Chapter 7
7
K athy Sweets, Harlem, 1978
“Wow,” Daphne breathed, letting go of a deep, long sigh. Gently closing the diary, her fingertips lingered on its worn leather cover as if afraid to disturb the ghosts trapped within its pages. The scent of old paper and faded ink mingled with the faint tang of burnt sugar drifting up from the cakes they had so many people in the community deliver downstairs—a smell as constant in the Freeman brownstone as the water stains on the ceiling. “I didn’t expect to read about my Daddy… and your daddy, and all that.”
A taxi horn blared outside the window, followed by the throbbing bassline of Parliament’s “Flashlight” from a passing Cadillac. The sounds of Harlem buzzed through both open windows of the bedroom. So many people they loved were gone now, their absences carved into the neighborhood’s cracked sidewalks, and the pages of the diary.
Sandra nodded. “Mama told me she and Daddy grew up together,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. “But she never shared this. Turns out they met again in Mississippi after Granddaddy threw her out.” She paused, the revelation settling deeper. “If Mama and Carmelo hadn’t been stopped and she hadn’t been sent to Mississippi, I wouldn’t exist. One decision, and here we are.”
Daphne nodded silently, her gold bangles clinking as she kept with the traced action over the diary’s cracked edges. Daphne wore her glam, just like her mother Debbie, on any day. Flared jeans, a halter top with butterfly sleeves—but paired it with her own touch: a headwrap tied in the style of Ntozake Shange’s.
“I guess, if you look at it that way, I just think that we should—never mind,” Daphne murmured.
Sandra’s gaze drifted to the window, where the silhouettes of water towers and fire escapes. The cityscape felt different now—a puzzle with missing pieces. “We’re grown, Daphne. Not kids sneaking Now he made me go home when his friends arrived and started drinking.”
As Sandra pulled on her shoes, Daphne chewed her chipped Flair nail polish.
“Sandra…” Daphne’s voice cracked. “You ever really wonder ’bout your daddy?”
Sandra froze as she was putting her makeup in her purse. “What part about daddy?”
“Vietnam?” Daphne asked.
Sandra lowered her gaze. “I don’t think about that.”
“Sorry,” Daphne said. “The Penny Man… uh Butcher, was in Vietnam too. I heard Mama talk about how bad it was for the men then and how it messed them up. She talked about it with Aunt Kathy a lot. She said your daddy and the Butcher were in Vietnam together.”
“Really?” Sandra paused.
“Yep. Heard them one day when she thought I was too little to understand. The thing is… well… Aunt Kathy never talked about your father. Ever. She would get this look on her face and leave the room. That’s why I remember it. Mama was always wanting to talk about Vietnam, and it hurt Aunt Kathy’s feelings. Really bad.”
That news stung, Kathy. Many times, she asked her mother about her father and the war, and her mother would change the subject. It was something between her and her mother that she never understood or forgave.
“The diaries. I guess that’s how I will find out what happened to Daddy,” Sandra said softly. “Did Uncle José go to the war?”
“Nope. He went to college, Mama said. Didn’t have to go. He was a good daddy,” Daphne said, her voice dropping. “But… you hear things.”
“Like what?” asked Sandra.
“Like how the Butcher and Mama were cheating on Daddy.” She hugged herself, gold bangles clinking. “Lies. Mama is a lot of things but she ain’t a whore. Daddy and the Butcher were friends. And Mama was never with a man other than Daddy, I can tell you that.” Daphne sighed and sat down on the bed. She looked into the drawer where the diary was tucked inside. “What if we’re digging up bones that should stay buried?”
Sandra sat beside her, their shoulders brushing. The bed groaned, older than the ’68 riots, older than the March on Washington, older than them both. “You said it yourself—dominoes fall whether we watch them fall or not.”
Daphne forced a smile, sudden as a TV sign-off. “Change clothes. Wear the dress. The yellow one. You’re Kathy Freeman’s daughter; you need to go into that bakery with style like Auntie always did.”
As Sandra changed, Daphne eyed the diary drawer. Outside, kids chanted Double Dutch rhymes—“ Strawberry shortcake, cream on top… ”—their joy a counterpoint to the secrets festering inside. What good was the truth when you lived your entire life with a lie? Junior said the Butcher killed their father. If she learned that this was true and that her mother had let it happen, it would destroy her world. Maybe she ought to find a way to stop Sandra from reading all the diaries.
* * *
Daphne’s 1975 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supremegleamed under the Harlem sun, its metallic bronze paint catching the light like liquid gold. The car was far flashier than anything else on the block, where most folks drove beat-up Chevys or took the bus. Sandra slid into the passenger seat, her fingers brushing the custom white leather upholstery. The scent of new car—vinyl and polish—mixed with Daphne’s signature Love’s Baby Soft perfume.
“Mama got it for me,” Daphne said, catching Sandra’s wide-eyed look. “Said it was for doing so well running the beauty shop. Junior picked it out at the dealership. Mama paid in cash.”
“Cash? For a Cutlass?” Sandra frowned, her mind flashing to the penthouse suite where she’d found Aunt Debbie half-dressed and entangled with Matteo Ricci. This car—plush, extravagant, and dripping with status—felt like something a mobster would gift.
“Yes,” Daphne grinned, adjusting her oversized sunglasses. “The beauty shop’s doing real good.”
Sandra raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, she asked, “What kind of car does Junior have?”
Daphne snorted. “He doesn’t. The first one got stolen, and he wrecked the last two, racing them, and they were fancy. Mama was pissed. Told him he could catch the train. So now he either drives his girlfriend’s car or mine—and I do my damn best to make sure he doesn’t drive mine.”
Sandra chuckled. Junior’s antics were legendary.
Of course, Sandra’s visits home were usually brief—holidays and special events. Only in the summer did she stay long enough to reconnect with her cousins. The cars they drove were different each time, but Sandra never paid much attention. She didn’t even know how to drive. The city bus was her life. Her mother had offered to buy her a car, but Sandra wanted to do it her way—on her own terms.
“Do you know how to drive now?” Daphne asked, glancing at her as they cruised down the street, past storefronts blasting disco and salsa.
“Nope,” Sandra said, staring out the window at the vibrant chaos of Harlem—vendors, kids, men from the Nation of Islam in bow ties selling bean pies. A mix of people walking fast on the sidewalk, and old men playing dominoes on overturned milk crates.
“Well, I’m gonna teach you,” Daphne declared. “Of course, you can take the EL, but sometimes you gotta get around. You know?”
“I know,” Sandra said, though the idea of driving felt as foreign as the secrets buried in her mother’s diaries.
“Shit,” Daphne grumbled, slowing the car as they approached the bakery. The street was lined with parallel-parked cars, their bumpers kissing like old friends. “I hate parking out here. Folks always ding my car front to back. It’s awful. Mama gets mad when I keep taking it up to the repair shop and using her credit card.”
“There’s someone leaving up there!” Sandra pointed to a spot opening up near Kathy Sweets.
Daphne sped up, then threw the Cutlass into reverse. The driver behind them laid on the horn and swerved around, shouting something out the window. Daphne shot up her middle finger as he passed.
“Daph, really?” Sandra said, shaking her head.
“Whatever,” Daphne said, expertly sliding into the spot. “Everyone knows I’m Junior’s sister. They don’t mess with me.”
When Sandra stepped out of the car, the city rushed in on her—the cacophony of honking horns, the smell of hot pretzels and exhaust, the laughter of kids chasing each other down the block. There was city life in D.C., but this was New York. It had a texture, a rhythm, a culture that was unmatched. And now, seeing it through the lens of her mother’s diaries, Sandra felt a profound sense of pride. Her parents had been born and raised here. This was her roots.
Kathy Sweets was across the street, its neon sign flickering. Daphne was already dashing toward it, so Sandra hurried to catch up. But she nearly faltered mid-step, a sudden feeling of being watched overtaking her. She glanced back across the street and saw him—the young man from the funeral. Even with his sunglasses, she was certain it was him. He stood by his car, a sleek black1973 Pontiac Grand Prix, talking to a Black man in a dashiki. He stared. He was the one who had stood next to Matteo at the funeral.
“You coming?” Daphne called, holding the door to Kathy Sweets open.
“Huh? Yeah,” Sandra said, tearing her eyes away from the stranger. She crossed the street, her sundress swirling about her knees, and stepped into the bakery. The air-conditioned breeze carried the fragrant aroma of fresh-baked goods—sweet potato pies, peach cobblers, and buttery biscuits.
“There she is!” Ms. Gladys’s voice rang out. Over seventy, Ms. Gladys was still the merriest person Sandra knew. She had practically run the bakery for Sandra’s mother, and as a child, Sandra remembered how close Ms. Gladys had been with her grandmother. She was family.
They embraced, the weight of the funeral still lingering but lighter now.
“Come on, Mr. Sheffield is here. He a Jew,” Ms. Gladys said, her tone matter-of-fact.
Sandra laughed—tickled. Ms. Gladys always identified white people by their origins. Italians, Irishmen, Jews—it was her way of navigating their world.
“Hi, Ms. Brown,” Mr. Sheffield said, standing and pulling out a chair. He was a wiry man in a brown polyester suit, his briefcase resting on the table.
“Hello, thank you for coming,” Sandra said, taking a seat.
“My pleasure. Your mother’s will is very direct. Let’s discuss.”
The will was straightforward: Ms. Gladys was to receive a full salary and medical expenses for life, whether she worked or not. Her son was to be the bakery’s exclusive delivery driver, with a commission on any new business he brought in. The rest belonged to Sandra, with the stipulation that the bakery remain in the Freeman family as long as their descendants lived in Harlem.
Sandra signed the papers without tears. She was proud of her mother—proud of the legacy she had built.
“Baby, let’s do a tour,” Ms. Gladys said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “We made some improvements, your mom and I.”
“Are we done here, Mr. Sheffield?” Sandra asked.
“We are. You have my condolences. Your mother was a remarkable woman. She established two foundations through the church, funded by a trust she set up a few years ago. If you ever want to understand the details, let me know.” He shook her hand and left, Daphne walking him out.
Ms. Gladys led Sandra through the bakery, her cane tapping against the linoleum floor. She waddled from side to side, her movements slower now but still full of purpose. Sandra resisted the urge to help her. Ms. Gladys didn’t take kindly to charity.
“I want to see the storage room, if you don’t mind,” Sandra said as they reached the back.
Ms. Gladys paused, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, we’re fully stocked, baby. My son makes sure of it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I just want to see it for… personal reasons,” Sandra explained.
Ms. Gladys’s face softened. “Yeah, it was a personal place for your mama. Guess you never knew our Kathy that way. It was so long ago. Though the Wolf did come by a few times and always insisted he spoke with her in there.”
“He did?” Sandra asked, desperate for more information. “Were they friends?”
Ms. Gladys gave a soft chuckle. “They were something alright. Those two—I just can’t believe they are both gone. Makes no sense. Why lord. They still had so much life to live.”
Sandra touched Gladys as her eyes teared.
“I’m learning a lot about Mama,” Sandra said.
Ms. Gladys handed her a key. “Here you go. It opens all doors.”
Sandra tried it, and it worked. She stepped into the storage room, her eyes immediately drawn upward. There it was—the trapdoor to the attic. All those years running in and out of this room, and she’d never noticed it. The questions swirled in Sandra’s mind, her thirst for knowledge growing.
Ms. Gladys gave her a rundown of the supplies and deliveries, then ushered her out to the cozy coffee and tea area where regulars read the newspaper. Finally, they toured the kitchens, where a staff of six—mostly young people in need of work—kept the ovens humming. Sandra promised to honor her mother’s legacy, her heart swelling with pride and determination.
* * *
An hour later, Ms. Gladys declared her legs were burning. “Time to listen to my body and go home,” she said, leaning heavily on her cane. Daphne agreed to take her, but Sandra wanted to stay behind. She needed to meet the staff, explore her mother’s office, and get a feel for how the business ran.
“Come back at seven when the bakery closes,” Sandra told Daphne, hugging Ms. Gladys tightly before seeing them to the door. The bell above the entrance jingled as they left, and Sandra returned to the café.
For the next few hours, she worked alongside three staff members behind the counter, slipping back into the rhythm of the bakery like she’d never left. The familiar clatter of trays, the espresso machine’s hum, and customers’ warm laughter made it feel like home. She knew most of the workers—some had been there since she was a child—and being among them was like reuniting with family.
The bell chimed again, pulling Sandra from her thoughts. She was counting change for a customer, her fingers moving quickly over the bills and coins. When the customer walked away, she tucked the cash into the register and looked up.
A man stood in front of her, his presence commanding the space between them.
Sandra’s eyes lifted to his face, and her breath caught. It was him —the man from the funeral. His dark sunglasses were gone now, revealing sharp, piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through her. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, the faintest hint of cologne cutting through the sweet scent of pastries.
“Hi, Sandra. Remember me?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, like honey over gravel.
And suddenly, she did. The memory hit her like a flashbulb—bright, startling, and impossible to ignore.