Cry Me A River (11 page)

Tired and drowsy, he picked up a document and stared at it absently, then put it in the empty box. By now, he had not only read through the case files, and trial transcripts, but he had also constructed a simple time line chronicling his son’s activities from the time he left home, en route to the store, until his arrest two days later. The deeper he had delved into the box, the more concerned he had become. His son had had time, and he had had opportunity, and there was nothing in
the testimony of the two eye witnesses that one could deem inconsistent or render not credible.

Yes, his guilt seemed certain, and there was no rational reason to think otherwise; yet there was in Tyrone a belief—no, a feeling—that this thing could not be so. The exculpatory evidence needed to illuminate this crime and make sense of the senseless had to be camouflaged, chameleonlike, somewhere amidst the pieces of “irrefutable” evidence pointing to his son’s guilt.

As his spiraling emotions continued to sink, there was in him a mounting desire to talk to the witnesses. He knew their names, but what he did not know was where they lived or how to contact them. Janell knew. She would tell him. She had already said that she would.

A plan of action made him rise to his feet. His awakening body made him yawn and stretch his arms above his heavy head. The muscles in his arms were taut; the back of his neck was stiff. He opened the rear door of his bedroom but did not go out onto the porch. Outside, the rain had ceased, and there was a fresh, sweet scent in the cool morning air. The feel of the gentle breeze on his face made him yawn a second time. Yes, he was still tired, and his weary body still craved sleep; but now there was no time.

There was no closet in his room, or in any of the rooms for that matter. A broom handle, which served as a makeshift garment rod, had been affixed, catercorner, between the walls in the far corner of the room and was filled with a long line of clothes dangling from a series of wire hangers. He removed a pair of slacks, then turned to the small dresser and removed a clean shirt, some fresh underwear, and a pair of socks. Compared to most convicts, he was lucky. His family (mostly his mother and father, and Sarah Ann) had provided
for him while he was incarcerated, and they continued providing for him now. He was broke and without means, yet he still had food to eat, a place to stay, and clothes to wear. When all of this was over, he would make things right. He would give back that which had been given to him. He would be the son his mother desired; he would be the brother his sisters deserved; he would be the father his child never had.

In the hallway, the lingering scent of food and the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee hung heavy in the air, but instead of following the urges of his rumbling stomach, he stayed his course and angled toward the bathroom. Halfway between his room and the bathroom, he stepped on a weak spot in the floor, and the floor creaked. Down the hall, the low sound of murmured voices ceased, and he heard his mother’s lone voice rise above the silence.

“That you, Tyrone?”

The sound of her voice caused him to stop. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, he heard his mother’s voice again.

“We in the kitchen.”

With clothes in hand, he walked to the end of the hall and turned toward the kitchen door. What he saw made him stop abruptly. Sarah Ann and his mother were sitting at the table, but they were not alone. His maternal aunt, the one they all called Babee, was sitting with her back to him, drinking a cup of coffee. When he saw her, he immediately turned to leave, but before he could, Sarah Ann spoke and foiled his plan.

“Well, look who done rose from the dead.”

Startled, he moved to the side of the door and peeped around the corner. Both his mother and his aunt had turned in their seats and were looking at him. He felt awkward. His hair had not been combed, his
teeth had not been brushed, and he still wore the clothes he had worn the day before.

“Excuse me,” he said sheepishly. “Didn’t know we had company.”

“Company!” his aunt said.

Tyrone glanced at her, then lowered his eyes. She was a big woman, close to two hundred pounds. She wore a dark-colored dress, brown stockings, and a pair of black orthopedic shoes. Her walking cane hung on the back of her chair, and there was a single strand of shiny, reddish brown copper wire twisted about her wrist. She swore it drew out the rheumatism.

“Child, when I started being company?”

Tyrone looked at her and forced a faint smile.

“Well, come on in,” his aunt said.

He stepped through the door, then stopped.

“Come on,” she said. “I ain’t gone bite you.”

He walked closer to her chair.

“Ain’t you gone hug yo’ auntie’s neck?”

“After I freshen up some.”

“Freshen up!” she said. “Boy, if you don’t hug my neck, you better.”

He bent low, and she wrapped her large arms around him and pulled him close, patting him on the back the way a person did when they hadn’t seen you for an extended period of time. He pulled away, then dropped his gaze.

“Turn around,” she said. “Let me look at you.”

He turned in a circle and stopped. He could feel her eyes on him, studying him closely, looking for a hint of the young man she had known ten years ago.

“Done fill out some, ain’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Little bit.”

“Don’t see how,” his mother said. “Won’t half eat.”

He smiled again.

“Well,” his aunt began, but before she could finish, her sister interrupted her.

“Babee, let the boy sit down and eat his breakfast ‘fo it git cold.”

“That’s all right, Mama,” he said. “I’m running late.”

She looked at him strangely, and he knew she wanted an explanation.

“Got business in town,” he said. “Need to catch Captain Jack before he leave.”

“You gone put something in your stomach ‘fo you leave here, ain’t you?”

“If I have time,” he said.

“You need to make time,” she said. “You can’t do nothing on no empty stomach.” She looked at her sister. It wasn’t a long look, just a glance. A glance that said, See what I told you.

Tyrone sighed softly.

“René fixed bacon and eggs ‘fo she left this morning. Some sausage out there in the freezer if you rather have that. Sarah Ann can fix it for you.”

“Bacon fine,” he said.

“Don’t call yo’self on no diet, do you?” his aunt asked.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I eat.”

“Like a bird,” his mother added.

“Don’t know where he got that from,” his aunt said. “You know good as me, all us Thompsons big eaters.”

“Got it from his daddy,” his mother added.

“Albert?” his aunt asked.

“Child, partner drank a little coffee and munched on a few soda crackers. But he wouldn’t eat worth nothin’.”

“Is that right?” his aunt asked.

“None of them Stokes boys eat worth talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Well, I like me a man with a appetite,” his aunt said.

“Look like it do me good to see a man what can eat.” She paused briefly and smiled the way a person smiled when they were remembering something nice. “That’s what I like ‘bout my late husband, David,” she continued. “Girl, when he was living, he’d walk a mile, barefoot, on a blacktop road, in the heat part of the day, to get hold one of my hot, homemade butter biscuits. That man natural love him some biscuits.”

“Ain’t never been much on making biscuits,” his mother said. “But I was the devil on some corn bread.”

“Girl, hush yo’ mouth.”

“And fried okra.”

“Hush now.”

“Babee, ‘member how Mama used to fry it?”

“Do I?” his aunt said. “Girl, that was some good eating.”

They paused, remembering.

“Folks these days don’t ‘preciate a good home-cooked meal like we did when we was coming up,” his mother said.

“Raised on that old junk food,” his aunt said.

“Ain’t raised at all,” his mother said. “That’s the problem.”

“Don’t know when I is done had me some okra,” his aunt said. She was no longer listening. Her mind was wandering, contemplating.

“They don’t respect nothing and nobody,” his mother said.

“I sho’ nuff got a taste for some,” his aunt said.

“Look like they mad at the world,” his mother continued.

“Wonder where us can get some?” his aunt wanted to know.

“Ripping and running and causing nothing but trouble.”

“I’m talking ‘bout fresh okra,” his aunt said. “Right out the field.”

Sarah Ann, who had said very little, politely cleared her throat, and their mother looked up.

“Son, sat down and eat yo’ breakfast.”

There was an empty chair at the head of the table. On the table before the chair was a plate that someone had filled with food and covered with an aluminum pan. Tyrone looked at the plate, then at his mother.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Want to wash up first.”

As he turned to leave, he heard his aunt say, “Yeah, he done filled out nice.”

He made his way to the bathroom and pulled the door open. Inside, he laid his things on the sink and removed the tiny stopper from the edge of the tub and inserted it into the drain. He did not have much time and would have preferred to take a shower; but the house was old, and the tiny bathroom contained no shower, only a tub, a sink, and a toilet.

He turned on the faucet. The pipes rattled, and a long, steady stream of crystal clear water gushed from the nozzle and fell with a heavy thud against the bottom of the tub. He tested the water with his hand, and as the tub began to fill, he turned toward the mirror and stared at the reflection staring back at him. Yes, he was tired. His eyes were red, the lids puffy. With trembling hands, he began to slowly undress. Why had his aunt stopped by today of all days? She was nice enough. And she had always been good to him. But she was a talker, and right now he just did not have the time. She would want to visit, and pray, and tell him the importance of doing the right thing, now that he had a second chance at life. She meant well. And any other time he would not have minded. But right now, he had to find those witnesses, and he had to find them fast.

He got into the tub, and his naked body sank underneath the warm, soapy water. He stretched himself lengthwise and laid his head against the back of the tub. The invigorating water felt good, and the muscles in his taut, stiff body began to relax. He closed his eyes and tried to formulate a plan. How would he convince them to see him? How would he get them to talk? Not only was he black and they white, but for them to learn his name would immediately cast him not as a friend, but as a foe. Not as one with whom they should cooperate, but as one they should hate.

In the hallway, he heard the sound of shuffled feet and the tap of his aunt’s walking cane gently striking the floor. They had finished eating, and he was sure that they were going out onto the front porch to sit in the air and talk. He washed and rinsed his body, then toweled off, got dressed, and returned to the kitchen.

To his surprise, Sarah Ann had not left with the others, but had remained in the kitchen and was at the sink washing dishes.

“They on the porch?” he asked.

“Believe so,” she said without looking around.

The plate was as it had been before he left, sitting idly on the small table underneath the aluminum pan. He took a seat and removed the lid. On the plate were several slices of bacon, two fried eggs, a biscuit, and some grits. He lifted his fork and began to eat.

“Git you some coffee?”

He looked up. Sarah Ann had turned from the sink and was facing him.

“If it ain’t too much trouble.”

“Ain’t no trouble,” she said. “Pot sitting right here.”

She wiped her hands on her apron, then removed a cup from the cupboard.

“Still take it black?”

He nodded, and she filled the cup with coffee, then handed it to him. The cup was hotter than he expected. He took a sip, then quickly set the cup on the table next to his plate.

“So, you going back to Brownsville, hunh?”

“Soon as I get through eating,” he said.

“You gone talk to Pauline?”

“Naw,” he said. “Gone talk to them witnesses. Gone try to find out what they saw. Gone try to find out why they said what they said.”

“Be careful,” she said. “Ain’t gone do nobody no good for you to go get yourself back in trouble.”

“I’ll be careful,” he said, detecting concern in her voice. “Just want to ask them a few questions. That’s all.”

From the porch, he heard his aunt laughing.

“They waiting on me?” he asked.

“Thank so,” his sister said. “Aunt Babee want to talk to you.”

“ ‘Bout what?” he wanted to know.

“Didn’t say. Probably just want to visit.”

“She know ‘bout Marcus?”

“Everybody know.”

“They don’t act like it,” he said.

“They just happy to see you,” she said. “Been waiting a long time. Just happy you out. That’s all.”

“Ain’t sad for him?”

“Sad for you,” she said.

“But not for him?”

“Don’t know him,” she said. “Least not like they know you.”

“He family,” he said. “Just like me.”

“Still don’t know him,” she said. “Done made up they mind it’s gone happen. They wish it wasn’t. And they hurting for you. But they still don’t know him.”

“Didn’t Pauline bring him to see Mama?” he asked.

“Not after—” She paused.

“After I went to the pen,” he completed her statement.

She nodded. Then there was a long, awkward silence.

“We ain’t seen ‘im but once or twice since you got locked up,” she said. “Don’t remember exactly how old he was then.”

“Six,” Tyrone said. “Almost seven.”

“We went to the trial, and we visited him once or twice when they had him in jail. But we was strangers. He didn’t know us. And we didn’t know him. Hurt Mama that it was so. But Pauline his mama. And she raised him as she saw fit. Wasn’t nothing we could do ‘bout that.”

She paused and waited for him to say something, but he did not.

“We don’t mean no harm,” she said. “Just don’t know ‘im.”

He looked at her, and his eyes began to water.

“Neither do I,” he said. “He’s my son. And neither do I.”