Chapter 12
12
B utts, Mississippi (Six Days Later)
Kathy pushed open the screen door, its familiar creak a welcome sound after a long day. The scent of fried okra and collard greens wafted through the house, mingling with the faint tang of Big Mama’s rosewater perfume.
“Baby, I left you a plate on the stove,” Big Mama called from her room, her voice warm and steady as the runoff from the Mississippi River.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kathy replied, kicking off her dusty shoes by the door. Her feet ached, but her heart was light. Ely had taken her for a drive after work, showing her the progress on the school’s new roof. It was coming along, beam by beam, nail by nail. A small victory, but a victory all the same.
“Oh, and you got a letter from my baby,” Big Mama added. “It’s on the table.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Kathy’s voice lifted with joy. She’d been waiting for this. Debbie’s letters were a lifeline, a thread connecting her to Harlem, to the family, to the world she’d left behind. She hurried to the kitchen, her stomach growling at the sight of the plate Big Mama had saved for her—fried chicken, collards, and a golden square of cornbread. Kathy lifted the tin cover, the aroma rising like a promise. She slid the plate into the oven to warm, then turned to the table.
The letter sat there, crisp and white against the worn wood. Kathy’s fingers trembled as she picked it up. Just holding it made her feel closer to Debbie, to home. She ran her finger under the seal, careful not to tear the paper, and unfolded the pages.
Kathy,
I hope things are getting better for you. I know it’s hard, but you’re strong. Stronger than anyone I know. I’m so proud of you. I miss you so much it hurts sometimes. Your ma and pa are doing okay. They were smiling at each other yesterday. I think your ma’s back with him now, not sleeping in your room anymore. That’s good news, Kathy. What we need is for them to be less angry, for things in Harlem to go back to normal. Then you can come home. Your ma was talking about Christmas, about the gifts she’s planning for you. I think she’s got a plan to get your pa to bring you home. Hold on, Kathy. Just hold on.
Now, I’ve got some sad news. I found out what happened to Carmelo. I know you’ve been waiting months to hear if he was alive, if he was out there trying to find you. A week ago, I took a job with the Italians. I needed the freedom more than the money. It’s hard being watched every time I make a move in Harlem—not just by Uncle Henry’s men, but by everyone. They see your crimes as my crimes, too. With José gone, I needed something to do. Somehow, I convinced them to let me go to Queens and work for the Espositos. That’s where I saw Matteo.
Kathy, he wasn’t the mean, nasty Matteo I saw in East Harlem. He was broken. He got into a fight with a boy to save me. And then he gave me sixty dollars! He sent me to Mama Stewart’s to wait for him. Kathy, he told me the horrible story of what Don Ricci did to Carmelo.
When Carmelo was brought home, he refused to apologize. He told his ma and pa that he’d run away again, that they couldn’t stop him. That you were his wife. That he’d never, ever give you up, Kathy. His pa… he broke Carmelo’s jaw with a hammer for saying those words and smashed some of his teeth. Then he used the hammer on his hands to keep him from writing to you and broke his leg to keep him from running. Carmelo was in the hospital for four months, unable to speak. Even now, he walks with a crutch and has to have doctors to help him heal. Matteo said they had to get him fake teeth. Matteo said he hasn’t said a word. He sits in his room all day and writes in a journal. Matteo keeps throwing them away so his mother won’t find them, but Carmelo keeps finding paper and writing.
He won’t talk to any of them. And he can’t do a lot of things on his own. Matteo said he’ll recover, but it’ll take time, and he doesn’t know what Carmelo will do next. Carmelo knows you were sent to Mississippi. Matteo said he cried all day in his room when he told him.
I’m so sorry, Kathy. I know this is hard news to hear. But I had to let you know. Carmelo has never stopped loving you. He’s still out there, thinking of you.
If you want, write a letter and send it back to me. I can give it to Matteo to pass on to him. What do you think? As for Matteo, we are kind of sweet on each other. We got a room agreement with Mama Stewart. Can you believe it? We go there and lay in bed and just talk about the future and listen to the radio. Matteo got big plans. He gonna be someone important. He wants my cherry, but I ain’t giving it to him. I don’t know. I just think I should wait. Let me know what you think. I love you.
Debbie
Kathy sank back against her chair, her vision blurred with tears. The oven’s warmth felt distant, like a memory.
“Kathy?” Big Mama’s voice floated in from the hallway. “You alright, baby?”
Kathy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes, ma’am. Just… just reading Debbie’s letter.”
She stared at the words, her heart breaking and mending all at once. Her Carmelo. Her sweet Carmelo. Broken but unyielding, still fighting for her in the only way he could. She’d done the same thing. Had Ely take her into town and spent a week’s salary on more paper and journals. She wrote so many letters to him to keep sane, but could never mail a single one.
Kathy folded the letter and put it neatly inside the envelope, smiling. She had hope. She got up, got her plate, and ate, thinking of everything she would write back. She would tell him to hold on, just like she was holding on.
Because love, she realized, was stronger than any hammer.
Mama Stewart’s Boarding House, Brooklyn, New York
The room was small but cozy, its floral wallpaper faded and peeling at the edges, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the thin curtains. Debbie sat on the edge of the bed, flipping through the pages of Sepia magazine. She wasn’t really reading—her mind was elsewhere, racing with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Today was the day. She had decided. After weeks of Matteo’s kisses, his pleading whispers, his hands roaming but never crossing the line she’d drawn, she was ready.
She was eighteen now. Her birthday had been on Sunday, but she’d had to wait until Tuesday to sneak away under the pretense of working for Mrs. Esposito. Some of the girls in her senior class had already done it. They said it hurt at first and was over quickly, but then it got better. Debbie clung to that thought, trying to steady her nerves. She wanted this to be special, something that would show Matteo she was truly his.
The door creaked open, and Debbie looked up. Matteo stood there, his arms full of flowers—purple asters and pink peonies, their petals spilling over like a waterfall of color. Debbie squealed, leaping off the bed and into his arms before he could even step inside.
“You’re here!” she cried, burying her face in the blooms. “They’re beautiful, Matteo! Just like in the movies!”
He laughed, the sound warm and rough, and dropped his satchel of gifts to catch her. “Happy birthday, mio bella ,” he murmured into her hair.
Debbie pulled back, still clutching the flowers, and noticed the satchel on the floor. “What’s that?”
Matteo grinned, bending to pick it up. “Open it and see.”
She set the flowers carefully on the nightstand and took the satchel from him. Inside were several boxes, neatly wrapped in gold paper and tied with satin ribbons. Debbie’s eyes widened. “Matteo, what did you do?”
“It’s your birthday,” he said simply, leaning against the now-closed doorframe, his hands in his pockets. “You deserve something special.”
Debbie’s hands trembled as she pulled out the first box. It was from La Boutique de Brooklyn , a store she’d only read about in Ebony . She tore into the wrapping, her breath catching as she lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a dress—emerald green, silk, cut on the bias so it would cling to her curves.
“Matteo, this is too much,” she whispered, holding it up to the light. The fabric shimmered, catching more of the sun, like liquid.
“Nothing’s too much for you,” he said, his voice low with appreciation.
Debbie set the dress aside and reached for the next box. Inside were stockings with delicate seams, a lace brassiere, and panties that made her cheeks flush. There were shoes too—black pumps with a modest heel—and a small velvet turquoise box containing a sapphire and diamond bracelet with matching earrings.
“Tiffany’s?” she gasped, holding up the bracelet. “Matteo, this must’ve cost a fortune!”
He shrugged, his grin wide. “Business is good. Besides, you’re worth it, baby.”
Debbie’s heart swelled. She held the dress against her body again, twirling in front of the window to catch her reflection in the glass. “It’s perfect,” she breathed.
“Put it on,” Matteo said, his voice deeper with anticipation.
She was so excited that she started to undress, forgetting he was watching. Then she realized he was. Debbie hesitated for only a moment before slipping out of the rest of her clothes. She stood there in her plain cotton underthings, her skin prickling under Matteo’s gaze. She could have put on the dress and been modest. But her guy deserved to see her as a special treat. So, she went the extra measure and removed all of her undergarments to stand before him nude. She turned so he could see her body, but avoided his eyes. He looked her over from head to toe. Happily, she pulled on the stockings, fastening them with the garters Matteo had bought, then stepped into the lace bra and panties. The dress came next, sliding over her hips like a second skin. She turned her back to Matteo, holding her hair up.
“Zip me?”
His hands were warm against her spine as he pulled the zipper up slowly, his breath hot on her neck. “You’re so beautiful, Debbie,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “I love everything about you. I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful, especially your…”
She turned and put her hand to his mouth. “Don’t start talking dirty. Not right now. You’ll ruin it,” she said. When she saw his pout, she sighed. “Save it for later, okay?” she teased.
His eyes stretched at the suggestion. He nodded hard.
Debbie laughed.
Her arms went up, sliding around his neck. She didn’t have to stretch far in her new heels to kiss him. His lips were hungry, devouring hers as he backed her toward the bed.
“Take it off,” he breathed, his hands already tugging at the zipper.
“Wait,” Debbie protested weakly, her hands on his chest. “Mama Stewart made lunch and a cake. We should go down?—”
“Later,” Matteo groaned, pulling the dress down her shoulders.
Debbie’s breath caught as the fabric pooled at her feet. She stood there in nothing, her skin glowing in the room’s sunlight. Matteo’s eyes darkened as he took her in, and his hands reached for her.
“Please, Debbie,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t wait that long.”
She nodded, with a mix of elation and excitement. She went back and sat on the bed, then scooted back for him to join her. Matteo kicked off his shoes and tore off his clothes, his movements frantic. Debbie laughed nervously as he joined her, the bed creaking under their combined weight.
“Matteo, be careful! You’ll break the bed!”
But he was beyond careful now. His hands and mouth were everywhere, exploring her body with a reverence that made her shiver. Debbie closed her eyes, letting herself feel—the heat of his skin, the roughness of his hands, the way his breath went fast and heavy when she touched him back.
When he finally entered her, the pain was sharp and sudden. Debbie bit her lip to keep from crying out, her fingers clutching the quilt as Matteo moved on top of her. It hurt more than she’d expected, but she gave her body to him, her legs wrapped tight around his waist.
“I love you,” he rasped, his forehead pressed to hers.
Debbie’s tears spilled over, but she smiled through them. “I love you, too.”
Afterward, they lay tangled together, and Matteo’s fingers traced patterns on her skin. Debbie stared at the bracelet on her wrist, its diamonds catching the light.
“Was it… was it okay?” Matteo asked, his voice hesitant.
Debbie turned to him, brushing a strand of hair from his brow. “It was perfect.”
There was a knock at the door. “Birthday girl! Party time! Come on down!”
Debbie giggled, sitting up. “I need to clean up.”
Matteo watched her dress, his eyes soft. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“I know it!” she shrugged.
“Can we do it again?” Matteo asked.
“It felt funny and hurt. Maybe. Not now. I got a little blood,” she pointed at the sheets. He looked down at it and moved.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I think so. It’s supposed to happen. That’s the hymen. It gets broken when a girl is a virgin. That’s why it’s called cherry, silly,” she rolled her eyes.
“Oh,” he said. “Right. This is your cherry.”
“Your thing looks smaller than it felt,” she frowned.
“It’s bigger when it’s in you,” he said, touching it. She saw it getting longer, and she smiled.
“Okay, maybe we can do it one more time before I go,” she teased. She came to the bed, kissed him quickly, and he rolled her beneath him. The next time stung even more. But he was so happy, grinning throughout it, she didn’t care. For the first time, she felt like the curse was broken. They were as good as married. She’d have to write Kathy again to see if she did it with Carmelo. Her cousin said they didn’t, but Debbie now had to question that fact. When you are in love it’s what you do.
Queen’s New York, (One Week Later) September 1949
There was a knock at the door. Carmelo didn’t look up. He was hunched over his desk, pencil in hand, shading the curve of Kathy’s cheek in his latest drawing. The knock came again, sharper this time.
“ Entra ,” he muttered, though he knew it didn’t matter. In this house, privacy was a luxury he wasn’t afforded.
The door creaked open, and Matteo stepped inside. He paused, taking in the scene: Carmelo bent over his sketchpad, the room dim except for the pool of light from the desk lamp. The walls were covered in drawings—Kathy’s face, her hands, her smile, rendered in painstaking detail.
“ Che fai? ” Matteo asked, his voice tight. “What are you doing? When did you hang all of these?”
Carmelo didn’t answer. He picked up another pencil, his fingers trembling slightly as he added depth to Kathy’s hair. Matteo went around the room, taking them down. “Ma could be in this room and see them! First, the journals, now this? Are you nuts?”
Carmelo kept with his scrubbing. Matteo looked around. He saw the old school bag that Carmelo had before he was forced to stop going. He went over and put the drawings inside with his textbooks. “Cut the shit. Ma is very sensitive, Carmelo. Per favore . Don’t distress her.”
Carmelo did not respond.
Matteo sighed. He wiped his hand down his face and decided to try another approach. Matteo circled the desk, his shadow falling over the drawing. He leaned in, studying the lines and shading. “ Mamma mia , your hands are working good. Guess you got your strength back in your fingers. That looks just like her.”
“What do you want?” Carmelo mumbled; his voice flat.
Matteo reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He dropped it onto the desk, and the sharp sound in the quiet room was like a little bomb. Carmelo froze, his pencil hovering above the paper. He stared at the envelope, Debbie’s name scrawled in familiar handwriting.
“Open it,” Matteo said, his tone firm but not unkind.
Carmelo’s heart stuttered. He set the pencil down and picked up the envelope, his fingers clumsy as they fumbled with the seal. Inside were two pages, filled with Kathy’s looping script. He glanced up at Matteo, his eyes wide with appreciation and gratitude.
“How?”
“Can’t tell you,” Matteo said, crossing his arms. “Just know this: you read it, burn it, and give me your response. That’s the deal.”
Carmelo shook his head, clutching the letter to his chest. “I have to keep it.”
Matteo rolled his eyes. “ Stronzo , you act like you don’t know how dangerous that is! Ma doesn’t agree with Pa on much, but she’s dead set on keeping you away from Kathy. She’s like a bloodhound—she’ll find it. So cut the shit. And don’t let her see these drawings either.”
“Can you get out?” Carmelo snapped, his eyes already scanning the first page.
Matteo blinked, stung. He’d risked everything to bring this letter—Debbie had begged him, her eyes pleading, her kisses so addictive he’d caved. But Carmelo? He was different now. Cold. Distant. He spoke in clipped tones, his words laced with bitterness, and the only person he seemed to tolerate was Nino.
“You do what I say, fratellino , or you’ll get no more letters,” Matteo said, his voice hardening.
That got Carmelo’s attention. He looked up, his gaze sharp and accusing. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” Matteo shot back.
For a moment, they stared at each other, the tension thick enough to cut. Then Carmelo’s shoulders slumped, and he looked back at the letter, his fingers tracing Kathy’s words.
“ Fanculo ,” Matteo muttered under his breath. He turned on his heel and headed for the door. “Keep the damn letter. It’s the last one I’ll bring.”
“Wait!” Carmelo’s voice stopped him.
Matteo paused, his hand on the doorknob.
“How did you get this?” Carmelo asked, his voice softer now. “Have you spoken to Debbie? Do you see her?”
Matteo hesitated. “I have my ways, Melo . You know that.”
“And you can get in touch with her? Kasthy? For me? Get a letter to Kathy?”
“ Sì ,” Matteo said, shrugging. “I can get a message to her or deliver your letters. I’ve got connections like I said.”
Carmelo’s face softened, the hard edges melting away. “ Grazie , Matteo. I’m sorry… for everything. Ma told me what you did—how you got Kathy out of that bakery, away from DeMarco. I never thanked you. I just…” He looked down at the letter, his eyes glistening. “I had no hope. Until now.”
He kissed the letter, his lips brushing the paper like a prayer, and closed his eyes. Matteo’s chest tightened. His brother mentality had been shattered by the trauma of what their father had done. If their parents’ thought Carmelo was rebellious before, they weren’t ready for what he’d become now—obsessed, consumed by the idea of Kathy as if she were some deity, clinging to her memory, words like the scripture in the King James.
Carmelo picked up his pencil and returned to his drawing, his focus narrowing to the paper. Matteo sighed, biting back the sob rising in his throat.
“You can keep the letter, fratellino ,” he said quietly. “Just… be careful, va bene ? Don’t let Ma see them. Per favore. ”
Carmelo didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on Kathy’s face, his pencil moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
Matteo stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the door, his head tipping back as he exhaled. When Debbie had first suggested the letters, he’d resisted. He didn’t want to feed Carmelo’s delusions, didn’t want to give him false hope. But now, seeing the way his brother clung to that letter, Matteo was convinced he’d done the right thing. Matteo could not imagine a world where he couldn’t touch and love Debbie. He now understood the depths of his brother suffering.
“Matteo? Che c’è? ”
He opened his eyes. His mother stood in the hallway, balancing a basket of laundry on her hip. Her gaze darted from him to Carmelo’s door, and her brow furrowed.
“ Niente, Ma ,” he said, forcing a smile. “Everything’s good. He’s up and drawing.”
Lucia’s face lit up. “ Grazie a Dio . Will you stay today? Keep him company? It would help.”
“ Certo, Ma ,” Matteo said, winking. “Anything you want.”
She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and headed down the stairs. Matteo watched her go, his chest aching. He promised Debbie he’d return to Mama Stewart’s before she had to leave. He’d driven like a madman to get home, his heart racing with excitement to deliver the letter. But now? Now, he couldn’t leave. Carmelo needed him.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. He was so close—close to having enough money to get their own place, far from their father’s shadow. When he did, he’d move their mother, Carmelo, and Nino out of this house forever. And once they were settled, he’d make his mama see the good in those different from him because Debbie would be his wife. He now understood Carmelo in ways he could never have conceived before. There was something special about the Freeman women.
For now, he stayed because family came first. Sempre .
* * *
Matteo paced the sitting room, the phone pressed to his ear. He’d closed the door behind him, but the walls felt too thin, the air too heavy.
“Hello?” Debbie’s voice was soft, hesitant.
“Deb, it’s me. Matteo.”
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you here?” Debbie asked.
Matteo groaned, running a hand through his hair. He’d missed her all last week; a job had kept him away. Now, hearing her voice, his heart hammered in his chest. “I can’t come back today.”
“What? Why? Is everything okay with Carmelo? Did he get the letter?”
“ Sì, cara , he’s fine. But I need to stay here. I’m sorry. My Ma has expectations. I can’t disappoint her.”
“It’s okay,” Debbie said, her voice softening. “I’ll see you next week, Matteo?—”
“No,” he interrupted, his voice sharp with desperation. “I can’t wait four days. I need to see you. Please. You’re all I have to look forward to, Debbie. For me.”
Debbie sighed. “Matteo, you know I can’t be late going home. Pa wants me to quit the Espositos because school has started. Uncle Henry found out I’ve been working there, and he’s furious. They cornered me yesterday and told me to work at the bakery if I need money. I was going to tell you when you came back that this was our last time. I asked ma if I could work at Stewarts, but she said no.”
Matteo’s stomach dropped. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”
“No!” Debbie’s voice was firm. “I’m just saying I won’t be able to come here like we do. We can’t be with each other like this anymore. I’m sorry.”
“When do they want you to quit?” Matteo asked.
“This week is my last week.”
Matteo clenched his jaw, his mind racing. “Then tomorrow. Tell them you have to work after school tomorrow to finish up. And then we’ll figure something else out. Okay? Tomorrow?”
There was a pause, and then Debbie’s voice, soft but resolute: “Okay, Matteo. But only tomorrow. See you then.”