Sugar

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  His hair soaked, looking dark brown rather than golden, Billy smells sour. Smells like Ma did before she died.

  “Don’t die, Billy. Please.”

  His chest rises and falls. He makes a horrible, gagging sound.

  “You’ve got to get better. Please, Billy.”

  “Sugar, you don’t belong here,” whispers Missus Wills.

  “Billy,” I say, desperate.

  “Sugar,” Billy sighs. He twitches, drools.

  “Sugar, get out of here!” Mister Wills grips my arm.

  I squirm. “Let me go! I have to stay with Billy.”

  “Sugar!” screams Billy. He’s sitting upright, eyes staring at nothing. His nightgown is soaked.

  “Billy, I’ve been practicing my whistle.”

  I whistle.

  Billy turns his head toward me, his eyes horribly dark. I whoosh, whistle bad.

  Billy falls back on his side, his legs curled.

  “Get out,” says Mister Wills.

  “Stay,” begs Billy.

  “I can help. Honest, Mister Wills.” I turn to Missus Wills. She looks frightful. “I took care of Ma. I can help. Billy’s my friend. Honest, Missus Wills.”

  Missus Wills studies me like I’m a new person. She touches Billy’s hand, where his hand covers mine.

  “Get out, Sugar,” Mister Wills repeats.

  “No, Pa.” Billy bucks forward and back. “Stay,” he wails. Sheets slide, crumble to the floor. “Stay.” Our arms jerk up, down. It feels like Billy’s crushing my hand.

  With my other hand, I pat Billy, trying to steady him.

  Face wet, Missus Wills tucks in sheets. “Whistle, Sugar,” she says fiercely. “Whistle.”

  I whistle. Billy calms like a baby chick, his head cushioned by the pillow.

  “Sugar stays,” insists Missus Wills. Mister Wills nods.

  Billy taught me to whistle. My sound grows louder. Clear.

  I sleep on the floor, next to Billy’s bed. I’ve a pillow and a blanket; I’m more comfortable than I’ve ever been.

  Billy’s in pain. He won’t eat. When he’s awake, his mind is far from River Road. It’s like he’s in a dark field and can’t find his way home. When he’s asleep, he mutters, “Pirates. Snakes.” He even calls out “Anthony.” He asks for his ma and pa. He asks for me.

  Doctor says the longer the fever lasts, the worse it’ll be. “You have to ride it out. Pray.”

  All night, Missus Wills weeps “Billy, Billy, Billy” and holds his hand. I put cool, damp rags on Billy’s head. When he’s real bad, flailing, groaning, I whistle.

  After three days, two nights, Billy’s eyes open. “You whistle terrible, Sugar.”

  “I know it.”

  Missus Wills starts crying.

  I put another wet rag on Billy’s head. He lets it stay, then falls back asleep.

  I feel ten feet tall, like I helped Billy open his eyes.

  Every day, Billy gets stronger. He sips broth and sits with two pillows behind his back.

  “What’d I have, Sugar? Yellow fever?”

  “Nope. Doctor says you had some kind of brain fever.”

  Billy looks grim.

  “Can’t be right,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t have any brains.”

  Billy laughs. “That’s a good one.” Then he starts coughing. Missus Wills scowls as if Billy’s coughing is my fault.

  I sit in the corner, watching her feed Billy.

  “Me and Sugar are going to play checkers.”

  “I think it’s time for Sugar to go back to the slave quarters.”

  “Aren’t any slaves,” says Billy, broth dripping from his chin.

  “Well, yes, that’s true—”

  “So, Sugar stays!” says Billy.

  Missus Wills looks at Billy, looks at me, looks at Billy, then looks at me again. Her face is pinched like she’s eaten a sour pickle.

  “At least until I’m better, Mother.” Billy smiles like I think angels might.

  Missus Wills’s spoon clangs against the bowl. “Sugar, you can stay.” Then she says stiffly, “You’ve been a help.”

  Billy winks.

  I curtsy with the biggest smile.

  I never knew being sick could be fun. When I’m sick, Missus Beale brings me a muffin and a cup of water. She tells me, “Sleep,” shutting the shack door to keep out the light. If it’s harvest time, sick or not, I work.

  When we were slaves, the Overseer smacked his whip against any sick person’s back. He’d say, “The lash is the best medicine.” He never struck me; I was too little.

  But now if we’re sick, we lose pay. If we don’t get pay, we can’t pay rent, and I can’t add money to my jar.

  I’d be sick all the time if someone fed me, rubbed my head, and tucked soft blankets beneath my neck.

  Billy’s room is filled with light, and his bed has three quilts.

  Six people could live here! It has everything. Toys. A table, chairs. Even an old rocking horse Billy’s grown too big to rock. He’s got a shelf filled with river stones. Another shelf filled with books.

  Billy’s fiddle leans against the wall; on the floor lie sticks and a snare drum.

  Billy teaches me the harmonica.

  I blow. Squeal. Squeal. Squeal.

  “Spare your breath, Sugar. Don’t rush it.”

  I blow again.

  “Nice and gentle.”

  Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.

  I get better.

  I blow the harmonica. Billy bangs his drum. Missus Wills leaves, her hands covering her ears.

  Sometimes, me and Billy play checkers. I always pick black, Billy, red. Because he’s sick, I let Billy win. Sometimes.

  When Billy naps, I open his books, but most of the markings mean nothing to me. I play with his tiny Confederate soldiers that lost the war, touch his instruments, amazed how Billy can make them come alive.

  Mostly, I stand at Billy’s window. (Mister Wills got it fixed.) I open the glass, and warm air sweeps over me. A magnolia tree blooms outside.

  Beyond the tree, I see the river. It’s the most beautiful sight. I can see sailboats, steamboats, and rafts. Pelicans dive, pluck fish from the water.

  Looking south, I can see where the river meets the sky. I wish I could swim, sail, or fly to that spot and beyond. I wish I had Billy’s window.

  Outside my door, cane stalks taunt me.

  From Billy’s window, I feel hope. Believe, one day, I’ll be able to go wherever I want.

  Billy sits, his bare skinny legs pink. His nightshirt is blue, as light as his eyes. He runs his hand through his hair. “You’re a good friend, Sugar.”

  “I know,” I answer, grinning.

  He reaches in the nightstand drawer. “For you.”

  The Chinese finger trap.

  “Oooooh,” I say. Red and yellow threads, braided, sparkle and glow. Everything about the finger trap is special—where it came from, who made it, how it works. Nothing about it is from me and Billy’s world.

  “I can’t take this.”

  “Why not?”

  I can’t say in words. I twirl the finger trap. The colors blend like sunset. I don’t have anything to give back.

  “Didn’t we swear friends?”

  “We did.”

  Billy’s different from me. So how’d he know of all the things to give me, I’d like the finger trap best?

  Tomorrow, I’m going home.

  But my shack will look different now that I’ve lived in the big house. Bare, unpainted, no rug, no bed, not even a chair to sit on. I got used to seeing my face in Billy’s mirror. Until now, I didn’t know there were such things to miss.

  Not far from the big house, my home is a different world. But I’ll be glad to be with the Beales, glad to shoo Rooster Ugly from pecking at the chicks. Glad to garden again.

  But the real difference is that I’m going back to the fields.

  “Did I ever tell you about Br’er Rabbit?”

 
Billy shakes his head.

  “Billy Wills, I’m going to give you something you don’t have. A Br’er Rabbit tale.”

  “Is there a hyena?”

  “Listen and see.” I climb atop a chair. “Well”—my voice squeaks, so I lower it—“every year, all the animals need to help with gardens. Else all the animals won’t have any food.”

  “Animals don’t garden.”

  “Hush, Billy. It’s a tale. All kinds of wonderful things happen in tales! Now, where was I? Oh, much as I love Br’er Rabbit, he’s lazy.”

  “Like me,” says Billy, hopping up, jumping on his bed. “I’ve been lazy all week.”

  Your whole life, I almost say. “Billy Wills, are you going to pay attention or not?”

  Billy plops down; pillows and a quilt bounce off the bed. Hands clasped, Billy’s trying not to laugh. A gurgle pops out like a burp!

  “Billy Wills!” I wag my finger like Missus Beale.

  “Lion was planting peas. Rooster was pecking corn, layering it in the dirt. Hen liked”—here I shivered—“okra. Beaver only wanted watermelon. At harvest, he’d whack it open with his tail.

  “Hyena, who liked eating Rabbit, Chicken, and Squirrel, was plowing new rows with his nose. He’d stick his nose in the dirt, deep, then trot, earth clogging up his nose. He’d sneeze at each row’s end! He hated it. But the rule was: Everyone works, else you don’t eat!”

  “So, no eating nobody.”

  “That’s right, Billy Wills. ’Cept Hyena was sneaky. Everyone knew Hyena, if he could, would eat them all. ’Specially Br’er Rabbit.”

  “Meat on the bones.”

  “That’s right. Br’er Rabbit had a nice, fat tummy ’cause he was laziest. His job was to plant lettuce. Which isn’t hard, if you ever planted lettuce. Which you haven’t, Billy.”

  Billy grimaces.

  “Br’er Rabbit complained, ‘Too much sun.’ He twitched his ears. ‘Pesky, lazy flies.’ He shouted at the crows. Of course, everybody shouted at the crows, with their sharp, flinty eyes. Crows refused to garden. They’d steal seeds quicker than a snap.

  “Still, nobody liked a complainer.

  “Lion roared, ‘Br’er Rabbit, your complaining makes us tired.’

  “ ‘Grumpy,’ crowed Rooster.

  “ ‘Frustrated,’ said Squirrel.

  “ ‘Now, now,’ said Hen, like a chicken Missus Beale. ‘We’ve all got to get along. No harvest, no food.’

  “Hyena, with his thick pink tongue, licked dirt from his mouth and nose.”

  I jump off the chair. Billy leans forward, excited; I’m excited, too. Me and Billy have left River Road, left Louisiana; together, we’re inside Mister Beale’s African tale.

  “Br’er Rabbit rasped, ‘Water. I need water.’ Before anybody could stop him, he hopped high, up into the bucket. And down, down, down he went, deeper into the well.”

  “Did he drown?”

  “He should’ve. But rabbits are smarter than hyenas, squirrels, even bears.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Rabbit liked the cool water. Tasty. He liked not having to work. But inside the well, it was cold, dark—”

  “Wet.”

  “And he was stuck!”

  “No way to climb out of the well.”

  “That’s right, Billy Wills. Except… except there were two buckets.”

  “On a pulley.” Billy grins, punches his pillow.

  “Billy Wills, you’re as smart as Br’er Rabbit.

  “Rabbit started singing, ‘Oh, the fish down here are fine. Fish. Fish,’ he crooned. ‘So many fish.’

  “Fish was just enough to get Hyena’s stomach rumbling. He peeked into the well. ‘Fish, you say?’

  “ ‘They’ll swim right into your mouth. Come on down.’

  “Hyena was greedy. He jumped into the bucket and—whoosh!”

  “Whooosh,” says Billy.

  “As Hyena flew down, Rabbit flew up.”

  “Like this.” Billy stands, then—boing, boing—bounces on the bed.

  “I’m Br’er Rabbit,” I holler. “I’m free.” Then—boing, boing—I fall on the bed.

  Billy bounces, screaming, “I’m free.”

  “Goodness, what’s going on here?”

  Missus Wills.

  Billy hoots. “Rabbit and Hyena.” Boing, boing.

  “SUGAR.” Missus Wills’s fists are on her hips.

  I put mine on my hips, too. “BILLY.”

  Then me and Billy fall all over each other, tickling, kicking at the covers, and rolling with laughter.

  “You two, stop it!”

  We both sit. I know I’m in trouble, but it was worth it. Billy jabs me in the side. I jab him back.

  “Stop it. Stop it.”

  Billy hits me with a pillow, and it bursts, sending feathers flying.

  “STOP IT AT ONCE!!!” Missus Wills has never sounded so angry.

  Little white feathers nestle in Billy’s hair. A feather floats and settles on his nose.

  “I’m sorry, Missus Wills.” I’ve learned grown folks like to hear sorry when you’re having fun.

  Then Missus Wills’s face twists funny. She blinks, triple-quick, clasps her hands, and starts to cry.

  “Ma!” says Billy.

  Oh, I’m in so much trouble! I scoot toward the door.

  “I’m just so glad you’re well,” says Missus Wills, tears falling like spring rain. She hugs Billy, feathers and all.

  “I started it,” squeaks Billy. “Sugar—”

  “Hush. It’s all right. You’re well. I was so frightened I’d lose you.” She kisses Billy’s face. All over. Nose. Forehead. Cheeks.

  Billy blushes. “Ma, does this mean me and Sugar can play? Always?” he presses, his face sweet, his eyes wide, lashes batting, looking like one of them angels Reverend talks about.

  Missus Wills pulls back, holding Billy at arm’s length and looks at him, white, covered in white feathers; at me, black, covered in white feathers.

  I hold my breath.

  “When Sugar’s not working, you can play.”

  Billy Cuts Cane

  Through the summer, I could visit with Billy after working. He grew stronger.

  This morning, Billy’s joined us in the field again. Missus Wills shrieks like a hen chased by a fox. “Billy, you stop working this instant! Stop it. Mister Wills, stop him. He’s not well.”

  “Ma, I’m fine.” Billy’s working beside me. He’s wearing solid, good shoes; brown pants; and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up.

  “Billy. This work isn’t for you,” shouts Mister Wills.

  “How else am I going to learn about cane?”

  It’s late summer. The cane is ten feet high and for the next two months, we’ll work hard to feed the mill’s boiler. Each week our hours will get longer until, in the end, we’ll be working with no days off, all day and through the night.

  “Billy, owners don’t work the field.”

  “Why not?”

  “They just don’t,” blusters Mister Wills.

  “ ‘Times are changing,’ you said.”

  “Billy Wills,” thunders Mister Wills.

  River Road and Chinese folk are muttering, wondering who’s going to win: Billy or his pa?

  “Pa, I want to learn this.”

  “Are you sure, Billy?” I whisper.

  “Sure.”

  First mistake: Billy touches the cane wrong, and his hand bleeds. At least ten pricks bubble red.

  “It’ll stop,” I say. “Hold the cane near the base.”

  I know Billy’s hurting, but he’s not complaining.

  “Billy, do as your ma says.” But Mister Wills doesn’t order “Stop.”

  Chinese and River Road folk keep working. Billy does, too, like he can’t hear his ma at all. He takes the machete and swings.

  Second mistake: Billy’s first chop isn’t hard enough. He slices, hacks again and again. Finally, the cane breaks, and Billy grins, puts the piece in his bag.

 
I don’t tell Billy there are hundreds more cuts to go. Rows upon rows.

  I don’t tell him how the cane will become hills. How we’ll stop, stoop, and strain, and carry long stalks across our backs, and dump them into the wagon headed for the mill. Then start cutting cane all over again.

  “Billy, I’m going to grab you out these fields this instant,” says Missus Wills, her shawl falling to the ground, her hair escaping its pins.

  All of us workers are watching Missus Wills, trying not to show we’re watching.

  Billy focuses on his sore hand, the cane and machete.

  Missus Wills lifts her skirt, marching. Mister Wills grabs her. He whispers something. Missus Wills frowns, wraps her arms around herself, and stands, sweating unladylike in the hot sun.

  The Overseer walks up and down the cane rows, checking everyone’s work with his mean eyes.

  Not even an hour and Billy’s wincing, breathing hard. His face is beet red, his shirt, soaking wet.

  Mister Beale gives Billy his hat. It sits low, in line with his brows.

  “Thank you, Mister Beale,” Billy says, his eyes barely visible.

  “Pace yourself.”

  Billy nods. Side by side, we’re bobbing up and down, hacking cane. Soon Billy’s back is going to feel like a horse stepped on it. On his machete hand, blisters are popping.

  I give him a cloth strip. “Wrap your hand, Billy.”

  “Thanks.”

  The rag will blunt some of the pain.

  Mister Tom, the Overseer, snaps his whip, points his handle. He snarls so everybody can hear! “He’s slowing the pace.”

  “That’s my son,” says Mister Wills, snarling right back, his fingers tucked tight into his belt.

  “Billy won’t last,” mutters Mister Tom.

  Billy lasts. He slows, though; we all slow. The heat and flies are horrible.

  Billy wipes his face again and again. He rubs his sore hands on his pants. But he still cuts cane.

  I smile, but he doesn’t turn his head. He won’t look at me.

  “This work isn’t meant for a child,” shrieks Missus Wills.

  “That’s right,” says Mister Tom. “Billy should go back to the classroom. We’ll never make harvest with skinny Chinamen and old black grannies and grandpas.”

  “Tom, stop yakking,” shouts Mister Wills.

  “They’re taking advantage, Mister Wills.” The Overseer slaps his whip against his boot. “You can’t expect me to bring in a good harvest. Not with lazy workers. Your boy, Billy, isn’t helping.” He towers like a scarecrow. “He’s slowing the line.”