Beau stands, blood trickling down the side of his face. The two men stare, Mister Tom intense, Beau confident like Yellow Dragon.
Billy hollers, “If my pa were here, he’d fight you. If my pa were here.”
“Quiet, Billy. He isn’t here,” I say.
“Pa would teach him a lesson,” Billy repeats stubbornly.
“Your pa won’t teach me nothing,” snarls Mister Tom, his thick face inches from Billy’s. Billy steps back. “Your pa fired me. Replaced me with a child. Your pa’s going to get what’s coming to him. You wait.
“Yellow isn’t better than white. Not ever. You hear that, Chinaman.”
“Chinese,” I say.
“Shut up.”
Beau says simply—not too loud, not too soft—“We are leaving.”
The muzzle rises. Right at Beau’s heart.
“We leave,” Beau says, clasping me and Billy’s hands.
I imagine blood blooming on Beau’s chest. A small circle getting bigger and bigger. Then, me next. Red flowing.
The barrel rakes against Beau’s chest; Mister Tom is pushing hard, bruising skin. His finger twitches. All he has to do is pull the trigger.
Mister Tom wants to—he wants to—I know it—he wants to—he wants to pull, pull, snap the trigger.
Beau doesn’t seem scared.
Mister Tom releases his finger, lowers the gun.
He’s disappointed. I can tell. Like he wanted Beau to cry.
“Your time’s coming,” says Mister Tom, looking at Beau, then me. He moves backward into the brush, like we were snapping gators. The dead squirrel’s head bounces, dried blood on his head, his beady eyes black.
“Why didn’t you fight him? Why? Why didn’t you?” Billy’s asking Beau.
Beau keeps walking.
“My pa would’ve fought.”
“He would’ve lost,” I say.
“Still, he would’ve fought. Aw, Beau, how come you didn’t fight?” Billy whines.
Beau keeps walking. I’m running behind.
Beau’s disappointed Billy, just like Beau disappointed the Overseer. “Leave Beau alone, Billy. Leave him alone.”
“I’m not talking to you, Sugar.”
“Your pa wouldn’t fight. He doesn’t have to—he owns everything.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Billy Wills, you’re dumber than a rock.”
Billy shoves me. I shove him back. Then me and Billy are fighting, rolling on the ground.
Beau pulls us apart. “No fighting. No fighting.”
I cry, “If Beau fought and lost, what would’ve happened to us. To me?”
All the fear that’d been running deep inside moves through my body like syrup through cane.
The blood above Beau’s eyes is clumpy, red-black.
“You were worried for Sugar?” sniffs Billy.
“Yes,” says Beau. “And you, too. Wise men don’t fight unequal battle. You lose before you have chance to win.”
“Next time we’ll invite a dragon.”
“One that breathes fire,” says Billy.
Family
I’m surrounded by my River Road family, Chinese and African. Misters Zheng and Petey play checkers; Mister Chin slices vegetables; across the yard, Reverend and Master Liu whittle fishing poles.
Missus Beale insists me and Beau snap beans. Sitting on the shack steps, we crack them. Jade, lying between us, purrs.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, pointing at the cut above Beau’s eye.
“All fine.”
“Mister Zheng’s brother hit him with a rock. I wish I’d a brother.”
“Why not me?” asks Beau.
“You?”
I snap beans. Snap, snap, crack. “Will your sister mind? Would she be my sister, too?”
Beau sets aside the bowl of beans. “My sister died. Just five. Long ago.”
I slip my hand into Beau’s. Even with the cut Beau looks kind, not mean, gentle, not harsh. I think, Beau smells of cane like everyone else. But he also smells of ginger.
Holding his hand makes me feel safe.
“Did your sister like to play?”
“Always. Didn’t like sleep. Just play.”
Beau puts Jade in my arms. I sigh. Jade is velvet.
“Baby dragon,” says Beau.
I bury my smile in Jade’s fur. “Brother Beau.” I like saying that.
“Ox and Monkey, good bond. Very strong.”
“Ox? You’re an Ox?”
“Ox, patient. Good fellow. Needs smart Monkey.”
Beau extends his hand. My palm and fingers curl around his.
“Sister Sugar.” I like hearing that.
“Brother Beau.”
Come evening, I study the stars. Billy taught me to see Orion and Pegasus, the flying horse. I search for rabbits, cats, and monkeys.
Kerosene lamps flicker. Fireflies dodge among tree limbs. The air is moist, hot. Everyone lingers outside. No one wants to go inside, sleep, even though we know there’s work tomorrow.
“Sister Sugar, gift.”
Beau hands me a roll of soft paper. I uncurl it on the porch. Black ink has made shapes. Outlines of places. Swirls of water. Mountain peaks.
I point. “China.” I remember the shapes Beau drew in the dirt. “America.
“Thank you, Beau.”
He points to the bottom corner:
I’ve seen this picture before. “My name?”
Beau hands me a quill. Feathers on one end; sharp point on the other. He opens a case, spits, then mixes it with a stick. “Sugar,” he says. “Sugar.” He’s encouraging me again.
I think Beau must really be my brother. He knows exactly what I need.
I dip the quill in the black paste, especially where it’s soft and runny.
On the map, I write:
“Mercy, Sugar, did Beau teach you that?” asks Mister Beale. “Come see. Everyone, come see. Sugar can write.”
River Road folks are peering over my shoulder, staring at my marks.
“That’s my name.” Not drawn perfect. Not as pretty as Beau’s.
Restless, my stomach turns. I lean closer, studying the boundaries. Voices—Chinese and African—fade. Mouths move, but I can’t hear words. Just my own heart. I think I hear Beau’s heart, too. And Jade’s heartbeat, racing happily, happily next to me.
Amazing. A map of the world.
I whisper into Beau’s ear, “Where can I go, Beau?”
“Anywhere.”
Almost Done
We’re all working. Beau’s in front of me and Mister Beale behind me. We’re moving as one. Cut-cut-cutting cane. Bodies just move. Not much time to think. No play. Or sleep. Another season is coming to an end.
Billy, our Overseer, runs everywhere, making sure the cane gets cut, the line stays in rhythm and together. His pa is proud.
Manon and Annie feed us. They work hard over the community fire, making gumbo, red beans, and rice. Annie even tried to make dumplings. They weren’t very good, but everybody ate them anyway.
I’ve made a new work song:
Cut-cut-China. Cut-cut-ocean.
Cut-cut-America. Louisiana, too.
Cut-cut-north. Cut-cut-south.
If sugar can sail, I can, too.
Whack. The cane is cut, starts to fall. Whack. I pull it loose, lay it on a stack.
Flies, bees. Too much sun. I pull my hat lower, wrap cotton around my face, leaving only my eyes to see.
Mister Beale drags and throws cane into the hand-push wagon. Master Liu and Mister Petey bend, push up and down on the metal rod, making the wagon inch down the rails to the sugar mill. Up, down, up, down, over and over. Just like whack-whack-whack over and over.
Sunrise to sundown. Lamps and campfires bloom all night. Everyone works, weaving, swaying. Until their eyes droop into sleep.
Mister Beale tries to catch folks before they hit the ground. Machetes are sharp.
Hay mattresses are on the big house porch. An hou
r of sleep, no more!
We all work hard. Before rains come. Before frost. Before cane starts rotting and the sugar inside it turns bitter.
In the mill house, Mister Waters boils syrup. Mister Zheng feeds the fire. Missus Celeste rakes the sugar to dry, then separates brown and white crystals. White sugar brings more money. Once we finish cutting, the mill will keep busy. Tons of sugar will have to be packed into sacks for shipping.
My knees ache, my back hurts; my hands are cut; my face, scratched.
“Push,” hollers Mister Beale. “We’re almost done.” Cut, snap, crack that cane.
Like magic, the Chinese unleash their energy and race ahead. Whack. Cut. Cut. Cut. I marvel at how beautiful they look. Twisting bodies, swinging arms. Every one of them is so fast, so strong.
River Road folks are beautiful, too. Age slows them. But they, too, are giving all they can.
Me and Billy grunt. Whack.
I can’t sing. I can’t speak. Whack-whack-whack.
I hate, hate, hate sugar! Then I grin. Whack!
My friend Billy works beside me. Sugar brought the Chinese men. Brought Beau.
It’s getting harder to hate sugar.
Dawn. We’ve worked through the night.
“Last row, last row,” shouts Mister Beale.
Everybody roars, whacking. Chinese, River Road folks, Mister Wills, Billy—everybody is hacking the very last row!
The cane falls like sad sticks, tumbling, tumbling down.
“Best Overseer I ever had!” Mister Wills pats Billy’s back.
Billy hugs his pa. Weary, even us workers grin.
Harvest is done.
Happy?
Billy!” I scream at the big house. “We’re celebrating. We’re going to have a bonfire. You’ve got to come. We’ll have dragon, Br’er Rabbit tales.”
“I’m coming, Sugar,” shouts Billy, coming out the door and leaping off the porch.
“Billy Wills, you come back here.”
“Aw, Ma.”
Missus Wills is on the porch. “Wait. Can’t go visiting without taking food. Manon and Annie fixed a basket.”
Billy doesn’t want to wait, but I don’t mind waiting for food.
“Go on, Billy,” Mister Wills shouts from the upstairs window. “We’ll have Manon bring the basket.”
Me and Billy start running.
“Sugar!”
I halt. “Mister Wills, I didn’t do nothin’ wrong!”
“Me, either,” says Billy, though his name wasn’t even hollered!
“Be good, Sugar. No trouble.”
We run like lightning. Moonlight guides our path.
“Let’s make a ruckus,” says Billy.
I don’t answer. I just run harder. I’m going to beat Billy Wills.
The fields of cane are all cut. Hacked-down stalks stretch into the distance.
We’ve worked hard the whole season. Spring. Summer. Fall.
Tonight, Mister Waters will let the cauldron cool. Missus Celeste will stop sorting crystals. We’ll all celebrate. A special extra night of rest—Billy convinced his pa. Afterward, the final cooking, boxing of sugar to ship to the world.
I’m already planning off-season. I’ll practice writing, Chinese and English. Make new games with Billy. Raft. I’m going to learn to say “My name is Sugar” in Chinese.
Bellies stuffed, me and Billy sit on my shack steps. The bonfire, six feet high, burns beautiful, like a nighttime sun.
Master Liu, Mister Chin, and Beau have made Chinese lanterns. Sticks and paper boxes of color that glow red and yellow. Gold threads dangle from their four corners.
Mister Zheng smokes a pipe with Mister Beale. Missus Wills hands potato pie to Master Liu. Missus Thornton passes sugar squares. All the Chinese take one.
Missus Thornton puckers her mouth; she offers me a square. I take one, too. Missus Thornton smiles like she’s gone to heaven.
I bite. I don’t like it. Sickly sweet. “Thank you, Missus Thornton,” I say, hiding the remains in my shawl.
Billy takes two and stuffs his mouth. “Mmmm. Good.”
“Sister Sugar. Billy.”
Beau doesn’t shout, but I can tell his voice anywhere. It cuts through the pop-crackle of the fire, folks chattering. He’s hiding something behind his back.
“I have a present. For both of you.”
“It’s like Christmas,” says Billy.
“Both of you must make it work.”
“Work? I’m tired of work.”
“Different kind of work, Sugar. See. Dragon’s head.” Whoosh. He pulls out a yellow dragonhead with big eyes, a red tongue, and pointed ears. “His tail.” Whoosh. Beau lifts high a flowing yellow tail. It’s like a kite’s tail, but longer, with flaps that flutter.
“In China, we celebrate dragon. We cover ourselves, like this”—Beau swoops the dragon head over his face—“and use side sticks to shake and bend the dragon’s head.”
Beau starts stomping around the yard. Firelight makes the dragon’s head glow. River Road folks are awestruck. “Beautiful.” “Wonderful.”
Beau is a yellow big-headed, big-eyed, big-mouthed dragon.
“Let me, let me,” I plead.
Beau laughs. “Who will be the head? And who will be the tail?”
“I’m the head,” says Billy.
“No, me.”
“Take turns,” says Beau.
Billy grabs the head and I scowl. I hold the two sticks and pull the long tail over my head and back.
“Shake, Sugar.”
I shake. The tail wiggles and flows, and the flaps flutter and slap.
Billy moves first, his dragon’s head bobbing. I skip to keep up so it won’t look like the dragon’s tail fell off! Billy starts stomping—bam-bam-bam. I stomp, too. Soon our dragon is moving fierce. Bam-bam-bam. The head is swaying side to side, up and down; the tail is flopping low and high, spinning all around.
River Road folks clap, shout with joy.
Me and Billy make the best dragon.
“My turn to tell story,” says Beau. “Another tale of how Dragon helped Emperor.”
“Emperor Jade?” I ask. “Where’s Jade? Jade wants to hear the story, too. Jade,” I start calling. But Jade is nowhere!
“We’ll wait, Sugar,” says Beau. “Jade can’t be far.”
“I’ll help,” says Billy. “I’ll check near the house, Sugar. You check near the mill.”
I’m off, running, calling, “Jade. Jade.”
Jade has become family, too. When he’s near, I feel calm.
“Jade.” I look beneath bushes, up in trees. Jade isn’t at the well. Isn’t in the garden. Isn’t on the path.
I still hear River Road folks happy, having a good time. Mister Wills’s voice booms; Master Liu is chirping high. Mister Beale chuckles, a deep bass.
I keep running toward the mill, hollering, “Jade. Come hear about the Emperor. Dragons.”
It’s a full moon. My shadow runs beside me. My legs are strong; my shift flares. I run across shadows of bare branches, bushes, and stones.
Smoke irritates my nose.
Something makes me stop, spin around. I feel haunted, like some doom is following me. I can’t hear any people. Only rustling. Maybe birds settling in trees? Branches snapping. Maybe a rabbit settling to ground? I hear shrieks. Some animal—mouse?—trying to escape. From what? An owl.
I keep running. “Jade! Come out.”
Dark and darker shadows. There are no lamps, no campfire or bonfire. No candles. Only moonlight, wind, quivering branches and leaves.
I’m all alone. Nobody’s moving but me.
I’m starting to feel scared.
Ahead, the mill looms, even bigger than the plantation house. Black wood, black metal roof with chimney spouts for escaping steam and sugar smoke.
I see light.
The mill’s supposed to be dark.
The light sways. Someone’s inside, carrying a light.
“Who’s there?” I shout.
Someone’s in the mill when they aren’t supposed to be.
They don’t want to be seen. This worries me. I don’t want to be blamed for other people’s trouble.
I start tiptoeing backward.
Meow.
I can’t help but coo, “Jade? Here, Jade. Here, kitty, kitty.”
More meows. Screeching, lamenting like Billy’s violin. Jade sounds as scared as I feel.
The lamp flickers again, floating low then high. High, higher. The lamp crashes down. Flames shoot up.
I gasp.
Fire.
Jade! I start running toward the huge mill doors.
A door slams open. Mister Tom pushes past me.
“What’d you do? What’d you do?” I yell.
Mister Tom snarls, “Get out of my way.” His face is pale, his hair slicked black. He raises his hand; I duck.
Jade cries, pitiful.
“No sugar’s leaving here. Tell Wills I done it. I don’t care. Blacks should keep their place.”
Mister Tom looks awful. Angry, scared. Hurt. Evil, like the devil, all mixed up. “Not sorry,” he says, disappearing into the night shadows.
Beyond the mill doors, flames are licking high. Red, yellow, blue. Kerosene has spilled on the floor; flames are spreading, lighting the kindling and branches beneath the three kettles, and burning empty and filled canvas bags of sugar.
Jade yowls, but I can’t see him.
“Sugar!” Billy’s running, cutting across the grass.
“Fire, Billy. Ring the bell. Ring the bell!”
Billy halts, shouts, “What about you?”
“Jade’s inside. I’ve got to help him.”
“No, Sugar! No!”
Smoke rolls out the door in thick waves.
“Ring the bell,” I scream. “Get help.” Inhaling, I pinch my nose and duck inside. The heat stuns me. Fire sounds like thunder. Except it doesn’t fade—it grows louder and louder. Flames lick the walls, the empty cauldron. Cane, stacked along the walls, curls and burns. Sacks of sugar melt. The cauldron’s fire is lit, burning ghostly blue-red.
Sugar Page 11
