Sugar

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  I close my eyes.

  I see Ma pretty, her hair, tied, inside a bandana, her arms reaching out for me.

  “Time to steam dumplings,” says Mister Wang. Mister Wang has strong arms like Mister Waters. He and Mister Waters don’t talk to each other much, but they play a game like checkers, with black and white stones. Mister Wang taught him how to play, and Mister Waters taught Mister Wang how to pluck banjo.

  Over the community fire pit, there’s a pot of boiling water. Each man holds a wide, round basket. They look like they’re woven from sugarcane. “Bamboo,” says Beau when I look at him, curious. Then, Beau shouts to everyone, “Shape dough into small circles. Like size of palm.”

  I make two circles.

  Mister Zheng and Beau each carry a bowl. “Filling. Mine’s spicy,” says Beau. “Mine’s sweet,” says Mister Zheng.

  Beau spoons his filling onto one of my circles. “Now fold it over and pinch the sides closed. See. First Chinese dumpling.”

  Mister Wang waves me forward. I lay my dumpling in his basket.

  Soon, everyone is folding, pinching dough closed, laying perfect white dumplings side by side.

  “Special coin in one dumpling,” says Master Liu. “Whoever finds will be lucky all year.”

  Jade sits watching the baskets fill. Just as River Road folks like the Chinese, Jade does, too. He’s friendlier. Like me, he was waiting for new people to make his life better. I stroke Jade’s furry head.

  “Now steam.” Mister Wang places a plank across the boiling water pot. He puts the bamboo baskets on top of it.

  “Master Liu, can you tell us a Chinese tale?” asks Mister Beale.

  “I can, can’t I, Master Liu?” I ask. “I know how Rat came first.”

  Master Liu nods.

  “Emperor Jade had a race to see what animal years would come first—”

  “On Chinese calendar,” says Master Liu, encouraging.

  “Cat told Rat, ‘Let’s go together.’ But next day, Rat let Cat oversleep. Because Rat has tiny legs, he hitched a ride on Kind Ox. Just as Ox was about to cross the finish line, Rat hopped off and won. Year of the Rat.”

  Mister Beale chuckles. “Rat’s tricky like Rabbit.”

  “What about the other animals?” asks Missus Ellie.

  “Tiger swam strong across a river. He came in third. Then came Rabbit hop-hopping, floating on river logs. Rabbit’s smart like Br’er Rabbit. Not big but smart. Master Liu, I forget who’s next.”

  “Dragon,” says Master Liu. “Dragon should’ve won, but he helped a village escape a flood. Even gave a push to Rabbit on his log. Dragon good, good soul.

  “Snake hid in Horse’s hoof. When Horse made it across the water, Snake squirmed out and scared it. Snake came in sixth. Horse, seventh.

  “Ram, Monkey, and Rooster crossed together on raft.”

  “So that’s eight, nine, and ten,” says Reverend.

  “Dog is eleven,” I say. “Dog was busy playing. Running, jumping in water. Pig was last. His belly full, he’d taken a nap. Slept too long.”

  “Sugar, Monkey.” Master Liu touches his chest. “I, Horse. Tell me,” he asks, his hands sweeping wide, “when you were born?”

  River Road folks start calling out the year they were born.

  Mister Beale, like Master Liu, is a Horse. Mister Petey is a Dog. Reverend was born in the Year of the Ox. Missus Thornton is a Rooster. I believe it!

  Mister Aires, who’s quiet and always stands to the side or sits in the back, pushes forward. “Master Liu, what if you don’t know when you were born? What if you were born a slave and no one wrote it down?”

  “Pick an animal who calls to you.”

  Thinking, Mister Aires looks serious. Like this is the most important question in the world. Then he says firmly, “Pig.”

  We laugh.

  Beau hollers, “Dumplings cooked.”

  “Happy New Year.” “Happy New Year,” folks say, voices overlapping, stopping and starting, as buns, some sweet, some spicy, fill their mouths.

  “Happy Chinese New Year.”

  Master Liu offers me a dumpling. I bite into it. No coin.

  Then, Missus Thornton squeaks, shrill. “I won. I won.”

  “Good luck,” says Master Liu. “All year, good luck.”

  “Can I see?” Missus Thornton shows me the coin. It has Chinese writing and a hole in the middle.

  “It’s pretty,” I say, being nice.

  Missus Thornton blinks, like she’s not sure I’m me.

  Jade flicks his fluffy tail, rustling dirt. River Road folks—African and Chinese—are resting, bellies full. Some are smoking cheroots; some, just talking; some, rocking on the porch, sitting on steps, or crouching before the community fire.

  I pat-pat Jade’s head. I blink back tears.

  “Sugar, why so sad?”

  “I’m not sad, Mister Beale.” I hold Jade really close, burying my nose in his fur. He licks my hand.

  I sniff. “I like the Chinese. I like Chinese New Year.”

  “What’s wrong?” asks Master Liu.

  “Her mother died New Year’s Day,” says Missus Beale.

  “Not Chinese New Year.”

  “But today reminds you?”

  I nod.

  “Let’s honor grave,” says Master Liu.

  “We’ll say a prayer,” says Reverend. “Would you like that, Sugar?”

  “Yes, please. Can I bring Jade?”

  “And I’ll bring you.” Beau lifts me and Jade. “You need to eat more food.”

  I kiss the top of Jade’s head. He purrs.

  I’m bouncing just a bit. Beau is like a calm horse, his legs striding strong.

  I like being carried. Beau smells of ginger and smoke. Not sugar. I feel safe. Like I don’t have to worry about anything. Not even my own two feet.

  Up here, I can even look Master Liu straight in the eye. Mister Beale’s too tall. I’m only level to his neck.

  Up close, I see how smooth Beau’s skin is, how his lashes don’t curl up but point straight down, and how his head is shaved around his forehead before his hair is pulled into a pigtail.

  “Cemetery this way,” announces Reverend.

  Everyone follows. Past our shacks, the field. We trudge on and on, the baby cane paying us no mind. The ground is level; then it slopes. Beau turns sideways and slowly sidesteps down. He holds me and Jade close.

  There’s a narrow trail. No one’s speaking. The only sound is feet crunching rock and dirt. Like soldiers on the road. There’s less cane. The sickly sweet sugar smell fades.

  We come to a clearing. Mounds of dirt are studded with wooden crosses.

  “Bones,” says Beau. “Spirits everywhere.”

  Rows aren’t neat like sugarcane. The cemetery is haphazard, cluttered, full. Like folks took a shovel to wherever there was room.

  Shadows of crosses crisscross, overlap one another. Three black willows stand guard over the sad piles. Willow branches with streams of gray moss are touching the ground, like dropping tears.

  Beau sets me down. Jade leaps to the ground.

  “Over two hundred graves,” says Mister Beale. Though there are no names on the crosses, Mister Beale zigs among the graves, to the left and twenty graves back, and points. “My youngest son lies here.”

  I remember Ma’s grave. It’s far in the back. Two years old, her grave is the freshest.

  Some of the grown folks are looking at me, “pity-pity” looks; some are praying; some, chanting. Mister Zheng is studying the cemetery like it’s a strange land.

  Silence is heavy. Like there’s a thick blanket of quiet pushing down on the graves. There isn’t any wind. No sound of rushing cane. Nothing. Like we’re all standing at the world’s end.

  “Sugar’s hard,” I shout. “Hurts everything. Everyone.”

  Mister Beale stands beside me. “Sugar kills.”

  “Amen,” says Reverend.

  “That’s the truth,” says Missus Beale.

  Revere
nd moans deep in his throat. Others start making the sound. A wailing clamped tight. No mouths move, but it’s like sorrow, pain, and dying are rolled into one sound, trembling in their throats.

  “During slavery,” says Mister Beale, his voice loud like he’s telling one of his stories, “sugarcane farmers bought the strongest, biggest, fiercest slaves.

  “They weren’t afraid of disobedience, rebellion. They knew with hard work, the lash, all their slaves would end up here.” He paused, looking at the graves. “Sugar kills. Louisiana masters counted on it.”

  I smell grief, sharp like a knife. I slip my hand into Mister Beale’s.

  “I don’t know why,” he says, “we, those of us left, survived. I don’t understand how I got old. How any of us got old. We were supposed to die.”

  “We honor Sugar’s ancestor. Her mother,” says Master Liu.

  “Missus Sarah. My ma was Missus Sarah.”

  “We honor Missus Sarah, who brought Sugar into the world.”

  “Do. See. Feel.” That’s what Ma said before she closed her eyes. Before dying, she said another word. “Survive.”

  Chinese and River Road folks are mingling in the graveyard—stopping, talking, pointing at crosses. Old and new neighbors together.

  I’m glad I’m alive.

  Fever

  I miss Billy. Miss rafting. Worse, Billy hates me. I would if I were him.

  Cross-legged, I empty out my money jar. Money, unlike sugarcane, grows slow.

  When I’m old enough, I’ll buy passage on a riverboat. Find a place where I can be friends with everybody.

  “Hey.” Billy stands in the doorway.

  I gape. “Hey.”

  Billy’s face is damp, sweaty.

  I don’t know why he’s here. Or what he wants. Maybe he’s trying to make trouble for me? Show me he can do what he wants, whenever he wants.

  But I can’t bring myself to tell him “go.” He doesn’t look well.

  Billy shoves back his hair. Moist strands stick, flattening out his curls.

  “I got a new harmonica. Want to hear me play?”

  I shake my head. “No trouble for the Beales.”

  But Billy doesn’t see or hear me. He grips the silver bar tight. Like the thin bar is holding him, keeping him upright.

  He blows. A thin, wailing sound. It grows stronger and sounds sad and beautiful at the same time. It sounds like air is pushing loneliness out then back in, out and in. If he keeps playing, I’m going to cry.

  The tune speeds up, and Billy’s fingers are moving over holes and shifting the harmonica across his mouth. I want to jump up and dance, but I know I shouldn’t.

  “Oh! That was lovely!” I clap. Splotchy-red, Billy wraps his arm across his belly and bows.

  There’s a shadow behind Billy. Missus Beale!

  “How do, Master Billy?”

  Billy’s eyes are glassy. Too bright. He looks in Missus Beale’s direction, but his head is twitching, like he can’t see.

  “Your pa wouldn’t like you being here.”

  Missus Beale is ever polite. But I can tell she’s not happy.

  “I don’t want to go. I want to play with Pepper.”

  “Who?”

  Billy points at me. Then he’s babbling. “She doesn’t like her name. Never did. Call her Pepper. Maybe Salt. Anything but Sugar. Ought to have a name she likes.”

  “Master Billy, I think you ought to go back to the big house.”

  “I want to play with Pepper.”

  Missus Beale gives me a look. Don’t you dare play with this boy. Do it and you’ll regret it, she seems to say without saying.

  Miserable, I shift, foot to foot. I mumble.

  “What?” says Missus Beale.

  “Can’t play. Have chores.” My voice grows louder. “Your pa wouldn’t like it.”

  Billy is redder than a beet. He licks his dry lips. “You think you’re so special. All of you.”

  “Now, Master Billy—”

  “Wait ’til the Chinamen come.”

  “They’re already here. The Chinese,” I say.

  But Billy is talking quick, breathless. “When Chinamen come, Pa won’t need any of you anymore.” He sneers at me, as if to say ’Specially you, then runs off.

  I want to cry but don’t.

  I look at Missus Beale. “Billy’s not himself. Not feeling well.”

  “Don’t matter. His pa doesn’t want him here.” Missus Beale sighs. “Hard truth, Sugar. We may all still lose our jobs. Lose our homes.”

  Come evening, the Beales invite me to join them for community dinner.

  I say politely, “No, thank you. I’ll fix my own.”

  “You sure?” Mister Beale asks, using his kerchief to wipe his forehead.

  “I’m sure.”

  I want to throw myself into Mister Beale’s arms. Feel his arm hugging me. I want to eat Missus Beale’s fluffy corn bread.

  I shake my head.

  The fire cackles, making my hot shack hotter. There’s an outside kitchen. During harvest, it’s where Manon and Annie cook. Tonight, everyone is using it to have a good time.

  I hear Missus Thornton screeching. I never caught a skunk, so I don’t know why she’s complaining.

  I smell rabbit. My stomach rumbles. I bet Missus Ellie is grilling it. Mister Jean, gray beard, gray hair, probably caught the rabbit in a trap.

  Grown-ups outside; me inside.

  Sometimes I think the Beales think they’re my grandparents. But they’re not blood kin. Nobody knows my real blood. Ma and Pa were sold off from their families. Ended up with Mister Wills. “Not a bad master, but not a good one, either,” Ma used to say.

  I pour meal into the boiling water. It thickens fast. I add a sprig of rosemary.

  I set out two bowls. Two wooden spoons.

  I fill both bowls with gruel. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I imagine seeing Ma. Brown eyes, soft hair, and a smile to melt butter.

  “Do you have enough?” I ask. Ma is sitting on the dirt floor, wrapped in a quilt. She’s been sick since harvest.

  “Eat. Keep your strength.” I lift a bowl and offer it to the air.

  No hands reach for it. I set the bowl down. I peer at what I really can’t see. Ma’s woeful face.

  “Why’d you name me Sugar?” I was always too afraid to ask.

  Maybe Ma thought I’d soured things but didn’t want to say. If she hadn’t had me, she could’ve gone with Pa.

  But the dead don’t speak.

  I remember Ma’s voice, like bells, answering, when I asked about my name, “Who’s my baby? My, oh, so pretty baby?”

  “Me,” I say out loud to the smoky room. “Me,” I repeat. Sweat drips from my nose.

  “Ma!” I shout.

  I throw my bowl of gruel across the room. Bam. It hits the wall. I throw the second bowl. Bam. My gruel is terrible. Sticky, gummy. Now I’ll have to clean the wood. Put fresh dirt on the floor. But I don’t care. I feel better after throwing the bowls.

  The cowbell is clanging! Like a metal rattlesnake.

  I jump up. Clang-clang-clang. It isn’t work time. It must be a fire.

  Let the cane burn, I think. Burn-burn-burn. But a wildfire can destroy our homes. Explode the refinery, spraying melted sugar. Burn a person from the outside in.

  The bell clangs: Help-help-help.

  I run outside, and everyone else is running wild, heading toward the plantation house and the calling bell. There’s no smell of fire. Cane is swaying with the breeze. Moonlight makes the plantation house glow whiter.

  Mister Wills is on the porch, ringing the bell. His shirt is open. His hair mussed. He shouts, “Jem. Send for the doctor. Billy’s ill.”

  This is worse than any fire. I yell “Bill-ly,” and dash up the porch.

  Mister Wills catches me, lifting me off the ground. “No time for your mischief,” he growls.

  Missus Beale screams, “Sugar! Come back here.”

  I twist, squirm. “Billy needs me.”


  Missus Beale catches my hand and pulls. Mister Wills lets go. I fall on my knees. Missus Beale jerks me up.

  “Jem? Doctor.”

  “He’s off,” answers Mister Petey.

  “I’ve got to see Billy.”

  “Eugenie,” says Mister Wills, “get Sugar out of here or I’ll have Tom take her off.”

  “Sugar, you’ve got no friends in there,” says Missus Beale, shaking me. “Stay out of the big house.”

  I feel like sugar, ready to boil over. Billy might die like Ma.

  I run onto the porch. Manon blocks me.

  “Let me in.”

  “That’s enough, Sugar,” says Mister Wills. “Tomorrow, I’ll have you gone.” His eyes are watery, sad. I think, Mister Wills doesn’t mean what he says. He’s scared, same as me. He doesn’t want to lose Billy. Same as me.

  I’ve tried hard to be good. Tried not to bring the Beales trouble.

  My heart almost stops. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help Billy?

  “I’ll go,” I say in my best pitiful, Br’er Rabbit voice. Head bowed, I shuffle down the steps. Missus Beale drops my hand. Manon unblocks the door. Mister Wills heads inside. I see my chance.

  “Billy,” I scream, running as fast as Br’er Rabbit. “I’m coming.”

  I push pass Missus Beale. Her hands grip air. I dodge Manon. She yanks my pigtail. “Yeeowww.”

  “Sugar!” Mister Wills chases me.

  I sweep past him on the stairs.

  I reach the bedroom. Billy’s thrashing on the bed, his face pale, his hair slicked by sweat. His bed is high off the floor on sticks! I inch closer.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” Missus Wills looks crazed, her hair falling out of her cap, onto her shoulders.

  Billy moans. Eyes dull, staring at nothing, Billy looks out of his mind. He’s twisting, turning, tangling sheets. He looks like he’s going to disappear in the big white bed.

  Missus Wills whimpers, rocking her body back and forth.

  I’m trembling scared.

  Mister Wills arrives behind me and grips the bedpost like he’s afraid of falling. “Sugar, get out of here!”

  For the hundredth time, I don’t do what Mister Wills says. I reach for Billy’s hand; he clutches mine.