Cry Me A River (12 page)

T
he two of them were still sitting on the porch when he made it out there. His mother was in her favorite rocker which sat just east of the door, and his aunt was sitting on the opposite side of her, near the far end of the porch. They had been talking, but as soon as they saw him, they stopped abruptly, as though they may have been talking about him or about something they didn’t want him to hear.

There was a third chair positioned against the back wall, but he didn’t sit in it. Instead, he walked next to the screen door and leaned against one of the wooden studs that supported the roof and let the box he was carrying rest on the center of his thigh. He was in a hurry and wanted them to know that he wouldn’t be staying long, not even long enough to sit.

“Get plenty to eat?” his mother asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, then looked away.

The clear blue sky was still cloudless, and though the wind had settled some, the air was still cool, fresh, clean. It was early, and the Quarters were still quiet. Out
near the streets, a tiny brown sparrow had come down from its perch high atop the large pecan tree and was bathing in a small puddle of water that had collected just off the porch. Tyrone was watching the tiny animal when his aunt spoke and broke the silence.

“Look like the good Lawd done seen fit to bless us with another beautiful day,” she said.

“Any day above ground is beautiful,” his mother retorted.

“Amen.” His aunt nodded her agreement.

“Even if it ain’t your best day,” his mother continued, “don’t make no difference.”

“Don’t make a bit of difference,” his aunt agreed.

“You know why?” his mother asked. She was no longer looking at her sister; she was looking at Tyrone.

He returned her gaze, but did not speak.

“He don’t know,” he heard his aunt say. “You gone have to tell ‘im.”

“‘Cause he gone send you another one in the morning,” she said.

“It’s already on the way,” his aunt mumbled her agreement. “Be here first thing in the morning.”

“Bright and early,” his mother said. “He done fixed it that way. “

“Well, it’ll be here then,” his aunt said with assurance. “ ‘Cause when he fix something, it’s fixed.”

She said that; then it was quiet. Tyrone studied both women. His mother was looking out across the street, and his aunt was looking down the Quarters.

“Aunt Babee, you wanted to talk to me?”

He had addressed his aunt, but before she could answer, his mother spoke.

“Called that man yet?”

Her question confused him. He looked at her, then narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow.

“What man, Mama?”

“Man from the parole office.”

This was his fourth day out. He should have called. He was supposed to have called. But he had not.

“Not yet,” he said, then averted his eyes.

“Need to call that man, ‘fo he call you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I know.”

He paused, then opened his mouth to say something else, but his aunt spoke first.

“Was you at the deli mart yestiddy?” she asked.

He thought the question strange. He looked at her with curious eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Why?”

“Folks at the beauty shop say you was popping off to some white folks.”

“What folks, Aunt Babee?”

“Just some folks I know.”

She paused, but he didn’t respond.

“They say them white folks say they gone teach you a lesson. Say they ain’t gone rest ‘til you back where you belong.”

Now he understood. His aunt had stopped by to issue him a warning.

“White folks don’t scare me,” he said. His voice was low, his tone calm, his words matter-of-fact.

“She ain’t telling you to scare you,” his mother said. “She telling you so you know to be particular. Honey, them folks watching you.”

“And I’m watching them,” he said defiantly.

There was silence. He looked at his mother, and she averted her eyes. He could tell that she wanted to say more. But she was being careful. Both she and his aunt were being careful.

“Was a big fellow there?” his aunt asked. “Big, stout white fellow?”

He paused before answering. He knew that she knew. And he knew that hers was not a question posed to gather information, but one intended to give it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Believe his name was Jake. He did most of the talking.”

“Not him,” his aunt said. “He the manager. Was anybody else there?”

Tyrone did not answer right away. He knew that she knew.

“Some guy they called Bobby Joe,” he said.

“That’s him,” she said. “That’s the one I’m talking ‘bout.”

“Who?” his mother asked.

“Benny Goodlow’s boy.”

“You and him had words?” his mother asked.

Tyrone shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he said.

“But you had words with somebody.”

Tyrone nodded.

“Who?” his mother asked.

“Some white lady.”

“What white lady?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, trying to avoid a lengthy conversation. “Some white lady I ain’t never seen before.”

“She be Miss Irene’s gal,” his aunt said.

“Irene Goodlow!”

“Irene Goodlow,” his aunt said. “She be her oldest gal.”

“Good Gawd Almighty,” his mother said. “Them Goodlows is trouble in the worst way.”

“Way I hear it, they ain’t satisfied with the way this thing been handled,” his aunt said. “They say it been dragged out too long. Now that it’s close, they say they don’t want to see nothing else get in the way.” She paused and looked at him. “Or nobody else.”

His mother looked at him with wide, fearful eyes. “You seen that man ‘bout your driver’s license yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t need to be on that road ‘thout no license.”

“I’m gone git ‘em,” he said. “Just trying to help my son first.”

“Can’t help nobody if you locked up.”

“I just need to see Captain Jack ‘fo he go.”

“You need to dot yo’ i’s and cross yo’ t’s,” she said. “Them people ain’t playing with you.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but reconsidered. He paused, then sighed.

“Mama, I got to go.”

He turned to leave, but the sound of his mother’s voice stopped him.

“You gone out of town?” she asked.

He turned back in her direction.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Need to catch Captain Jack ‘fo he go.”

“Wish you’d go ‘n and get them license while you there.”

“Right after I see Captain Jack,” he said.

He tucked the box underneath his arm and pushed through the screen door. The door slammed shut. He descended the large concrete stairs and took two steps toward the truck. Something urged him to glance at his watch. He lifted his wrist and lowered his eyes. It was almost ten. Terror gripped him. There was in him an unsettling feeling that time was moving too fast. His reeling senses cautioned him to run. He quickened his pace and lengthened his stride. Behind him, he could feel their eyes on him, beseeching him to slow down, begging him to be careful.

Near the makeshift shed under which the truck had been parked, he fumbled in his pockets for his keys. Once he had located them, he retrieved them, then pulled the door open and slid under the wheel. He
started the engine, then in one hurried motion pulled the truck into gear. He depressed the accelerator. The tires screeched, and the truck lurched forward. In his haste, he had pulled away too fast. He quickly depressed the brake and turned his head to look toward the porch. His mother was leaning forward. Her brow was furrowed, and he saw her wide, piercing eyes watching him closely. Yes, she was worried, and his reckless behavior was doing little to allay her fears. He lowered his head and pretended to search for something, then slowly raised his head. Their eyes met, and he forced a faint smile. Her face relaxed. She leaned back in her chair, and he eased off.

At the curb, just east of her house, he glanced in her direction again. Though he could not see her face, he could see that she had turned in her chair and was still watching him. He crept along until he was well past her view. Once he was convinced that she could no longer see him or hear the sound of the truck’s engine, he depressed the accelerator and sped toward Brownsville.

He had expected the files to reveal answers, but when they had not, he had found himself overcome with fear and haunted by a growing sense of hopelessness. And though the prospects of talking to the witnesses kept alive in him a waning hope and helped stave off a total sense of desperation, he was aware that festering just beneath the surface of his overactive mind was an overbearing feeling of panic fueled by the prospect that like the box, an interaction with them would prove futile.

At the office, he pushed through the door. Janell was there, and he could tell that she had not been there long. Her large purse still sat atop her desk, and she had not yet taken her seat or clicked on her computer. He moved to her desk, lugging the box and inhaling
the lingering scent of her perfume. He stopped short, and she looked up.

“Good morning, Mr. Stokes,” she said. Her lips parted, and she flashed a warm, but professional smile.

“Good morning,” he said, placing the box on the corner of her desk. “Can I see Mr. Johnson, please?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s out for the day.”

“Is he ever here?” Tyrone asked. The frustration in his voice hung heavy, suspended somewhere between indignation and full-blown anger.

“He’s just swamped right now,” she offered as an explanation. “That’s all.”

Her words registered, and he could feel the rage rising inside of him.

“What case he got more urgent than my son’s?”

“We’re doing all we can do,” she said.

He looked at her strangely, and she felt the need to say more.

“It’s in the governor’s hands now.”

“I made it through the box, and I want to talk to him.”

“Won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow too late.”

“Can I help you with something?”

“I want to talk to the witnesses.”

“Excuse me!”

“I need their addresses.”

“They won’t talk to you.”

“Like to try anyway.”

“They won’t talk, I’m telling you.”

“I’ll get ‘em to talk.”

“How?”

“I’ll figure out something.”

There was silence. She studied him a long time before she spoke again.

“Handle this wrong and you’ll do more harm than good,” she said.

“Don’t see how that’s possible,” he grunted. “They can’t kill ‘im but once.”

Guilt would not let her speak. She looked away briefly, then turned back.

“Information you want is in the files,” she said in a low, sad voice. “Have a seat and I’ll get it for you.”

He sat anxiously on the edge of the sofa next to the window and watched as she disappeared inside Captain Jack’s office. He heard her heels cross the room. He heard the drawer of the file cabinet screech open. Then there was a long period of awkward silence in which he could not help but wonder what was taking her so long. In his zealous mind loomed an image of her standing before the open drawer, thumbing through the files, looking but not finding that for which she was searching. He glanced at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes after ten. He leaned back into the softness of the sofa and let out a deep sigh. He closed his eyes and had just begun gently massaging his temple when the sound of her voice aroused him.

“Theresa Weatherspoon lives just east of town in a blue and white trailer.”

Startled, he opened his eyes and snapped upright. She was standing before him holding an open folder. Their eyes met, and she handed him a piece of paper, then allowed him a moment to examine it. It was directions to Theresa’s house.

“What about the other one?” he said, rising to his feet.

“Don’t know where she lives,” she said. “We don’t have her address on file. But she works at the bank. She’s a teller.”

“Which bank?”

Janell glanced at the file to refresh her memory.

“First National.”

He looked at her, then squinted.

“It’s on Main Street,” she said. “Just east of town.”

He turned to leave, then stopped. “You got a pen and pad I can use?”

She heard his question, then paused, thinking.

“Let’s see,” she said, turning from him as she spoke. “Should be one on my desk.”

He lingered by the door and followed her with his eyes as she hurried to the desk and retrieved first a pen, then a legal-sized yellow pad. She hustled back and presented them to him.

“Will this do?” she asked.

He took them and nodded. He turned to leave, but the sound of her voice stopped him.

“Be careful.” She issued a warm warning.

He turned and glanced at her, then lowered his eyes. “I will,” he said sheepishly. “I will.” He turned toward the door, then stopped. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“You’re welcome.”

He entered the streets and stood on the sidewalk reading the information she had given him by the glare of the blazing sun and mentally mapping the quickest route to his destination by rote. Though his impetuous nature impelled him onward, all the wisdom he knew counseled caution, warning that any success, minuscule or grand, hinged on his ability to do that which the others had not been able to do—get her to talk.

Several miles outside the city limits, he drew near her house, traversing streets that skirted the outer edges of town, bypassing acre upon acre of sprawling farmland, and twisting and turning through miles of desolate
habitat hidden beneath dense stands of trees and situated in a sparse section of town still populated by whites only. At the designated junction, he slowed and turned off the main highway onto a narrow dirt road that jutted from a cluster of trees and wound its way around the edge of a cotton field and along a long, narrow drainage ditch that was marred with weeds and partially hidden by a thicket of thorns. As he turned off the main road, he leaned forward and gripped the wheel tightly. The recent rains had turned the road to a thick, sloppy mush, and there was in him the very real fear of losing control of the truck or becoming ensnared in the soft mud or a hidden bog. Confident, but cautious, he slowed to a snail’s pace and followed the deep ruts, staying close to the center of the road, moving to his lane only to avoid an oncoming vehicle or to bypass an ominous puddle of water which his mind cautioned could be concealing soft mud or hiding a deep trench.