Page 18 of The Deadly Candies

Kathy obeyed, her fingers trembling as she shaped the biscuits—French-style, crossed like tiny church steeples.

“Ely, go on and get the men; we will be ready when you round ‘em up,” Big Mama said.

“Yes, ma’am, see you soon, Kathy,” he said, noticing her sadness.

“By Ely,” Kathy said softly.

Big Mama wiped her hands on her apron and came over. “What are those?”

“The French make them. You roll the dough and cross over. The biscuits bake, and with some butter and sugar glaze, they are a good breakfast treat.” Kathy explained.

“Your mama’s sisters could make a cake sing, pies too, best little bakers in Butts, all of them. It’s how she raised them,” Big Mama said, watching her. “Sweetness runs in y’all’s blood. That’s why my Henry followed your mama North. Couldn’t resist her sugar.”

Kathy glanced up, bracing for bitterness. After all, her daddy killed a white man for her mama—a sin that still haunted her daddy. But Big Mama’s face and voice held no blame. “Your daddy sent you here ’cause he loves ya,” she said softly. “Better this dirt than a white man’s grave.”

“But Carmelo ain’t like that!” The words burst out unintentionally, and she corrected her tone. “He’s Italian—different. Helovesme, Big Mama. We didn’t?—”

“Love?” Big Mama sank onto her stool, ankles swollen as overripe figs. “Chile, I buried five men. Two, I loved so deep it near kilt me. One, I had to put down cause he had the nerve to raise a hand to me. Love’s a summer breeze—feels good but doesn’t last long enough to stop the heat. What lasts?” She thumped her chest. “What’shere? I’ma teach ya grit.”

Kathy pressed her lips tight.Carmelo’s different, she screamed inside her head. But Big Mama had already turned the radio on—gospel voices swelling as she hummed and watched Kathy, absorbing the lessons on how the French make biscuits.

* * *

Twenty field handscrowded the porch—Black, white, faces leathered by the sun. Eight white boys, no older than her, shuffled in behind the rest, their overalls as frayed as anyone’s. Big Mama’s rule was simple:Hunger don’t see color.The men ate silently, quickly, their eyes flicking to Kathy until Ely’s glare shut it down.

The farm had always been a refuge for men with no kin, drifters chasing harvests, or souls too bruised to leave. They earned their keep in David Jensen’s fields from sunup to sundown, their sweat buying them a spot in the weathered cabins dotting the property. Big Mama’s kitchen fed them all, same as she’d done for thirty-odd years.“Ain’t charity,”she’d told Kathy earlier, counting coins from Jensen’s monthly envelope.“Just good business. Hungry men work mean; fed men work clean.”

Kathy lingered at the sink, scrubbing biscuit pans raw. As Ely approached, the clatter drowned out the creak of the floorboards.

“Kathy?”

She turned. Big Mama had retreated to her room an hour ago, her back bent like a willow branch. The house felt lighter without her watchful gaze and barking voice.

“Yeah?” Kathy said soft.

Ely dropped his hands deep in his pockets. “Big Mama wants me to take you into town when I drop the men at the fields. Get you some clothes for working. Then show you the lay of the land—fields, storage barn, the whole lot.” He hesitated, then softened. “You’ll start in the fields Wednesday… but I talked to my mama. She’ll put in a word with Miss Lottie. Get you moved to the washhouse ’stead.”

Kathy stared at the soapy water. The Jensens’ cotton rows stretched in her mind, endless and suffocating. Washing rich white people’s sheets from neighboring towns with the other girls meant blistered knuckles instead of sunburned shoulders, and neither felt like the life she’d known.

“Oh,” she said finally. The word hung between them, thin as porch-screen mesh.

Ely shifted, boots scraping hard floor. “Ain’t forever. Just till…” He trailed off. “Talked to Rev’rend Edwards ’bout the school. We lost our teacher, and it’s been closed for a season. I know Big Mama doesn’t want it, but the Rev always has a way of sweet-talking her. The kids really need it round here. So, he’ll?—”

“Don’t bother,” Kathy cut in. “Carmelo’s comin’ for me, Ely. I told you that. We leavin’ when he get here. Gonna sail for Sicily, then Spain, and then Africa in that order. Got a map he gave me that shows the path.”

Ely’s face fell like a dropped stone. She didn’t care. Let Big Mama preach survival. Let the Jensens own the dirt. She’d burn her dreams on hope before she let this place claim her.

Queens Hospital, Queens, New York – 1949

The antiseptic sting of bleach clung to the air, sharp enough to make Lucia Ricci’s eyes water as she adjusted her son’s pillow. Carmelo lay propped up in bed, his face a patchwork of bruises and swelling, his right leg suspended in a plaster cast. The doctors had wired his shattered jaw shut, silencing the boy who’d once hummed Sinatra tunes while polishing his father’s Cadillac. He would also need some false teeth on that side of his mouth. Lucky for them, the catholic church has stepped in to help at Cosimo’s request.

Now, Carmelo’s only voice was the frantic blink of his less-swollen eye—one for no, two for yes—and the guttural moans that escaped when the pain cut too deep.

Lucia smoothed his matted curls, her rosary beads clinking softly against the bedrail. “Mannaggia, look at you,” she whispered, her Neapolitan accent thickening with grief. “My beautiful boy.” She dipped a spoon into the lukewarm broth the nurses had brought, her hand steady. “Open you lips a little,piccirillo.”

Carmelo turned his head, a strangled sound rattling in his throat.

“Sweetheart,” Lucia huffed, though her touch stayed gentle. “Yourpadre… he’s a hard man, but he adores you. He wants you to be more careful and make wiser choices in the future.” The lie curdled on her tongue. She’d thrown out the bloody hammer herself.

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