Page 23 of Kandie Shoppe

“I’m super excited,” she says, all bubbly.

“Why didn’t you come to Sunday dinner? You know Mama-Pete already said that church is not a prerequisite.” I make my voice gentle, knowing this is an ongoing battle with my sister, who knew firsthand how unreliable and unaccepting family could be. Only for Daddy those thoughts were clouded by his illness. Our family came through, only he never got to see that. Fleeing with Mommy and Nikki, then losing Mom — his rock soon after only increased his paranoia. He couldn’t keep it together long enough to come and get us. From what Nikki said, he had grandiose fantasies about us reuniting, but could never make it happen because he would have a setback. She told me his last clear instruction was telling her to come find us. I’m kind of glad he never knew Kerania was also lost. I have never been able to say she died because I still see her in my dreams and as crazy as it seems, I can still feel her.

If I hadn’t seen the evidence, I would swear she’s still alive. The only reason I stopped insisting she was alive was because I thought they would put me in Bryce Hospital the same way they did Mommy and Daddy.

“I had a lot to do. Next week I promise.” I know she’ll keep her word.

“I’ll make your favorite pecan pie and—” I start to list her favorites.

“Kandie, you don’t have to make me anything. In fact, if you do, I’m not coming,” her firm voice cuts through. “You don’t have to make me anything for me to come see you. In fact, youdon’t have to do anything, big sis.” Her soft words hit me right in the unhealed wounds of abandonment and self-worth I’ve left open and bleeding for all to see.

“Well.” I can’t form words. “At least let me make something special for your graduation.”

“Now that you can do. Nothing elaborate though and just for me, don’t try to feed everyone. Promise me.” I can just imagine the steely determination on her face.

“Sounds a little selfish but okay,” I say before we say our goodbyes.

How is it I feel better and worse at the same time? Do I do that? Try to win people over by baking things for them? Is that why I offered to make Marlene whatever she craved? Offered to make Aliah something special for her birthday. Is that why I give more away than I sell at bake sales and find myself barely breaking even some months?

Mulling over my sister’s words, it takes me a moment to realize I hear distinct male voices speaking in Spanish. One thing I know for sure is that every business is closed and Mr. and Mrs. Lopez’s little flower shop is not open on Sundays and they don’t have a delivery until Tuesday, just like me. So why are people talking behind our businesses?

Making sure the metal chair doesn’t squeak, I creep over to the roof facing the back of our businesses.

Peeking between my pretty hydrangea, sunflower, and daffodil planters I bite my lip until it bleeds watching Ulysses’ no-good ass take a thick ass envelope straight from the hands of Angel Cruz the president of the local outlaw biker club who is rumored to be in the cartel. Leaning forward, I try to listen, having picked up Spanish from the messed-up children’s home all those years ago. Thanks to my memory, I never forgot it or anything else that happened all those years ago. At least some good came out of it.

“We’ll meet at the same warehouse as last time,” Angel is saying in Spanish. “That’s five bands.”

“How many this time?” Ulysses seems to be frowning. What, fifty-K not enough for your dirty ass? I think to myself.

“Maybe two and a half dozen,” Angel says so coldly, I shiver. How he can trade his own people like this is frightening. It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s talking about moving people across the border.

“That’s too many,” Ulysses complains, but his ass has no problem stuffing the envelope that’s too big for his pocket in the back of his jeans, then pulling his shirt down over it.

“Be glad it’s not fifty. We are lucky it’s not more,” Angel says dryly.

“What about that other thing I asked for?” I hear Ulysses ask with an urgency I’ve never heard before.

“Ah, anything for your mom.” Then Angel pauses, pulling out a much smaller packet. It rattles like pills. “It is for your mom, right? You ain’t on this shit, are you? I don’t deal with junkies.” Angel’s cold deadly voice has me leaning over further too far because the daffodil starts falling before I have a chance to grab it. Like a dumbass, I stay leaning over the side a moment too long as both men hear the loud scrap of the planter sliding from the roof and look up at the same time. I pull back, but not before my eyes lock with a glacial blue gaze.

I snatch myself back so hard I fall against the little table, jostling my glass of wine enough that it topples from the table, crashing into a thousand bits on the concrete roof.

My heart is thumping a thousand beats a minute as I scramble up from where I fell. All I hear is their words about trafficking people. Thirty people. Jeeze Louise.

My heart hurts. As I climb down the fire escape leading back to the small balcony outside of my loft, I realize the reason I can’t see is because I’m crying. Am I crying because there are thirtypeople being trafficked or because the man I only called a dirty ass cop to get under his skin has actually turned out to be one?

No sooner than I enter my place from the French doors I had custom-made and put in by my uncle Charles is someone banging on my door.

“Who is it?” I deliberately change the cadence of my words, so that I sound way more tipsy than I am.

“You know who it is,” comes the hard voice through the door. I grab a half-full bottle of Cooper and Thief I opened when I got home from Sunday dinner at my grandparents’ house.

Other than my incident, we talked about the upcoming revival and the guest preacher Rev. Tim Davis who is what Mama-Pete calls a souls deliverer which Oz’s crazy-ass chimed in to say, “I can guarantee between the three of us at this table that we’ve brought more souls to the Lord than him.” Which earned him a swat from Mama-Pete and a chuckle from Pa-Pete.

Revival is next week but I won’t be able to attend since it runs across my business hours and though Oz is here, he’s going to be coming and going. Pa-Pete assured me my cousin Ezekiel-Jane would be here, so I don’t have to worry about taking Mama-Pete and risk getting put in jail for driving without a license. That’s the least of my worries with the law around these parts.

“Whatchu want, Ulysses?” I singsong, swinging the door open wide. There’s no equally big biker behind him, so I breathe a little internal sigh of relief. My chances won’t be much better, but I maybe can talk myself out of trouble.

“Why were you on the roof?” He looks behind me into my loft, taking in every aspect of my space. I can’t help thinking he’s judging me in some way. Why that bothers me, I don’t take the time to evaluate.

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