Page 7 of The Deadly Candies

Dear Diary,

I made it to Knoxville. Ms. Sadie’s back in D.C., but her kindness still wraps around me like a soft quilt. Her family treated me like one of their own. They let me scrub off two days’ worth of bus grit in a real bath, tucked me into a featherbed so soft I near forgot what fear felt like. This morning, we woke before dawn, kneading biscuit dough till our fingers sang. She packed me a lunch big enough to feed a church choir: cold-fried chicken, pickled okra, and a slice of pound cake wrapped in wax paper.

“For that hollow stomach of yours,” she joked, but her eyes were sad. We both knew we would never see each other again.

Heathcliff, her son—works at the White House, can you believe it?—drove me to the station. His hands on the wheel were steady, but he kept glancing at me like I was a spooked cat. “You remember what Mama told you,” he asked. “Head down, eyes sharp.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be careful,” I said to him.

I didn’t call Mama till I got here. Tennessee’s… different. The air’s thick with hate, Diary. A white man cursed at me for hurrying past him. Their stares follow me everywhere. Am I paranoid? I just can’t tell anymore.

But the hate of strangers don’t matter. I followed Mama’s orders. I was to use the Greenbook, for a safehouse, and avoid the dingy motels next to the bus station. I called the Millers, and they sent a boy on a bicycle to fetch me. Their boarding house is a creaky old thing, smelling of bacon grease and pine soap. Mrs. Miller’s got a laugh loud as thunder. Through bursts of laughter, she pressed a mug of chicory coffee into my hands and said, “You eat, child. Ain’t no wolves here.”

Mama cried when I finally reached her on the phone. “Be small, Kathy,” she kept saying. “Be small and quiet till you’re safe.” But how small can you be when your heart’s screaming to be released?

The poison cherry is still in my purse. Carmelo’s ring is still my shield, cold against my finger. I don’t know what good faith will do now, but it’s all I’ve got of him.

Tonight, I sat at a long table with strangers—a tailor heading to Memphis and a schoolteacher with eyes full of storms. One man, Mr. Hayes, who everyone called ‘Buddy’, is bound for Tupelo, Mississippi. “Same route as you,” he said. “I’ll make sure you board right.”

I should be terrified. But Ms. Sadie’s voice hums in my bones:“Faith without hope is just wishin’.”So, here’s my hope, Diary—I’ll get to Big Mama’s. I’ll stitch my name into this world so tight, even the devil can’t rip it out. And then I’ll find my Carmelo again.

They can’t keep us apart forever.

—Kathy

Birmingham, Alabama

The bus shuddered to a stop, its brakes hissing like a tired beast. Kathy blinked awake, her neck stiff from hours of restless sleep. Across the aisle, Buddy—her grizzled traveling companion since the Millers—tilted his hat back and nodded toward the window.

“This here’s Birmingham,”he said, his voice low.“Closer to what you’ll see in Mississippi.”

Kathy pressed her face to the glass. Mississippi was a distant memory. The last time she’d seen Big Mama, she was eight years old, learning how to make pecan pies with Pepsi-Cola. Something she’d never gotten a chance to make for Carmelo.

The white passengers disembarked under a sleek Art Deco archway crowned with “Greyhound Terminal” in neon script. Her people crowded outside a rotted wooden shack, its roof sagging under the weight of Northern indifference. Children batted a tin can with sticks in the red clay dirt, their laughter sharp against the hum of segregated shame. Yet Kathy’s pulse quickened. Here, at least, the bathroom doors weren’t padlocked. Here, the water fountain’s “COLORED” sign hung crooked, as if even the South’s hatred grew weary.

Though the station was separate, it was clearly black run. Kathy’s heart swelled. Here, at least, were familiar faces—friendly, resilient, and alive.

Buddy stood there waiting when she got off the bus. He adjusted his moth-eaten peacoat. “Negroes run this station. Keep things as decent as they can. You got ten minutes.”

She nodded her understanding.

“One thing about this one: you can use the bathroom fine. Like I said they keep it as well kept as they can.” Buddy said and put on his hat. He turned on his heel and walked away.

Kathy clutched her purse and anything of value inside. She followed him off. Glancing around, she saw the pay phone. She smiled at a few people she passed and ignored some of the men’s stares. She went to the pay phone and immediately fed it coins to place her call.

What if Daddy answered this time?

She prayed he did. She prayed she’d hear his voice and she’d have a chance to apologize and plead with him to let her come home. The phone rang three times, and then Debbie answered.

Kathy was so surprised she couldn’t speak.

“Debbie?” Kathy asked.

“Kathy!” Debbie screamed. “Kathy!”

Kathy burst into tears. She put her hand to her mouth. Both of the cousins cried together for longer than Kathy had. She fed the phone booth more coins. “Debbie? Why are you answering the phone? Debbie! Listen to me. I don’t have much time. Debie, where is Mama? Where is Daddy? Oh God! I want to talk to Mama!”

Sniffing, Debbie struggled to speak. “Bakery. They had a break-in last night. Family cleaning up. Daddy and Uncle Henry think it’s the Italians,” Debbie said with a sniff. “I’m to stay here by the phone, in case you call. Aunt Brenda said you would probably be calling sometime today. Oh, Kathy, you, okay? It’s been three days now. Are you there?”

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