Chapter 28
28
T wo 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.’”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “That kid ain’t his grandson. He’s mine .”
José rolled his eyes. “For this to work, the baby’s mine , Matteo. He’ll be half-Puerto Rican, which means my family will claim him. They’ll christen him, raise him in our ways. You get that, right? Until you can put a ring on Debbie’s finger and drag her into your world as your wife? She’s mine .”
Matteo’s fist clenched, knuckles whitening. José didn’t flinch. For a heartbeat, the air between them crackled—then Matteo exhaled sharply. “Not here. We’ll figure it out later. Right now, I got somethin’ to show you.”
José eyed him. “What?”
Matteo grinned. “Debbie’s Palace.”
José turned, his breath catching as he took in the three-story brownstone wedged between Mama Stewart’s diner and a kosher deli. Matteo strode to the door, key in hand. After a beat, José followed.
Inside, the space was raw but alive with potential. Matteo flicked a switch, and dim light spilled across the empty floor. “Lights just got turned on today,” he said, voice echoing off the bare walls. “Used to be a diner. Not anymore.”
José shook his head. “You kidding me? I could never afford this. My folks’ll never buy it.”
“You will,” Matteo countered. “Big win at the tables. Enough to convince ’em you secured it. The rest? Smooth sailing.”
“ Me? Gambling?” José barked a laugh. “I don’t even bet , Matteo. They’ll know somethin’s up.”
“ Christ —” Matteo dragged a hand through his hair. “Why you bustin’ my balls? I’m givin’ you a place. Big enough for you and your boyfriend . Big enough for me and Debbie. Protected. Away from all the bullshit!”
José blinked. Slowly, his gaze swept the space—the hollow shell of the diner below, the boarded-up rooms above—and for the first time, he saw it. A home. A future.
He sighed. “It’s still dangerous. If your family finds out about Debbie and me? We’re dead.”
Matteo looked away, jaw working. “Got a plan for that too. Meeting DeMarco after this.”
“Who?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Matteo extended his hand. “I know it’s weird. I know we gotta be careful. But I’m doin’ what a father should . Protecting my kid. My kid’s mother. Can we make this work?”
José stared at the offered hand, then back at the empty space—no longer just a building, but a lifeline. After a beat, he clasped Matteo’s grip. “We can make it work.”
“ Grazie .” The word rushed out like a prayer. Before José could react, Matteo yanked him into a rough, brotherly hug. José stiffened—then, after a heartbeat, hugged back.
For the first time, the future didn’t just seem possible.
It seemed close .