Page 20 of The Deadly Candies

“Ti amo,” she whispered, the words paper-thin. “I fix this. Iswear. I heal you, from it all.”

Six Months Later: Butts, Mississippi –

Kathy wiped the sweat from her brow, the washroom’s steam clinging to her skin like a second layer. Around her, girls pressed irons to linens, their laughter swallowed by the hiss of hot metal. Kathy’s hands moved mechanically, folding sheets into crisp squares—one, two, three—her rhythm syncopated with the ache in her lower back. Six months in Butts had calloused her palms and dulled her skin and hair. She looked as if she had aged, so she stopped checking herself in the mirror.

The town’s heartbeat thrummed in her bones: 860 souls, most Black and bent over farmland or scrubbing white folks’ floors. Only two Black families owned land—a fact Big Mama spat like scripture. The Jensens, Weavers, and Elliots still ruled Butts, their names carved into every deed and dollar. Kathy’s “promotion” from fields to laundry had earned her fifty cents more and a view of the Jensen’s’ manicured lawn through the washroom’s grimy window.

Letters from Debbie were lifelines, ink-stained and crumpled from rereading.No word from Carmelo, her cousin wrote.Bumpy smoothed things over. Your daddy’s back running numbers, and my daddy is still going around enforcing Bumpy’s orders. They at it like nothing happened. Like you aint gone and we aint suffering.Kathy traced the words, imagining Harlem’s pizzaz—the jazz spilling from records, the attic’s dust motes swirling in stolen sunlight. Here, there was only the iron’s hiss and Ely’s Saturday night drives, his truck rattling down dirt roads as fireflies winked in the dusk.

“Evenin’, Ms. Kathy.”

Ely stood in the washroom doorway, hat in hand, his overalls dusted with feed. He’d traded field dirt for trade work—hauling grain, bartering livestock—and carried himself like a man who’d outsmarted the Jensens’ ledger.

“Evenin’, sir,” she grinned, though her cheeks burned with exhaustion.

“Your chariot awaits,” he gave a performative bow.

“Let me collect my things,” she said, curtsying. He chuckled. She quickly gathered her things and followed him out.

The truck ride was quiet, the last streaks of sunset bleeding into indigo. Kathy slumped against the passenger window; eyes closed. Ely’s surprise was a shadow in her mind, unwelcome as a splinter. She just wanted supper, a bath, and the mercy of sleep.

“Got a surprise,” he said again, turning onto a road fringed with pines.

“Ely,please?—”

“Hush now.”

The truck jolted to a stop. Before her stood a raw wooden building, its skeleton lit by the last amber light. A steeple rose, unfinished but defiant, like a middle finger to the Jensens’ iron grip on black lives.

“What’s this?” she asked. He got out of the truck and came around to open her door. When she tried to step out, he swapped her in his arms and spun her. She laughed. He planted her on her feet and led her by the hand to the half-built structure. She let go of his hand and approached, inspecting it. “What’s it gone be? A church?”

“School.” Ely’s voice swelled. “Kindergarten to twelfth. State-funded. And you—” he stepped closer, “—you gon’ teach. No more scrubbin’ white folks’ drawers. This here’syours.”

Kathy’s breath caught. Memories surged: bossing cousins through alphabet drills, chalk dust on her fingertips, Ely was one of the few boys that stayed around and played school with her.“You born to teach,”he’d said, twirling a stick like a baton. Ely was always wise.

“Why me?” she whispered.

“‘Cause I watched you trade dreams for ghosts.” Ely’s jaw tightened. “You think I ain’t seen you cry over letters you can’t mail that boy? Ain’t heard you whisper his name like a prayer when work get to hard for you? But this—” he gestured to the school, “—this is real. You stay here, youlivehere in Butts—not just wait to leave.”

Kathy spun toward the truck, and marched away, her feet kicking up red dust.

“Take me to Big Mama’s!” Her voice cracked, raw as the blisters on her palms.

Ely caught her arm, his grip firm but not cruel. “Youhearme now?” he demanded, forcing her to face him. The setting sun haloed his silhouette, sharpening the lines of his jaw. “Do you knowwhyI go this far? Keep my distance and let you walk around here with your eyes closed. Do you know?”

“I never ask you to do nuthin’ Ely!” she said trying to break free. Tears blurred the unfinished school behind him. She shook her head, the motion sending a hot droplet sliding down her cheek.

“I do it ’cause I want you tostaya dreamer, Kathy,” he said, his voice fraying. “To keep believin’ you and that Italian could carve a place in this world—even when Iknowy’all cain’t.” He stepped closer, his calloused thumb brushing her wrist. “Difference between me and him? I ain’t askin’ for nuthin’ back. This school—it’syours. Free and clear. You ain’t got to marry me to be free or happy. It’s yours. Not mine, not Big Mama’s, and not his.Yours. But if you cain’t see that…” He released her, backing away. “…then you ain’t the dreamer I thought you were. You just what he left behind.”

Kathy’s chest heaved. The school’s skeleton loomed—unpainted planks, gaping windows, a future waiting to be filled. She crumpled, sobs tearing loose. Ely surged forward, wrapping her in arms that smelled of pine resin and hard work.

“Ilovehim, why cain’t no one understand that,” she wept into his shirt, the confession sour on her tongue.

“I know,” he murmured, his chin resting on her head. “Lord knows I do cause you say it enough. I know what it’s like to love someone and cain’t have ‘em.”

“Why’d he abandon me? I losteverything?—”

“You didn’t.” Ely’s hand cradled the back of her neck, anchoring her. “You still got you.”

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