Page 15 of The Deadly Candies

“Yeah, I’m hungry, let’s go,” Daphne said.

“What happened to the repast food?” Sandra tucked the diary in the drawer.

“Probably next to Junior’s half-baked excuses,” Daphne snorted, reapplying her fruity-smelling lip gloss. “Dummy was the one to close it up and bring the food in; he made me go home when his friends arrived and started drinking.”

As Sandra pulled on her shoes, Daphne chewed her chipped Flair nail polish.

“Sandra…” Daphne’s voice cracked. “You ever really wonder ’bout your daddy?”

Sandra froze as she was putting her makeup in her purse. “What part about daddy?”

“Vietnam?” Daphne asked.

Sandra lowered her gaze. “I don’t think about that.”

“Sorry,” Daphne said. “The Penny Man… uh Butcher, was in Vietnam too. I heard Mama talk about how bad it was for the men then and how it messed them up. She talked about it with Aunt Kathy a lot. She said your daddy and the Butcher were in Vietnam together.”

“Really?” Sandra paused.

“Yep. Heard them one day when she thought I was too little to understand. The thing is… well… Aunt Kathy never talked about your father. Ever. She would get this look on her face and leave the room. That’s why I remember it. Mama was always wanting to talk about Vietnam, and it hurt Aunt Kathy’s feelings. Really bad.”

That news stung, Kathy. Many times, she asked her mother about her father and the war, and her mother would change the subject. It was something between her and her mother that she never understood or forgave.

“The diaries. I guess that’s how I will find out what happened to Daddy,” Sandra said softly. “Did Uncle José go to the war?”

“Nope. He went to college, Mama said. Didn’t have to go. He was a good daddy,” Daphne said, her voice dropping. “But… you hear things.”

“Like what?” asked Sandra.

“Like how the Butcher and Mama were cheating on Daddy.” She hugged herself, gold bangles clinking. “Lies. Mama is a lot of things but she ain’t a whore. Daddy and the Butcher were friends. And Mama was never with a man other than Daddy, I can tell you that.” Daphne sighed and sat down on the bed. She looked into the drawer where the diary was tucked inside. “What if we’re digging up bones that should stay buried?”

Sandra sat beside her, their shoulders brushing. The bed groaned, older than the ’68 riots, older than the March on Washington, older than them both. “You said it yourself—dominoes fall whether we watch them fall or not.”

Daphne forced a smile, sudden as a TV sign-off. “Change clothes. Wear the dress. The yellow one. You’re Kathy Freeman’s daughter; you need to go into that bakery with style like Auntie always did.”

As Sandra changed, Daphne eyed the diary drawer. Outside, kids chanted Double Dutch rhymes—“Strawberry shortcake, cream on top…”—their joy a counterpoint to the secrets festering inside. What good was the truth when you lived your entire life with a lie? Junior said the Butcher killed their father. If she learned that this was true and that her mother had let it happen, it would destroy her world. Maybe she ought to find a way to stop Sandra from reading all the diaries.

* * *

Daphne’s1975 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supremegleamed under the Harlem sun, its metallic bronze paint catching the light like liquid gold. The car was far flashier than anything else on the block, where most folks drove beat-up Chevys or took the bus. Sandra slid into the passenger seat, her fingers brushing the custom white leather upholstery. The scent of new car—vinyl and polish—mixed with Daphne’s signature Love’s Baby Soft perfume.

“Mama got it for me,” Daphne said, catching Sandra’s wide-eyed look. “Said it was for doing so well running the beauty shop. Junior picked it out at the dealership. Mama paid in cash.”

“Cash? For a Cutlass?” Sandra frowned, her mind flashing to the penthouse suite where she’d found Aunt Debbie half-dressed and entangled with Matteo Ricci. This car—plush, extravagant, and dripping with status—felt like something a mobster would gift.

“Yes,” Daphne grinned, adjusting her oversized sunglasses. “The beauty shop’s doingrealgood.”

Sandra raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, she asked, “What kind of car does Junior have?”

Daphne snorted. “He doesn’t. The first one got stolen, and he wrecked the last two, racing them, and they were fancy. Mama was pissed. Told him he could catch the train. So now he either drives his girlfriend’s car or mine—and I do mydamnbest to make sure he doesn’t drive mine.”

Sandra chuckled. Junior’s antics were legendary.

Of course, Sandra’s visits home were usually brief—holidays and special events. Only in the summer did she stay long enough to reconnect with her cousins. The cars they drove were different each time, but Sandra never paid much attention. She didn’t even know how to drive. The city bus was her life. Her mother had offered to buy her a car, but Sandra wanted to do it her way—on her own terms.

“Do you know how to drive now?” Daphne asked, glancing at her as they cruised down the street, past storefronts blasting disco and salsa.

“Nope,” Sandra said, staring out the window at the vibrant chaos of Harlem—vendors, kids, men from the Nation of Islam in bow ties selling bean pies. A mix of people walking fast on the sidewalk, and old men playing dominoes on overturned milk crates.

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