Page 118 of The Deadly Candies

“He meant when his daddy's dead.” Debbie's laugh was bitter as burnt coffee. "And that is the fairytale Matteo keeps trying to sell me.”

Kathy's fingers twisted her apron strings into nooses. "I believehim."

"Then answer me straight - you love Ely?"

"God, no!"

Debbie grabbed Kathy's shaking hands. "Then that's your answer right there."

"You make it sound simple," Kathy whispered.

"Ain't nothing simple about it." Debbie's thumbs rubbed circles on Kathy's knuckles. "But you can't split your heart down the middle. These men? They don't do halves. You choose Carmelo, you choose war. You choose Ely..." Her voice dropped. "You choose a different kind of dying."

Kathy pressed their tangled hands to her heart. "I'm not choosing anyone over my family, but I won’t give up without a fight," she choked out. "Lord knows I'm trying."

* * *

Carmelo limped outta the shower,his ankle throbbing like a bad tooth. The bones mighta healed, but today's sparring proved some things don't ever come back right. He was toweling off when the voices caught his ear.

Leaning over the balcony rail, he spotted his Mama saying goodbye to Mrs. Romero. This woman seem always to be underfoot lately. His gut twisted with conflict. Mrs. Romero was a victim. His father’s brutal attack on her had permanently scarred Carmelo as well. He’d never do that to his mother or any woman. Yet, she grinned and pranced around their home and his father as if nothing happened. Whether his mother suspected Romero and his father of having something between them or not, letting that lady in her home after what he'd seen... it wasn't right. His mother deserved better'n this.

He threw on his clothes quick and took the stairs two at a time, the pain in his leg be damned. The kitchen smelled like heaven - garlic frying in olive oil, fresh pasta drying on the rack. His Mama hummed at the stove while Nino banged his spoon on the table.

"Madre?” Carmelo said.

"Eh, Melo! You eat a horse today?" She didn't turn from the gravy, her wooden spoon making slow circles.

“No, starved." He watched her carefully as he stepped closer. "Ma, we gotta talk."

"Not about that colored girl." The spoon clacked against the pot. "I ain't got the strength today."

"No, not Kathy.” He wiped his hands on his pants. "About Mrs. Romero."

Lucia's stirring didn't falter. "What about her?"

Carmelo swallowed hard. "She's no friend to you, Ma. I seen her with Pa before everything happened to me. Here. In his office.”

The wooden spoon froze mid-stir. When his mother finally turned, her eyes were black as espresso grounds. "Listen good,figlio mio. You don’t know what you saw. Your father breathes lies like other men breathe air. Matteo's got some tramp knocked up in Harlem with a child he can never bring here, pretends he can be king. That he can change all of it when he can’t. You?" She jabbed the spoon at him. "Sneaking calls to that girl like your father won't break both your hands when he gets the phone bill that I keep throwing away because they show you accepting calls from Mississippi."

Nino dropped his spoon with a clatter. Lucia never raised her voice, but the quiet cut deeper.

"You don't speak of Mrs. Romero and your father to anybody. Not your brother, not the priests, nobody." She flicked her wrist toward the hall that led out of the kitchen. "Now go wash up. Take Nino with you."

Carmelo stood rooted, his mouth dry as Sunday chicken. Mama knew. Christ Almighty, she'd known the whole damn time and remain friends with that woman? Let Pa walk around like he was some hero? Why? Why was she so willing to be miserable?

He didn’t understand her.

He secretly resented her for it.

The way she stayed with him in the hospital, making excuses for his suffering. The way she cringed at the thought of Matteo having a baby with Debbie. None of it reconciled, with the dutiful, Christian woman he knew to be so giving that she even donated to the colored and Irish families who didn’t have food or clothes in New York.

Who was she?

Really?

He hauled Nino up by his overall straps, stealing one last look at his mother, back straight, stirring that gravy like it was any other Tuesday night. The scent of simmering tomatoes suddenly made him sick.

35

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