Page 101 of The Deadly Candies

“Welcome home, Baby girl,” he said.

“Hi, Daddy!” she exclaimed.

“I missed you,” said Henry.

“I missed you guys, too!” Kathy exclaimed. The joy in her heart competed with the sadness, and joy won the battle. She was home and felt right again.

The Reunion

“Momma.” Henry’s voice cracked as he folded Big Momma into his arms. She smelled of Vicks VapoRub and the lavender sachets she’d tucked into her luggage.

“My baby,” she murmured, patting his clean-shaven cheek. “Look at you. All fancy.”

Henry laughed, with tears in his eyes that remained strained. His gaze flicked to Ely. “Ely, that you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He let go of Big Mama and gave him a proper handshake. His gaze cut over to Kathy, who noted a look of approval. She blinked, surprised by it. Ely was just a friend. Certainly, her father knew that.

Big Momma hugged Uncle Pete and loved on him. Then she sighed, “Can we please go? I cain’t take much more of this place. I needs peace, rest, and a warmed-up cup of rum.”

“Yes mam!” Uncle Pete replied. Henry took hold of Kathy’s luggage and kissed her on the cheek. “Glad you’re home baby,” she said again.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she blushed.

* * *

Uncle Pete loadedthe rocker into the trunk of Henry’s midnight-blue Cadillac, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Heard y’all had trouble in Tennessee.”

“Nothing the Lord didn’t see us through,” Big Momma said, settling into the back seat with a groan. Kathy slid in beside her, Ely to her right as Henry drove with Uncle Pete riding shotgun.

As they drove into Harlem, Big Momma pressed her palms to the window. “Look at them lights! Like fireflies in a jar.”

Kathy watched her—the way her eyes widened at the neon glow of the Apollo Theater, the way she chuckled at two old men arguing over a chessboard outside the Theresa Hotel. For the first time, Big Momma looked ten years younger than her age: not a sharecropper’s backbone, but a woman tasting freedom.

The Brownstone

Henry’s home was a four-story brownstone on Striver’s Row, its stoop swept clean, lace curtains fluttering from the open windows bringing in the night air. Inside, collards simmered on the stove, a proper welcome. A framed photo of Bumpy Johnson and a Black Jesus hung side by side in the foyer—one gaze imperious, the other forgiving.

But it was the crowd outside that stole Kathy’s breath. Neighbors packed the sidewalk, their voices buzzing like a revival tent. For a dizzying moment, she felt famous.

“Ely! There’s Chester!”Kathy pointed to the cluster of young men lingering near the stoop. Ely erupted—fist jammed to his mouth to stifle a laugh, shoulders shaking with joy. She grinned for him, but her eyes kept searching, darting past faces until?—

There.

Her mother stood on the stoop, hands clasped under her chin, fresh tears glistening on her cheeks.

“Mama!”Kathy’s scream tore through the noise. She shoved free of the crowd, heels skidding on concrete before she found her footing. Up the stairs in two bounds, then crashing into her mother’s arms. They clung to each other, sobs loud and unashamed, hands gripping fabric like they’d never let go of each other again.

Henry froze by the car, the ropes for Big Momma’s rocking chair slack in his hands. He stared up at his wife and daughter—at the joy etched into their faces, a joy born from sufferinghe’dforced on them. The guilt hit so hard he had to blink three times, fast, to keep his tears from falling.

“Your baby girl’s home.”

The voice came from behind Henry, smooth as bourbon over gravel. He turned to seeBumpy Johnsonstanding there,Tucklooming at his side like a shadow. Bumpy’s Cadillac—stretched and parallel-parked at the curb—gleamed under the streetlight. A toothpick danced between Bumpy’s teeth as he stared up at Kathy and her mother, clutching each other on the stoop. Then his gaze slid to Henry, slow and deliberate.

“How long she stayin’?”

“She’s here for the wedding. Like I told you. I got this.”Henry’s jaw tightened.

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