Page 96 of The Deadly Candies

Inside: a box, velvet-soft, the color of night.

Open it,he said.See Papa’s treasure. His fingers seemed to say, guiding hers.

And there—it was.

A treasure.

Asun.

The medallion glowed, its golden rose twisting with thorns she ached to touch.

Jewels winked: red as lollipops, blue as the pond where tadpoles danced.

She reached, thumb still wet from having sucked it and then pulling it out of her mouth?—

Cold.

The metal shocked her skin when her little fingers touched. Heavy. Too heavy.

Our Secret,said the man’s voice. He closed the lid, and she began to cry. She wanted it—it was so pretty like the sun. She had to have it. She cried louder and louder, reaching for the velvet box.

Shhh, bella.His thumb brushed her cheek, calloused but gentle. He put her against his chest and rubbed her back as she cried in protest with her head over his shoulder. He spoke a language she didn’t understand. Then hummed a melody from his language that soothed her. She put her thumb in her mouth and closed her eyes.

Then—

Gone.

The office dissolved like sugar in rain, leaving only the taste of lemons, the ghost-weight of gold in her palm. Sandra frowned and looked around her room. “What the hell was that?”

28

Two Weeks Later, Train to NY, 1949

Kathy stood on the splintered platform of the Butts depot, the handle on her cardboard suitcase digging into her palm. Big Momma leaned heavily on Ely’s arm, her breath labored from the mile walk through cotton fields to the road where Blue, her cousin, picked us up in his truck. Mr. Jensen had not arrived in time to take her. Which, Kathy thought, was intentional. He hated the idea of Big Mama having freedom from her sharecropper life. Hated the idea of New York and loing negroes to the illusion of the promise land up north. He’d done everything with politeness to stall them from going.

Big Mama never spoke a word against the Jensens, but she would not be deterred. Not even when the doctor told her she shouldn’t travel. There was no way she would let her baby marry without her there. So it was decided. The three of them left before the rooster crowed. No goodbyes, no traces. Just three shadows slipping past the sharecropper shacks, their lives pared down to what could fit in two tattered luggage and a flour-sack purse. She and Ely rode on the back of the truck all the way to the train station.

“Y’all board last car,” the stationmaster barked without looking up, jabbing a thumb toward the rear of the Illinois Central train. His voice carried the same weariness as the “Colored Waiting Room” sign sagging above them, its paint blistered by decades of Mississippi heat.

The “car” was a converted baggage wagon, wooden benches slapped where crates once sat. A dozen faces glanced up as they climbed aboard—mothers nursing infants, old men in frayed suits, a boy clutching a harmonica. All headed north. All carrying the same silent prayer:Let this be the train that doesn’t turn back.

Ely spread their quilts over the bench’s splinters, his hands still trembling from loading Big Momma’s oak rocker she had insisted her cousin bring to the station onto the freight car earlier. (“Ain’t leavin’ it for them chairs in New York that won’t comfort my back,” Big Momma had insisted. He wedged their basket of cold cornbread, fried chicken, and boiled eggs beneath the seat—dining cars didn’t serve their kind, and Big Momma’s diabetes meant no skipping meals.

“Here, Momma.” Kathy folded her sweater into a cushion for the old woman’s hips. The arthritis had been bad since the last planting, and the bench’s unyielding slats were no match for 71 years of labor.

Big Momma patted her knee, her gold-wire glasses catching the soot-streaked light. “You’re a good chile, Kat. We’re in for a 3-day trip. Glad I got my baby to take care of me.”

Kathy smiled even brighter. At first, she thought herself cursed to be sent back into sharecropper country and sentenced to live under Big Mama’s rules. But she had learned so much from the people of Butt’s. All of them. Especially Big Momma. Her life would be forever changed.

Brooklyn, New York

Matteo took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling into the crisp Brooklyn air. Across the street, José stepped off the curb, his shoulders tense. Matteo dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot, watching as José dodged traffic, heading straight for him. A quick glance at his watch confirmed it—José was punctual.Reliable.That mattered. A man who kept time was a man he could trust with his future wife and child.

“This better be good,” José muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Had to lie to my boss to get here. And my family’s breathing down my neck about Debbie—the baby, the wedding, all of it. I need the money.”

Matteo frowned. “They got a problem with the marriage?”

José scoffed. “Nah. Not like that. My mom wants us to move in with her. My dad?” A bitter laugh. “He’s just thrilled I finally proved I could ‘make a son.’”

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