. Nothing can happen there. Please, Mister Beale.”

  “Not an inch closer.”

  I squat, halfway between our shacks and the Chinamen’s shacks. I look at the dirt. Same dirt as yesterday. But now there’s an invisible line. I feel chained, tied to a tether on a tree.

  I look back. All the River Road folks look like ghosts. Pinched faces. Sour mouths. Clenching hands. They pretend to do work, eat, but really they’re watching the Chinamen. And me.

  Chinamen have smooth faces. They’re unpacking bags, settling in. But they watch, too. One by one, sometimes two together, they straighten and stare over at us. They look strong. Not scary, not old. Just determined.

  Nobody says anything. The sun dips lower in the sky.

  I can’t stand the strain, the scared and wary feelings in the air. I pop up, curtsy, and shout, “Knee-how.”

  In unison, Chinamen carol, “Ni hao. Ni hao.” They bow, their chins touching their chests, folding like a tree bows in the wind.

  I do it again. Curtsy. Shout. “Knee-how. Knee-how.”

  “Ni hao. Ni hao.”

  I say “hello” five times. The Chinamen never ignore me. They stop washing clothes, digging a garden, or stirring greens in a pot. Even if they’re sitting, resting on the porch, they stand and bow. “Ni hao. Ni hao.”

  “Sugar,” hollers Missus Beale. “Leave those men alone.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Afternoon, the elder Chinaman puts a box on the porch. Men gather. I want to see. There’s a pouch. Little round balls, like marbles—blue, white, and green—spill out.

  I creep—toe, heel, toe, heel. Inch by inch, I cross the dirt, scooting closer to the Chinamen.

  “Sugar!” Mister and Missus Beale shout.

  Frustrated, I run back to the middle of the yard.

  Sauntering past me, flicking his tail like he’s better than me, No Name brushes against the youngest Chinaman. He scoops him up. No Name goes limp, belly up. The Chinaman rubs his tummy.

  He stares at me, dips his head toward No Name. He tickles him. No Name’s head rolls back. Funny cat. I giggle. Without words, the Chinaman’s talking to me. He squats, points to his pocket. He takes out something brown. Dried meat? He lifts his hand high; No Name leaps. I laugh. Again an
d again, the Chinaman teases No Name. Then he opens his hand, and No Name plucks the jerky.

  I walk toward them.

  “Sugar,” Mister Beale yells. I pretend I don’t hear.

  Missus Beale screeches; Mister Waters hollers. All the River Road folks are shouting at me to come back.

  The Chinamen shout back words I don’t understand. I hope they’re saying, “Welcome.” “Let her visit.” “She’s a wonderful girl.”

  I keep walking.

  Missus Thornton booms, “Misbehaving, disobedient child.”

  I don’t look back. I keep focused on the Chinaman and No Name. Both of them are calling me without saying a word.

  I… am… almost… there.

  “Sugar!” Mister Beale scoops me up like a sack. I can’t get down, get away.

  “Knee-how,” I shout.

  “Ni hao,” the Chinamen answer back. Even No Name seems to dip his head, bow. The young Chinaman holds him close.

  Mister Beale sets me down on the porch. Missus Beale clasps my hand, tight.

  I sigh. Next time, I promise myself, I’ll make it all the way across the yard.

  Planting Day

  Planting Day is the start of cane season. But there’s never been a Planting Day with Chinamen. Too bad River Road folks and Chinamen stand separate in the field. Makes no sense. We’re getting ready to do the same work!

  All day until sunset, men will cut sugar stalks into pieces. A bud needs to be growing on each piece. All day until sunset, the rest of us will dig, dig, dig, row upon row, lying cane flat, and covering it with dirt.

  Billy walks beside his pa and Tom, the Overseer. He looks happy. No studies for him.

  I’m a worker. Me and Billy were never pirate captains.

  Mister Wills clears his throat. He looks like a squished bear, all stomach with a little head. His voice booms, “Mister Tom will make sure none of you cheat me of an honest wage.

  “River Road folks know what I expect. Chinamen, you may have worked for the British in Guiana. But this here is Louisiana. Nowhere is as tough as here.”

  Mister Tom grunts, agreeing.

  “Mornings, Billy will be learning cane.” His pa grips his shoulder.