Page 3 of The Deadly Candies

“I really do like your mama. She knows how to protect her baby,”Sadie grunted.“But even the best preparations don’t always work well in the South.”

The bus lurched, and Kathy gripped the seat.Outside, snow blurred the skeletal trees.

“How’d your mama learn to read? Schoolin’?”Sadie asked suddenly.

“Taught herself. With a Bible.”Kathy’s voice softened.“She’d trace the letters and scriptures on my palm at night as a game between us. Had me reading at four, she said. Said words were seeds—plant ’em right in your head, they grow your mind. It’s freedom to go anywhere you want with a book and your imagination.”

Sadie snorted. “Freedom.”She pulled a creased paper from her purse—a travel permit stamped with a New York politician’s seal.“This here’s my ‘freedom.’ Had to show it three different times during my travels every time I passed Jersey. Cops tossed my bags, called me liar… till they sawhisname.”

Kathy’s throat tightened.“They hurt you?”

“Once.”Sadie’s hand tightened on the work papers.“Till my boss got that pig fired. Now, I travel to do work for the family when they vacation in New York. And then work for them during the year in D.C. Good wages. Put six boys through college at Howard University. They want me to stop working, they’re scared for me on these buses. But I ain’t scared of anyone. And the lord set me on this path for the wounded birds like you. Traveling and don’t know how to be safe.”

Kathy wanted to askhow—how a Black woman survived living a life like this, how hope didn’t curdle to rage—but Sadie dealt out a deck of cards.

“Go Fish,”she said,slapping the cards between them.“Take your mind off that boy and the cold coming in from that window.”

Kathy forced a smile, butCarmelo’s face flickered in every shuffle—his crooked grin, the intensely caring eyes.Where is he now?

“Trouble don’t last always,”Sadie muttered, laying down a queen of hearts.

Kathy nodded, fingering her ring.But love might.

3

Queens, New York – 1949

“Carmelo? Melo, you okay?”

Kathy’s voice was a whisper, her hand feather-light on his cheek.It was the first thing he felt through the fog of pain.His good eye fluttered open, the other swollen shut.He didn’t need a mirror to know his face was a map of bruises—his father’s handiwork, carved into his skin for daring to love her.

The hospital room reeked of antiseptic,a sharp, sterile stench that clawed at his throat.His body felt heavy and numb, like it didn’t belong to him anymore.But his mind?That was a storm.Every punch, every curse, every crack of his father’s ring against his skull played on a loop.

And then there she was, Kathy.

Her face hovered above his,tears glistening like diamonds in the dim light.She smiled, but the smile trembled at the edges.“It’s me. I’m here. It’s a miracle.”

Carmelo tried to speak. The tube in his mouth choked the words.All he could do was swallow,his throat raw from screaming.

“My parents understood,”Kathy said, her voice breaking.“Your father… he apologized when he saw how bad it was. They brought me back. Brought me to you.”She leaned closer,her breath warm against his ear.“They’re going to let us get married, Melo. We’re going to be together.”

His good eye filled with tears.He blinkedonce or twice like he was trying to wake himself up.This couldn’t be real.

Kathy pressed her lips to his forehead, her tears dropping onto his face.“I’m sorry, mycaro,”she whispered.“I’m so sorry you suffered because of me. I love you, Melo. You’re my lion. No. You’re like Tarzan the Great, or David who defeated Goliath. No one, no way, can they hold you down. I’m going to be your wife. I’ll take care of you. I swear it. Until death do us part.”

He blinked again, his only answer.Her tears felt like kisses,soft and sweet, washing away the horror.

For the first time since the beating, he relaxed.The pain, the fear, the anger—it all melted under her touch.He’d forgive the devil himself if it meant having his angel would be his future.And now he felt himself healing.

Every bruise, every broken bone, every scream—it was worth it.

Carmelo’sgood eye flickered open. The ghost of Kathy’s touch still lingered on his skin, her voice echoing like a hymn in his shattered mind. But the hospital room dragged him back—the stench of iodine, the metallic whirl of machines, the cold weight of broken limbs his body had become.

A shadow shifted.

Pa.

Don Cosimo Ricci stood in the gray light of the window, his fedora tilted low, obscuring his eyes. For a heartbeat, Carmelo wondered if this visit was in purgatory—a place where fathers who broke their sons came to rot.

---