Chapter 24
24
M s. 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.”
“Caint it?” Janey asked. “I done married. There states right here that you can marry or play marry in. Long as the white man think he on top,” Janey said a snide snort.
“I told you Carmelo isn’t like that,” Katht groaned.
Janey waved it off. “We ain’t gotta live in this world on white-folk terms. We can make the sugar sweeter to live it our way." She walked over and pressed her hand to Kathy’s face. She tucked a loose curl behind Kathy’s ear. "Now help me fold these sheets so we can get home and fix supper ‘fore Big Mama skins us alive."
“But can we do it. If you was us, would you do it?” Kathy asked.
Janey cast her a sly smile. “If I were you I’d bake Don Cosimo Ricci one of your famous cupcakes.”
Kathy eyes stretched in surprise.
“Now, you ready?” Janey asked.
Kathy nodded. Aunt Janey was so understanding. She valued her advice. Her mama had said Janey walked a crooked line. To Kathy, Janey walked just fine.
Harlem, New York – 1949
When Matteo pushed open the diner door, he wasn’t sure Mama Stewart would be there to greet him. His stomach growled—he hadn’t eaten, wound too tight with worry. The air clung to yesterday’s fried onions and stewed meat, a greasy warmth that draped over him like a second coat.
It was early. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, painting gold stripes across the empty counter where chrome napkin holders stood guard over place settings untouched for hours.
Matteo’s shadow stretched long across the checkerboard floor as he stepped further inside, his boots scuffing tiles still damp from the night’s mopping. A radio murmured a hymn in the back, the preacher’s voice crackling through static like distant thunder.
"Be a moment, baby. We just gettin' started."
Mama Stewart’s voice rolled out from the kitchen before she did, rich with the affection she ladled out to regulars. She emerged carrying a tray of coffee mugs, arms steady under the weight, her flowered dress whispering against sturdy calves. She hadn’t even looked up yet—just tending to her morning rituals like always, like this was any other day.
Matteo cleared his throat.
Her head snapped up so fast the cameo pendant at her throat swung. For one suspended moment, the world held its breath. Then?—
"Matteo Ricci."Her smile bloomed slow, like dawn breaking over the East River. " Look what the cat dragged in ‘fore decent folk had their coffee."She clattered the tray down, already reaching for the pot."Sit, child. You look like you’ve been wrestlin’ the devil and losin’."
He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not until?—
Mama Stewart froze mid-pour, the coffee stream halting as she took in his face. The pot hit the counter with a thud. "Oh, sweet Jesus. What’s happened now?"
The vinyl booth sighed under his weight as he sank into it. Through the kitchen pass-through, Debbie’s memory assaulted him. He was transported to the past, where Debbie moved between stainless steel counters—her laughter floating out like wind chimes, her hands busy with some task the cook had given her.
Mama Stewart followed his gaze. Did she see the ghost of Debbie from the past too? Her lips pressed into a knife’s edge."She ain’t stepped foot in here since... that last day."The words came out tar-thick with sadness."Miss that child. Like her cousin, she’s happy ‘bout near anything."
"We’re... together again,"Matteo said."She’s carryin’, Mama."
The mug slipped from Mama Stewart’s hands. Coffee splashed across the Formica, dark as old blood. Her mouth worked soundlessly before the words tore loose:"Sweet merciful Christ. First Kathy, now Debbie?"Her fist slammed the table hard enough to make the silverware jump."How could you let this happen?"
"Didn’t know. That’s why she left. Found her at Magdalia’s."
Mama Stewart’s eyes bulged.
"Got there in time,"he rushed.
Her chest heaved."That girl’s life is over now. No church’ll marry her. No decent man’ll look her way twice. You wrapped her up in silk and sapphires in that room of yours—’course she gave herself to you. And for what? A boy playin’ at bein’ a father?"
The truth hit Matteo square in the chest. He buried his face in his hands."Maybe I don’t deserve her,"he whispered."But my child does. My child deserves the whole damn world."
Mama Stewart slid into the booth, her hand covering his, which was rough and smooth all at once."Alright, child,"she murmured, resigned."Tell me this grand plan of yours. And Lord help me, it better be good."
When he finished, Mama Stewart leaned back slow. Her eyes went wet."José? Her friend? Marry?"She breathed it out all at once."You’d let another man claim your firstborn?"
He nodded.“In name only. She’s my wife. We’ll marry after I kill my father.”
"That’s either the craziest or stupidest thing ever to come out of Ricci’s mouth. You kill your daddy for her? Luciano’ll kill her and the baby!"
"Then here’s somethin’ crazier. You’re gonna help me,” he said.
Mama Stewart laughed bitter as burnt coffee.
Matteo ignored the anger simmering in his veins."The buildin’ next door. The empty one you never rent. I did my research. Its yours. I need it."
Something dark shifted behind her eyes."That place ain’t for sale. Not to you. Not to nobody."
"Why? What’s?—"
"It just IS!"Her shout rattled him. For one terrifying second, Matteo saw a wound in her face—old pain he’d stumbled on blind. Then she was Mama Stewart again, smoothing the tabletop with shaking hands."I got... a place in the Bronx. Needs work, but the walls are strong. Good heat. Walkin’ distance to the pharmacy. A clinic nearby for Negro pregnant girls. One of my safe houses.”
Matteo brushed her wrist."I want her close to you,"he whispered."When I can’t be there. When José’s pullin’ doubles. She needs… someone."His throat closed around the rest."She needs a mama like you. Who will let me near my baby. A place I can come to and not be seen, and she cannot be touched.”
Mama Stewart looked past him, a memory surfacing: Debbie by the jukebox, humming a silent tune, fingers tracing circles on the glass while she waited for Matteo on their Tuesday. The image faded, but the ache didn’t. Like her cousin, Debbie had carved a place in Mama Stewart’s heart.
"One month,"Mama Stewart finally said, swiping her sleeve across her face."I’ll have it ready. But there’s rules. That place was my first diner. Bought and built this one when my Emilio died, because he haunted me in that one. That man wouldn’t let me sleep, eased in bed with me every night.”
Matteo eyes stretched.
“I know you don’t believe me. But Emilio and I are connected. Even in death. Everything in that place reminds me of Emilio. Couldn’t step inside after. Mafia cleared the neighbors, built this diner for me instead. Now I own both."
"Mafia? Or Lucciano?"Matteo asked.
"Matter?"Her voice turned flint."Don’t care what family you come from—you know who I am. Cross me, boy, and it’s the last mistake you make. I got more days behind me than ahead. My protection’s all I got left, and I give it to folks worthier than you."
Matteo kissed her knuckles."I ain’t worthy. But with you, Mama, I’m learnin’ how to be."
She snatched her hand back."Ain’t personal. Just... you remind me of my Emilio. That’s why I warned Debbie to walk. Love burns hot, but the pain’s nearly unbearable. You got a path she cain’t walk with you. The world won’t change to let it happen. Folks, you leave behind’ll suffer ‘cause they believed in you Matteo, but you will always let them down.”
"I ain’t a bad man. Not Carmelo, but I’m good too,"Matteo said.
"Sugar, that ain’t it. You always do things your way. Makes you a fine leader, a fine soldato —but you won’t be that for them. I know the oaths you Sicilians and Italians take. She’s strong, but bein’ a mama’s a heavy load to carry alone. Especially when your lover likes to play with knives.”
Matteo lowered his gaze in shame.
"Then help her. Sell me the place. So if a bullet finds me, she’s safe. Please,"he begged.
Mama Stewart’s tears glimmered."Start slow. Let me get it ready—get my heart ready to let it go. Then we talk."
"Grazie," Matteo said.
As he stood to leave, she caught his arm, grip tight enough to crush coal to diamonds."I ain’t goin’ against Lucciano for you. Your daddy’s your problem. Bring trouble here, the kind the mob don’t want, and I won’t fight your wars. Harlem’s suffered enough for the Ricci boys."She leaned in, coffee on her breath."Bury your father now, ‘fore it’s too late. Fore he bury you.”
The bell jingled as customers arrived. Mama Stewart wiped her eyes and nodded to them. Matteo left. He’d gotten what he came for.
He didn’t know what Mama Stewart’s warnings meant—didn’t care about the rumors of her and Don Emilio Cattaneo. That story wasn’t his business.
He had plans. A family. And he knew how to get it.
Queens, New York
The scent of simmering pasta e fagioli filled the Ricci kitchen as Carmelo sat at the worn oak table, carefully enunciating each word of the Sunday funnies to Nino. His oldest brother—a mountain of a man at twenty-five years old, yet with the wide-eyed wonder of a child—chuckled at the colorful strips, his thick fingers smearing sauce on Dick Tracy as he shoved another forkful of pasta into his mouth.
"Melo?"
Matteo's voice startled them both. Carmelo didn't look up, his jaw tightening as he turned the page of the Daily News . The Popeye cartoon stared back at him, the sailor's squinted eye mocking his own refusal to acknowledge his brother these past weeks, not since Kathy's letter had revealed Matteo's secret. Not since he'd learned Matteo had been sneaking around with Debbie.
Nino, oblivious to the tension, beamed with his mouth full, cheeks round as pecorino wheels.
“ Ciao, Teo!" he garbled, flecks of tomato sauce dotting his chin.
Matteo managed a smile. "Ciao, fratellone."
He pulled out a chair, the legs scraping against the marble inspired linoleum. Nino immediately shoved his bowl toward Matteo, giggling when his younger brother obediently opened his mouth for the offered bite. The ritual was familiar—Sunday afternoons spent like this, Carmelo reading aloud while Nino played at being the mamma , feeding his fratelli between laughs.
Downstairs, Lucia Ricci paused on the basement steps, the wicker laundry basket heavy against her hip. She'd been sorting Cosimo's starched shirts when the murmur of voices drew her attention. Now, peering through the kitchen doorway, she watched her sons— her boys —and for a fleeting moment, saw them as children again: Matteo, small but fierce, always stepping between Carmelo and the neighborhood bulli ; Nino, trailing after them with his lopsided grin, never understanding why the other children called him "ritardato."
Her chest ached.
Then Matteo spoke, his voice raw. "I need to tell you something."
Carmelo finally looked up, his dark eyes guarded. "I got nothing to say to you."
"Good, because I do." Matteo's knuckles whitened on the table. "I'm sorry. I should've told you about Debbie from the start. It wasn't planned. I never plan anything—you know that. We just... needed each other. You were in the hospital, and her cousin was sent to Mississippi. It wasn't about betraying you."
A beat. Carmelo's gaze flickered—first to Nino, who blinked between them, then back to Matteo.
"She's pregnant," Matteo whispered.
The newspaper crumpled in Carmelo's grip. "Che cazzo?"
"Incinta." The word tore out of Matteo like a confession in the confessionale . Tears spilled down his face. "She was gonna—fuck, Melo—she was gonna get rid of the baby. I stopped her. I didn't know what else to do—I couldn’t let my baby die. I can’t kill a baby. Not because of me, and what I’ve done. I just can’t.”
Carmelo was out of his chair before the sob finished, hauling Matteo into a crushing embrace. Nino lumbered over too, his massive arms encircling both brothers, rocking them like overgrown puppies.
"La sua famiglia lo sa?" Carmelo demanded, pulling back to grip Matteo's shoulders. "What happens now?"
Matteo laid out the plan in a rush—José's agreement, the sham marriage, the apartment near Mama Stewart's.
Lucia's fingers dug into the doorframe. The laundry basket slipped from her numb hands, tumbling down the basement steps in a cascade of her sons' undershirts and Cosimo's pressed slacks. She barely noticed.
Mio Dio.
Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the railing, nails splintering the wood. Every word from the kitchen was a knife to her ribs. Matteo's recklessness. Carmelo's protectiveness. That poor ragazza —Debbie—caught in the crossfire of a war they didn't understand.
Cosimo would kill them. Her boys would die. She knew it. She believed it. Not a metaphor— literally bury his own sons in the Jersey marshes if he discovered this. She'd seen him do worse to men who'd crossed him less. And what he did to Carmelo had her walking in fear. Her stomach twisted. This would only reignite his longing for Kathy.
She staggered back into the basement's damp shadows, collapsing onto her sewing chair. The whir of the washing machine drowned her silent scream as she pressed her hands to her mouth.
Upstairs, Carmelo dragged his chair closer to Matteo, their knees knocking. Nino sniffled, wiping snot on his sleeve. "Piano funziona?" Carmelo asked lowly.
"I think so. José says his family agreed. Debbie calls tomorrow. I think she can convince her family to agree.”
“E, Kathy? Lo sa?" Carmelo asked.
Matteo shrugged. "Non lo so. But she will."
Carmelo exhaled sharply through his nose. "Un bambino?”
"Sì." Matteo's voice cracked. "I'm gonna be a father, Melo. I'll get them a place—safe, near Mama Stewart. I've got money saved. But I need you. I need a brother. I’m scared. What if I fuck up. What if my son hates me like we hate Pa.”
“A boy?” Carmelo’s eyes stretched.
“Yes,” Matteo said with confidence. “I had a dream about him. He has Debbie’s skin but my toughness. We will ride my motorcycle together.”
Carmelo roared with laughter. “You can’t put a baby on a motorcycle.”
Carmelo's arm slid around his older brother's shoulders, pulling him close. "Fratelli. We do this together."
Nino grinned, slapping the table so hard the soup bowls jumped. "Fratelli!" Nino echoed, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing beyond the kitchen's warm light.
“ He’s a Ricci! We raise him together, ” Carmelo agreed.
Butts, Mississippi - 1949
Kathy blinked against the pale dawn light, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms before throwing off the covers in one determined motion. The chill of early morning raised goosebumps on her bare skin as she sat up. Though it was just Monday, a quiet joy warmed her chest - she and Janey had the day off thanks to their new Saturday shifts.
Today promised stolen pleasures: experimenting with new hairstyles, braiding Janey's hair, poring over the glossy magazines stacked in their room. In their small world on the Jensen farm, such days were rare treasures to be hoarded like sugar during rationing.
Wrapping herself in a well-worn robe and sliding her feet into soft slippers, Kathy padded down the creaking hallway toward Janey's room. Normally, she'd slip under the covers beside her aunt, nuzzling her awake with whispered pleas to join her for church - a weekly ritual that inevitably sparked Big Mama's temper when Janey scoffed at "the Lord's foolishness." Kathy's gentle persistence usually smoothed the tension between the women.
Theirs was a strange relationship. Related only through marriage, Big Mama didn’t have to take Janey in. But Big Mama walked around mumbling and cursing because Janey was her child. That is how she would say it to the other women. The one child she couldn’t raise right. Kathy knew there was something deep between them that brought Janey home from time to time.
But when she pushed open the door this morning, no comforting scent of lavender and cedar greeted her. Instead, an unnatural chill hung in the air, the kind that settles in abandoned spaces. The bed stood neatly made, every surface orderly and bare. Kathy's stomach dropped as she checked the bathroom - empty. Her pulse quickened as she hurried downstairs, flying past the kitchen where Big Mama sat at the worn table, morning light catching the silver in her hair as she cradled a steaming mug of chicory coffee.
Room after room yielded no sign of Janey.
"Janey!" Kathy's voice cracked with rising panic.
From the kitchen, Big Mama's rich contralto answered: "Hush that hollerin'. Come here, child."
A cold dread settled in Kathy's bones. Since arriving in Butts, her only friend had been Ely - a friendship that had sparked tense letters from Carmelo, especially after she mentioned Ely's suggestion that she become a teacher in her last letter. She understood Carmelo's fear of her turning to another man and wished the miles between them didn't feel so impassable. But Janey's arrival had changed everything. Her aunt embodied life's vibrant possibilities - with Janey here, Kathy hadn't needed Ely's fragile comfort.
Big Mama gestured to the chair opposite her without breaking the rhythm. Rising stiffly, she shuffled to the stove and poured coffee into a chipped mug, stirring in sugar with deliberate care before setting it before Kathy. The rich aroma did nothing to calm the questions buzzing in Kathy's mind. In this house, when Big Mama spoke, you listened - but the silence only made Kathy's unasked questions scream louder. Where was Janey?
"Got home yesterday when you were in town with Janey and Ely," Big Mama began, her voice softer than usual. "Ms. Jensen left word for me to call my son up at the big house."
Kathy's hands tightened around her mug. "Daddy? Is he?—"
"Not that son," Big Mama corrected with a look that carried generations of hard truths. "My oldest. Petieboi.” She fixed Kathy with a steady gaze. "Turns out my baby Debbie wants to get married. And they done decided it for her."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. "What?" Kathy gasped.
Big Mama took a slow sip, steeling herself. "Now drink your coffee, 'cause this gonna burn going down. Petie says Debbie's pregnant." She exhaled heavily. "Never heard my boy cry till he told me that. He's tough - tougher than your daddy - but Debbie's his princess, even if he ain't one for pretty words. I had big dreams for that girl, the same as Henry once had for you. But this world..." She trailed off, the unspoken truth hanging between them: dreams were a luxury Black folks couldn't afford.
Kathy's words tumbled out in a stammer: "Preg... from who—how?"
"Boy name José. From some place call Porta Ricun." Big Mama's mouth twisted around the unfamiliar words. "And he ain't no white-fella neither. Brown like us, but different. Island boy.”
Kathy's eyes widened until they stung. Nothing made sense. José - sweet, gentle José who wrote Debbie passionate letters about truths they couldn't speak aloud. José, who everyone knew preferred the company of boys or men.
Big Mama continued, her voice dropping to a murmur: "When you went up to nap yesterday, I told Janey. She just laughed, like it was some joke. I got hot and slapped her - regret it now, 'cause you don't lay hands on an Elliot woman. And Janey my child. My baby. She done ran away hundreds times form her sisters to come cry on my bosom. For me to care for her. That’s the promise I kept for Brenda. Still what hurts Janey my loving and craing can’t cure.” Big Mama’s expression turned grim. "Janey stormed off, and dinner passed in silence, thick as molasses. Could see the storm in her eyes even while you chirped away, trying to lighten the mood. Late last night, I heard music from the kitchen. Jazz. You knows I don’t play Jazz or de blues in dis house! Found her there, fiddling with the radio while making her special sweets."
"Sweets?" Kathy echoed.
A wistful smile touched Big Mama's lips. "Elliot women, they cook their feelings. Angry? They bake a pie so tart it'll pucker your soul. Heartbroken? Cookies sweeter than first love. But Janey... when she's mad, she makes these little candies. Says they're best sucked slow like secrets." She met Kathy's gaze. "I knew a man who ate one once. He ain't here no more to tell secrets.”
Big Mama eyes dropped to the counter. "Your aunt left a letter over yonder. Knew she was gone when I saw her drifting 'round the kitchen like a ghost. Still don't know why she came here in the first place. If’in only to get my hopes up that she’d stay for longer than a spell. That girl keeps breaking hearts, and as I can see in your eyes, she broke yours too.”
Before Kathy could process the news, Big Mama delivered the final blow: "One more thing. You, me, and Ely - we going to Harlem in two days, maybe a week. Doc coming to visit to see when I fit to travel.”
Kathy's mouth worked soundlessly. "Wha?—?"
A determined smile cracked Big Mama's stern face. "We got a wedding to plan and attend, sugar. Told Henry he cain't cast you out my family. You my blood - born of me. No woman getting thrown away on my watch. We'll take Ely, borrow Mr. Jensen's car. If’in he let us. If not, I got enough saved to get us train tickets. Mr. Jensen’ll get us traveling work papers too. Know all the backroads and safe place—just a caution for Tennessee. Like I said, leave in two days. Stay just long enough to see Debbie married, then come straight back."
Kathy launched from her chair, throwing her arms around Big Mama's neck. The older woman's laughter rang out as Kathy covered her face in kisses, their joy filling the kitchen.
"Stop that foolishness!" Big Mama scolded, though her eyes shone. "We got work at the Jensens' today - can't leave them in a lurch.”
"I love you so much!" Kathy breathed between kisses.
Big Mama cupped her face, thumbs brushing away happy tears. "Love you too, my sweet, sweet, sweet baby girl. Time to get you back to yo’ mama. Who knows. Maybe your Pa will come to his senses and let you stay.”
Kathy wept with joy.