Page 81 of The Deadly Candies

Kathy hung up just as the sheriff lumbered toward Janey, his belly testing the limits of his buttons. The air turned leaden. Across the street, Ely froze mid-step, a sack of feed slung over his shoulder.

Janey spun her parasol, slow and deliberate, as the sheriff jabbed a finger at her. Kathy couldn’t hear the words, but she saw the way Janey’s smile never slipped—how she leaned in and whispered something that turned the man’s neck beet-red. Then she strolled away; the sheriff left sputtering like a wet firecracker.

Ely hustled them into the truck. "What he want?"

Janey inspected her nails. "Same as always—lyin’ rumors. Told him to quit swallowin’ other folks’ poison, before I give him a taste of mine."

Neither Ely nor Kathy found that funny. Kathy saw the way Janey’s knuckles whitened around the parasol handle. Whatever the sheriff had said, it upset her aunt.

24

Ms. Lottie’s WashHouse - Butts 1949

Kathy scrubbed at a stubborn stain on Mr. Jensen’s Sunday shirt, her fingers pruned in the scalding water. Aunt Janey worked beside her, back straight as a queen’s, even as she bent over the washboard, her hands raw from labor.

"So,"Janey said, wringing out a sheet with more force than necessary,"I heard enough ‘bout the boy. Tell me ‘bout his daddy—this scary man with the scar on his face."

Kathy’s shoulders tensed. She’d spent weeks parceling out stories of Carmelo—his laugh like warm molasses, the way his fingers traced her shoulder when she dozed in the attic. Their world was knives wrapped in silk, and she didn’t know how to explain how Carmelo’s father and his men had treated them just for loving each other."The man with the scar ain’t his father. Never seen his father."

“Is that so?” Janey asked.

Sweat trickled down her temple."What you wanna know?"

Janey’s eyes gleamed with something close to delight."He Sicilian?"

"Dunno. Italian, I guess. Like Carmelo."

"His name. The father."Janey’s voice was casual, but her grip on the washboard turned white-knuckled.

"Cosimo Ricci. The other man—his partner, I think they called himconsigliere.DeMarco."

Aunt Janey went still. Then she laughed, low and knowing, like she’d been dealt a winning hand."Mm-hmm. How’d you know that word, girl? Consigliere”.

Kathy blinked."Carmelo said it once. Why?"

Janey hoisted a basket of wet linens onto her hip, her smile sharp as a straight razor."You listen close, baby. I ain’t fond of white men. Sicilians least of all—met plenty in N’awlins. Your sugar’s sweet, and that boy treat you right, but he swimmin’ with sharks."She leaned in, rosewater cutting through the bleach."Sometimes, you need a bigger shark to tip the scales. I got the bait, Sicilians like.”

Before Kathy could ask, Janey sashayed outside, hips swaying like she was stepping onto a Bourbon Street stage instead of into the Mississippi sun. Kathy watched through the warped window as her aunt pinned sheets with practiced ease, back bowed under the weight of work but never her spirit.

Janey was a living contradiction—silk gloves one day, blistered hands the next; speaking French to the Jensens’ guests, then spitting tobacco into the dirt with the field hands.

How does she do it?

* * *

Folding sheets in the Jensens’stifling laundry room, Kathy studied her aunt. "Aunt Janey… can I tell you something?” Kathy asked.

Janey nodded.

“Carmelo wants us to run away again. Catch a train out west. Is it a crazy idea? Do you think we can do it?” she asked.

Janey paused. “It’s not about wanting baby. It’s about doing. That boy almost got himself killed the first time. My guess is with a Don Ricci for a father, it’d be worst the next time. Sometimes, you have to stand still and fight the battle where it is. Not run from it."

"Ain’t no way we could fight all of New York to be together.”

"Mmm,” Janey said with a nod. “There are many ways to fight back Kathy. Your mama showed you that. Big Mama says women of Butt’s got grit.”

“Grit, yea, well that can’t get me married.”

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