Sugar

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “They don’t know nobody makes corn bread better than you. Outside, all crispy brown. Inside, yellow, soft. Dee-licious!”

  Missus Beale brushes the corn bread with cream.

  “But the Chinese aren’t really neighbors. I’m going to keep away. Not give them any of your corn bread.”

  Missus Beale peers at me. I smile sweetly, then I blurt, “See. I’m a good girl.”

  “No, you aren’t,” says Missus Beale, chuckling. “You just put me in the briar patch!

  “Come on, Sugar. Grab one of these pans.”

  “Betsy, Manette, Marie,” Missus Beale calls from the porch. “Can’t have our neighbors thinking we can’t cook.”

  Missus Ellie, Thornton, and Celeste fly in and out of their shacks.

  “Better late than never,” says Missus Beale, leading the way.

  Missus Thornton carries a platter of sugary stuff. Missus Celeste brings pickled carrots. Missus Ellie makes the best red beans spiced with peppers. I hope the Chinese like fiery food.

  “Don’t drop the pan, Sugar.”

  The Chinese men are sitting in the yard on their shacks’ steps. Master Liu sways in his rocker. When he sees us, he rises. The other Chinese stand, too. River Road folks come to a halt.

  I look left, right. Nobody’s smiling. Amazing. Grown folks don’t know how to make friends!

  “We brought food,” I say. “Missus Beale makes the best corn bread.”

  Master Liu tastes the corn bread first. “Fine,” he says. “Corn bread good as rice.”

  Missus Beale beams.

  “Let’s eat,” says Mister Beale.

  For the first time ever, everyone’s on the same side of the yard.

  Beau shows me how to make a rice ball.

  I pop it in my mouth.

  Over a kerosene flame, Beau stirs onions and greens. He scrapes into the round pan slices that look like brown bark. “Ginger. Good spice,” he says.

  Beau uses sticks to pick up food. “Chopsticks,” he says. He hands me two.

  I use one to stab the greens. Splat. Beau scoops them up before Missus Beale can see.

  “Use your hands, Beau,” I say when he tries to pick up corn bread with his sticks.

  “Let’s make corn bread balls.” We make a dozen and pop them in our mouths.

  Of all the Chinese, Mister Zheng seems the quietest and the scariest. There is a long, jagged scar over his left eye. It looks like a worm across his eyebrow.

  I scoot beside him, watching him eat, watching his jaw and the worm scar jump.

  “Mister Zheng, how’d you get that scar?”

  “My brother threw rock.”

  He and I sit, cross-legged, side by side, eating beans, greens, and onions, and corn bread. I think Mister Zheng looks like a pirate.

  “I miss Billy.”

  “Billy?” asks Mister Zheng, his voice deep like a frog’s. Not lilting like Master Liu’s.

  “Mister Wills’s son. I’m not supposed to play with him.”

  Mister Zheng nods—slowly, up and down, up and down again, and he says something in Chinese.

  I don’t know what he’s saying, but it sounds right, feels true.

  Mister Zheng pulls a picture from his pocket. There’s a tiny lady with two children—one on her lap, the other, almost as big as me, holding on to the chair. They’re dressed like Mister Zheng, in black pants and jackets with high collars. They aren’t smiling.

  Mister Zheng smiles, proud.

  Acting my most proper, I say, “Beautiful. Your family is beautiful.”

  “Is it too hot?” asks Missus Ellie, peering over shoulders. “In Louisiana, we like food spicy.”

  “Good.” “Good.” “Good food,” say the Chinese, scooping spicy beans into their mouths.

  I don’t think Missus Ellie believes them.

  “In Chengdu,” says Beau, “very hot food.”

  Master Liu bows to Missus Ellie. She blushes. “We come from Sichuan Province. Famous for hot red peppers.”

  “That’s where Master Liu found me,” says Beau. “I cooked spicy food. Used plenty peppers. Will you teach me? Louisiana food?”

  Missus Ellie is tickled, happier than I’ve ever seen her.

  “Time for bed, Sugar,” says Mister Beale. “Work tomorrow.” Like a signal, all the River Road folks stand.

  “Please, Mister Beale. A little longer. Master Liu knows stories like you. Good ones like Br’er Rabbit and Hyena.”

  “Well, now,” says Mister Beale, encouraging everyone to sit again and gather close.

  Master Liu speaks Chinese.

  “What?” asks Mister Petey.

  “The Changjiang river,” translates Beau. “Waves behind, drive waves ahead.”

  Mister Beale scratches his head. “What’s that mean?”

  “Changjiang, longest river in China.”

  “Like the Mississippi in America,” I add.

  “Waves of the past help future,” says Master Liu. “Like children. Each generation better than last.”

  “That’s what my father taught me,” says Mister Beale, shoulders back. “Each life builds upon the past.”

  “May I tell story, Master Liu?” asks Beau.

  “Any animals in it?”

  “Not this one, Sugar. Story, real life, true. Master Liu rescued me.”

  “From pirates?”

  “No. From being poor. Being street boy. Mister Zheng, Mister Li, Chen, others, all farmers. All from Sichuan. Chinese clan.

  “We sailed together.”

  “To pick sugar?” I squawk. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Cutting sugar is better than starving in China,” says Master Liu. All the Chinese men nod.

  Lightning bugs blink. The fire is crackling, and the full moon is shining on our messy plates and leftovers.

  Mister Beale hands Beau a long stick. “Show Sugar, please. Show her China.”

  Beau draws in the dirt. With his paw, Jade swipes at the stick.

  “We come from China. To Guiana. Then New Orleans. See.” Beau marks a spot.

  The ground is telling a story.

  “China.” Beau points. “Shanghai. Port to the sea.” He draws squiggly shapes to look like waves.

  “Our home is Chengdu. Middle of China.” His stick digs a hole in the middle of the dirt-shaped China.

  I stare at the markings. China is huge. Like a giant kidney bean.

  “China, big.” Beau’s arms are wide, and the stick makes his reach wider.

  I squint. My mind can see a thousand men in Chengdu looking just like Beau.

  “You came across the sea? Like Africans?” asks Reverend. “How long?”

  Beau’s eyes close, like he’s unhappy, remembering. “Months. Bad,” he says. “Very, very bad. Long journey.”

  “Mister Beale says Africans came to America chained, starving, and sick. Most weren’t born here like me. Did folks die, Beau? Did they?”

  Beau nods. “Some wanted to turn back. To go home. Back to China.”

  “Some did die,” says Master Liu, looking straight at Mister Beale. “But we choose to come. Not captured.”

  Everybody’s sad-eyed, mournful.

  “Where’s Chang…?”

  “Changjiang?”

  “Yes, where’s Changjiang river?” Beau hands me the stick, then, his hand over mine, guides the stick. “Here, up to the Tibet mountains.”

  “That’s where the river begins,” I shout, excited. “North. Just like the Mississippi. The Mississippi starts north.” Me and Billy could raft down the Changjiang river in China.

  My heart swells.

  I look at the Chinese. Gentle Beau. Master Liu with his kind eyes. Mister Zheng with his bullfrog voice.

  I look at Mister Beale. Him and Missus Beale are holding hands, watching me.

  “You’re the wave, Sugar,” says Mister Beale.

  For the first time, I think it’s fine to be new, to be young, not old.

  I turn toward the Chinese.

  I bow,
slowly, ’cause I want to do it right. My hands press together like I’m praying, my head bends, reaching low, almost to the ground.

  Master Liu says something I don’t understand. Then, all the men, in unison, bow, ever so low, lower than ever before.

  And I feel like warm water is washing over me. A deep, low bow must mean “more.” Extra good, more respect.

  “Work tomorrow,” says Missus Beale, breaking the spell.

  We all return to our shacks. I try to walk, not run. Try to act dignified. But my feet barely touch the ground.

  The world is BIG.

  If Chinese men can come to Louisiana, I can go there—China. If African men can come to America, I can go there, too—Africa. The land where Br’er Rabbit and Hyena live! China—the land where Cat, Rat, and Ox live.

  Inside my shack, I twirl like a leaf spun by cool wind.

  Another Secret

  I can’t sleep. I’m so excited. I dream of places I can go. Shanghai. Chengdu. North, like Lizzie.

  I don’t mind my sweat-soaked sheet. I don’t mind how stuffy my shack smells. Or the dirt in my hair and on my feet.

  My money jar is open. I lay my dollars in a row. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I wish dollars could breed like rabbits.

  I hear a whistle. Billy!

  Another whistle. Then another.

  Billy’s going to wake the Beales!

  I tiptoe outside. Candles are snuffed, shacks are dark. I hear Mister Beale snoring (do Chinese snore?). Whip-poor-wills are screeching, eating bugs.

  Another whistle. I run round back. “Shhh. I’ll get in trouble.”

  Billy’s freckles are bright red; the day’s sun has turned his hair golden.

  “Tell me about the Chinamen.”

  “Chinese. They’re called Chinese. They like spicy beans. They don’t like okra. Collards are okay.”

  “Oh,” says Billy like I’ve said magic words.

  “You better leave, Billy. I’m going to get in trouble.”

  “You like trouble.”

  “But the Beales don’t. Your pa might run them off.”

  Billy stuffs his hands in his pockets. His whole body scrunches like a weight’s pressing him down.

  “You know it’s true, Billy Wills.”

  “Not fair.”

  “Hush. You’re going to wake the Beales.”

  “I’m sorry, Sugar. In the field, workers don’t talk. I can only get to know them in the slave yard.”

  “Used-to-be-slave yard,” I mutter.

  “Ma’s not sure the Chinamen are civilized.”

  “Chinese. Chinese men.”

  “Pa says, ‘Lincoln ruined everything.’ ”

  “I think President Lincoln did good.”

  “Pa says workers are scarce. Hard to get and keep. I told him that’s why I should learn more about Chinese. I already learned not to say Chinamen.”

  “From me.”

  “That’s why I’m here. It’s not fair that you get to be with the Chinese and I don’t. Not fair we can’t play together.”

  I see stars, some blinking, some streaking across the sky. Mister Beale told a tale of slaves who decided to become blackbirds and fly back to Africa. Eagles are prettier, bigger.

  I turn and climb an evergreen, hand over hand, foot over foot.

  Billy rustles after me; it’s like a race, but I win. Sitting on a branch, I raise my arms. “I wish I could fly!”

  Billy’s on a branch beneath me. We’re both perched high.

  “Look,” says Billy, “the river, it’s sparkling like Ma’s pearls. I don’t have to fly; I can sail. Stars help you navigate. Go anywhere.”

  “I only know the Drinking Gourd. It points north.”

  “The Drinking Gourd is the Big Dipper. There’re two dippers,” says Billy, pointing. “A Big Dipper and a little one. See, Little Bear, Ursa Minor. The North Star is part of Bear’s tail. Next to it is Ursa Major, the Big Bear. And there’s Orion, the hunter. See his belt?”

  “I see,” I say, connecting dots in the sky.

  “Just like there are paper maps for land, the stars are maps for oceans. I don’t understand it all, but I’d like to.”

  “Me, too.”

  To my left, below, are the sugarcane fields, River Road shacks; to the north is the big house and the Mississippi. Up high, the stars.

  I cling to the bark, liking how it scratches my arms and makes me feel strong. Billy scoots closer to me, clutching another branch.

  “No secrets. Right, Sugar?”

  I hold my breath, scared what Billy might say.

  “One day I’m going to leave the plantation.”

  I’m shocked. River Road is going to be Billy’s. Doesn’t he want to keep it? If it were mine, would I stay?

  I blurt, “One day I’m going to leave River Road, too.”

  “You should.”

  “Five years ago, I would’ve been a runaway.”

  “Yeah, Pa would’ve owned you.”

  “Then you would’ve. Right, Billy?”

  “Naw. Anthony. If I’d tried to own you, you would’ve punched me.”

  “I would, too.”

  We’re quiet, our legs dangling.

  An owl hoots. Somewhere, there are eagles.

  Billy pulls a kerchief from his pocket. He opens it, peeling back the cotton. Inside is a buttermilk muffin. My favorite.

  Billy splits it in half, and we munch, crumbs dropping like flakes onto the ground.

  I feel guilty. Billy should go. I promised the Beales to be good. But part of me wants to keep talking, be with Billy.

  “Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to leave River Road,” Billy says.

  “See the world?”

  “Yeah. Pa loves this place. I don’t. Ma tells me to study. Be a gentleman. Pa says being a planter is good enough. ‘Plenty hard work.’ ”

  In a few hours, the sun will be a ball on the horizon. I’m going to be so tired.

  “Billy,” I say, glad I can’t see his face. “There’s something you don’t know. It’s so secret you don’t even know you know it.

  “I complain, but Missus Beale is right. I’ve got to work. You don’t. Your pa can bring you the world. Snap his fingers and make Chinese appear. From all over the world, ships come to your pa’s plantation to carry sugar to people I can’t imagine. Like I couldn’t imagine Chinese ’til I saw them.”

  I pause. “You don’t ever work harvest. Everyone else works hard.”

  I look down. Billy’s looking up, his jaws sharp, his lips stubborn. Evergreen shadows streak his face.

  “Billy, can you write?”

  “Sure, everybody can—”

  “When Mister Beale tried, the Overseer whipped him.”

  Billy’s head falls forward, his chin touching his chest. His shoulder blades are bony, tucked in. “You’re saying I’m lucky, Sugar, and I don’t even know it.”

  He looks up, giving me the “pity-pity” look, like Missus Thornton.

  I smack the branch. “Don’t you go feeling sorry for me. I won’t stand it. I’m lucky, too. I’ve got Mister and Missus Beale, Br’er Rabbit and Hyena tales. I get to live with the Chinese. I’m a different lucky.”

  Billy is different from his ma and pa. Just like I’m different from River Road folks.

  “I don’t want to see you again, Billy Wills.”

  I hear his gasp. Relentless, I go on, scared I won’t be able to finish.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to work cane. You just walk and holler behind your daddy. You’ll be just like your daddy, one day.” My throat tightens. I can barely breathe. “Leave me alone. I don’t like you anymore.”

  “You don’t mean it. You don’t.”

  “You’re just dumb like a hyena. The Chinese are my friends. You’ve got it better than anyone I know. If you want friends, tell your pa to buy you some.”

  Billy doesn’t move. I think he’s trapped in the tree. I don’t look down at him. If I look down, I know I’ll cry.

 
; Grown folks drew a line. Me and Billy crossed it. And now I’ve got to uncross it to keep the Beales safe. So they can keep making dollars.

  “Sugar,” Billy says softly. I can’t help it, I look down.

  Billy opens his pocketknife, scratches, carves S into the tree.

  “S. Sugar, the first letter in your name is S.”

  Billy’s trying to change the rules, teach me to write. But I can’t risk hurting the Beales. “That’s ugly,” I say. “Looks like a snake. My name is prettier in Chinese. You’ve got to go, Billy Wills. We can’t be friends.”

  Air stills; quiet feels loud.

  Billy climbs down, his hands grasping branches, bark, his feet finding toeholds. He inches down, down, down.

  Billy’s not as good a tree climber as me. I could slide down before he blinked. Rooster Ugly crows.

  Billy lands on the dirt. He doesn’t look up but runs faster than lightning. Faster than I’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t look back.

  My finger traces the S. I like how it curves. How the first letter in my name is etched forever in the bark.

  Clang-clang.

  The Overseer beats the triangle with a metal rod. Clang-clang. Time to get up. Cane time!

  The worst time of day, and I’ve lost a friend.

  Chinese New Year

  It’s Sunday. Reverend is getting ready to lead us in prayers.

  Beating sticks together, Beau dances in the yard. “New Year. Happy New Year!”

  “Beau,” I say, “New Year’s come and gone.”

  “It is Chinese New Year,” Master Liu says, padding forward. “After your prayers, celebrate with us. We’ll cook, play games. Tell stories. What do you say, Reverend? Mister Beale?”

  “Sounds right fine,” says Reverend. “Let’s say prayers.”

  Missus Thornton whispers something into Reverend’s ear. He clears his throat. “Master Liu, do you and your men pray?”

  “Not to a god, like you. We honor ancestors. We seek harmony with good deeds. Some chant for human suffering to end.”

  “Just get rid of sugar,” I murmur.

  “Shhh,” says Reverend. “A moment of silence.”

  Except Master Liu isn’t silent. He chants quietly. I can’t understand the words, but I feel my spirit lift.

  The chant is like a song that never ends. It hums and buzzes, rising and falling, making a watery sound. It soothes. Like a lullaby, it opens memories in my mind.