Page 6 of The Deadly Candies

“No Cosimo. No… I only want…”

“You think I don’t know what’s behind the smile Lucia? The pretty dress, the soft words?” Cosimo held her hand. “You think I can’t tell that you flinch when I reach for you in the night.”

“Ti amo Cosimo,”she said.

“Maybe. Maybe you do. I’m not worthy. I won’t say this to Carmelo, to anyone, not even Father Michael. I can only say it to you. Because you knew me before.” He touched her face. She recoiled inside but clenched her free hand into a fist to make sure she didn’t flinch. “You knew me. I love our boy with everything in me. More than Matteo. More than Nino. He is my son. I see it in him. All of this I build for him. But when he stood before me and said he’d rather piss on this legacy... something happened Lucia. Something I wish I could have stopped. Something that I will never forget or forgive myself from.”

Lucia took her husband face in her hands. Tears slipped down her cheeks. She held his face. “I know you want to rule the world Cosimo, and you just might. But we are you family. You can’t rule us with your fists and hammers. You must do it with your heart. Let me heal our son. I will bring him back to you. Make him strong again. And that girl will never be mentioned ever again. Let me fix it for the family.”

Cosimo pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight. Lucia felt as if she had her true love back for a brief moment. But she knew in her heart that the boy from their village was gone. Cosimo was empty inside, and so was her heart for him.

“Va bene, fix our boy. Bring him home. I will speak to DeMarco. I will keep a man posted outside of his door. I need you Lucia” he said and started to kiss her face. She tried to pull away, but he was pulling down the zipper to her dress. She closed her eyes and prayed for a distraction. Before it came, he was bringing her down to the floor and stripping away her dress and forcing himself on her. Lucia did her best to respond in the ways he liked. She’d pay any price to save her son’s life.

Kathy’s Sweets – Harlem

The bakery was alive with the familiar rhythms Brenda usually found comforting—the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of sheet pans, the sweet scent of rising dough. Today, it all felt hollow.

Gladys turned from the fridge, her dark eyes softening when she saw Brenda’s face. "My son’s here with Henry."

Brenda nodded, mechanically wiping down a counter that didn’t need cleaning.

"It’s too soon for you to be back," Gladys murmured, pressing a warm hand to Brenda’s shoulder. "Let me and Claudia handle things for a few days. Get off your feet for a spell."

Brenda’s fingers curled around the damp rag. "If I stop moving, I’ll drown." Her voice cracked on the last word. The empty house had been suffocating—Kathy’s hair ribbons still on the dresser, her half-finished library book splayed open on the desk in her room.

Gladys pulled Brenda into a hug, the starch of her bakery uniform scratching Brenda’s cheek. "Talk to Henry, sweet baby," she whispered, her voice heavy with sorrow. "Make him face what he done. He’ll go get her. I know that man’s heart."

Brenda didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted to the stove where she’d taught Kathy how to lace a cherry cupcake with poison. The memory curdled in her stomach.This is my punishment,she thought.But why did it have to fall on her? Take me, lord, instead.

Henry’s shadow filled the kitchen doorway. "Babe?"

She broke free of Gladys and wiped at her tears with her back to Henry. She turned the gas knobs with exaggerated care, though she’d checked them twice already. "Almost ready."

“Night Henry, see you tomorrow,” Gladys said and gave him a brief hug then kiss to the cheek.

“Night Gladys,” Henry replied.He hovered; his usual confidence sanded down to something raw. When they were alone, after he heard the chime on the door announce Gladys and her son left, he spoke: "Maybe we could talk tonight?—"

Brenda yanked her apron off and put it on the hook. She started toward him as if he hadn’t spoke, looking straight ahead, headed to the front of the diner where her purse was tucked under the register.

Henry caught her wrist as she pushed past. "Please, baby. I’m hurting too. I need my woman to forgive me.”

The dam broke.

"Hurting?" Brenda whirled on him, her voice scalding. "Don’t call me baby. I’m not yourwoman, I’m your wife! Our baby’s on a Greyhound right now with nothing but a suitcase and your mama’s address pinned to her coat! You think yourhurtcompares to hers when some cracker in Birmingham spits on her shoes? When she’s picking cotton under your mama’s whip instead of sitting in a classroom?"

Henry flinched as if struck. For one breathtaking moment, Brenda saw it—the young man he’d been when they met, all tender heart and trembling hands. Then the mask slid back into place, his jaw hardening to granite.

The ride home was silent as a tomb. Once home Henry went straight for the fridge, slamming the leftover chicken onto a plate. Brenda retreated to Kathy’s room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the framed photo of their daughter’s first communion.

Through the wall, she heard the sharppingof a fork hitting china—once, twice, a soldier’s rhythm. A battle march as Henry carried his dinner to a bedroom he’d stay in alone.

Brenda pressed her forehead to Kathy’s pillow, inhaling the fading scent of her daughter’s hair grease. Outside, the train whistle wailed down the tracks, carrying its passengers south. Somewhere between here and Mississippi, her baby was crossing into another world.

And Henry’s fork kept striking that damn plate as he climbed the stairs.

4

Tennessee (Miller’s Place) Feb. 1949

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