Cry Me A River (2 page)

As he approached the steps, a strange noise caused him to halt. Startled and wide-eyed, he watched a large black dog with eyes ablaze and teeth exposed burst from underneath the house and race toward him. Instinct told him to run, but experience hastened a slow retreat. With his eyes glued to the advancing animal, he slowly eased backward until his back was pressed firmly against the bed of his truck. Tense and motionless, he eyed the large animal whose lean, terse body was now positioned only inches from his legs and whose loud, rapid barking had given way to a low, threatening growl. As the animal crouched down, indicating his intent to attack, Tyrone leaped onto the rear bumper and stepped over the tailgate into the back of the truck. Instantly, the dog advanced, barking wildly and holding him at bay. As he watched the animal prancing back and forth, angered by his presence, he realized that he was now a stranger trespassing on territory that the animal had been trained to protect.

From the safety of the truck, Tyrone heard the sound of the screen door opening, and he saw his father-in-law emerge from the tiny house, wearing a pair of overalls and leaning on a walking stick.

“Git on back here!” he heard his father-in-law yell forcefully. “Git on back here, Blue.”

The sound of the old man’s voice calmed the animal. His eyes softened, his ears fell forward, and his tail
began to wag. In the twinkling of an eye, the large, powerful animal was transformed from a fierce predator circling his cornered prey, threatening attack, to a docile house pet obediently responding to his master’s every command. Relieved, Tyrone watched the dog whirl and run toward the sound of his master’s voice with his tail held high above his back, exposing the large, taut muscles in his round, powerful haunches.

“Good boy,” he heard the old man say as the dog leaped onto the porch. “Good boy, Blue,” he said a second time, cheerfully rewarding the dog’s obedience by patting the animal’s head and rubbing him about the neck.

Assured the animal was under control, Tyrone stepped from the truck and eased forward, feeling his father-in-law’s eyes upon him. His father-in-law’s stare made him uncomfortable, and he felt awkward and stiff as he mounted the steps and paused before the old man. He could tell by the confused look in his father-in-law’s eyes that time had rendered him unrecognizable. Yes, his was, indeed, the face of a stranger.

“You looking for somebody?” his father-in-law asked.

“Miss Leona say Pauline up here.”

The old man looked at him, bewildered, but did not speak.

“Papa Titus, it’s me. Tyrone.”

There was an awkward silence. The old man narrowed his eyes and studied Tyrone’s face, looking for signs of the young man who once wore that name.

“Is she in there?” Tyrone asked, looking beyond the old man. The window curtains were drawn, but through the partially opened door, he detected a faint light glowing in the tiny living room, and he was aware of the sound of muffled voices emanating from deep inside the belly of the house.

“Git back in your truck,” his father-in-law said. “You ain’t welcome here.”

“Papa Titus, I just want to talk to Pauline.”

“She don’t want to talk to you.”

“I need to see her,” Tyrone said, moving toward the door.

“Don’t make me turn this dog loose,” his father-in-law said, lifting the dog by the collar and pulling him forward, threatening release.

Tyrone halted, staring at the large dog with wide, fearful eyes.

“What you got against me, Papa Titus? I ain’t never done nothing to you.”

“You got bad blood in you,” the old man said, staring at Tyrone with cold, piercing eyes. “And you rotten to the bone.”

“I ain’t never done nothing to you, Papa Titus,” Tyrone said again.

“Why you come back here?” the old man asked.

“I need to talk to Pauline,” Tyrone answered.

“She don’t want to talk to you.” He dismissed Tyrone’s statement.

“I heard what happened,” Tyrone felt compelled to tell him.

“That ain’t none of your concern,” his father-in-law said coldly.

“He my son, Papa Titus,” Tyrone said, attempting to appeal to his father-in-law’s conscience.

“That ain’t his fault,” the old man responded.

“Papa Titus, you don’t understand—”

“No,” his father-in-law interrupted. “You don’t understand,” he said sternly. “That’s my child in there, and she done cried enough.”

“But, Papa Titus,” Tyrone tried to speak, but now his
father-in-law was not interested in listening. He had heard all that he would hear.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” the old man said. “She got enough to deal with without having to deal with you.”

Suddenly, Tyrone was besieged by a feeling of reality. His father-in-law was right. Things were as they had always been. Ten years ago, she had buried him in that part of her consciousness that denied his existence. His death, however symbolic, provided her a type of peace that their life together never had.

“She with family now,” he heard the old man say. “We’ll get her through this. You just need to go on back where you come from.”

Wordlessly, Tyrone descended the steps and retreated across the grassless yard on wobbly, unstable legs. As he neared his truck, he heard his mother-in-law call from inside the house.

“Titus, who that out there?”

“Nobody,” his father-in-law replied.

Tense and anxious, Tyrone pulled the door open, slid behind the wheel, and stared straight ahead as his large brown eyes fought back pending tears.

S
omewhere between exiting the gate leaving his in-law’s property and entering the city limits of Brownsville, Tyrone decided to find Beggar Man and see what he knew about Marcus’s situation. There was in him no anger toward his father-in-law or animosity toward his wife, for he knew that neither anger nor hatred would change the state of things between them. In him was simply a resolve to find the truth about his son with the hope, however small, that what he had heard had not been true, and what he feared would happen would not be done.

When he turned off the main highway and crossed the tracks, he found himself driving directly into the bright yellow sun that had risen just above the thick woods a few hundred yards east of the projects. Through squinted eyes, he gazed at the world that he had once called home. Some things about the neighborhood had changed while others had not. People still parked their vehicles on the street, and women still hung their clothes on the line. But now there were fences around
more yards and bars over more windows. Trees that were saplings had matured, and now their large branches extended far beyond their trunks, shading the cluttered yards and the run-down shacks that lined both sides of the long, narrow street.

At the far end of the street, he pulled to the shoulder and rolled to a stop in front of Beggar Man’s tiny woodframe house. He killed the motor and looked around. A strange sensation enveloped him. He was home, traversing streets that for the past ten years he had only been able to see in his dreams. A thousand times, he had tried to imagine this moment—the joy, the exhilaration, the excitement. But never, in his wildest dreams, had he anticipated a return not only void of joy, but filled with such pain, such fear, such dread, such sorrow.

Outside the truck, he leaped the small drainage ditch that separated the narrow street from the tiny yard, then mounted the steps to the porch and knocked. The force of his hand caused the rickety screen door to vibrate on its loose, rusty hinges. He paused, then raised his hand to knock again, but before he could, he heard Beggar Man’s loud voice boom from inside.

“Who is it?” He seemed annoyed that he had been bothered so early in the morning.

“It’s me,” he said. “Tyrone.”

Instantly, he heard the sound of feet moving. The chain rattled. The knob turned. The door flew open.

“Well, look what the cat done drug in,” Beggar Man said, a wide smile etched across his face. “If it ain’t my old buddy Tyrone.” He threw his arms about Tyrone’s shoulders, and the two men embraced, then released each other.

“Man, how long you been home?”

“Not long,” Tyrone said.

Beggar Man looked at Tyrone as if he were about to say something else, but then realized that Tyrone was still standing on the stoop.

“Man, come on in and sat down,” he said.

Tyrone followed him into the house, then paused as Beggar Man stopped to straighten the old bedspread that had been draped over the worn living room sofa. When he moved aside, Tyrone plopped down. A loose spring prodded him through the cushion, and he discreetly shifted his weight, ever aware of the foul odor rising from the badly soiled sofa.

From his seat, he watched Beggar Man cross to a plain wooden chair that he had positioned directly in front of the television and remove a plate of food that he had placed on the seat. His movements disturbed a fly that had been lingering nearby. Tyrone watched the large black and green insect rise into the air and land next to the light bulb that hung from the ceiling.

Unconcerned, Beggar Man sat on the chair and rested his plate on his lap, then bellowed, “Want some breakfast?”

Tyrone looked at him, then at the plate. “What you eating?”

Beggar Man lowered the plate so that Tyrone could see. “Beer and eggs,” he said.

Tyrone squinted. “For breakfast?”

“Sho’ you right.” Beggar Man smirked, then lifted the can of beer to his lips, took two gulps, and let out a loud, pretentious belch.

“Nigger, you ain’t changed a bit.”

“Changed,” Beggar Man chided. “Why mess with perfection?”

Both men chuckled; then there was silence.

“Well, do you or don’t you?”

“Do I or don’t I what?” Tyrone asked, puzzled.

“Want some of this?”

Tyrone looked at the plate again, then shook his head. “I’ll pass,” he said.

“You sho’?” Beggar Man said. “Got plenty.”

“I’m sho’,” Tyrone said. “I ain’t hungry.”

“All right,” Beggar Man said, then scooped a large forkful of eggs from his plate and stuffed them in his mouth. As he ate, Tyrone studied him. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and nearly three hundred pounds. His head was bald, and his clean-shaven face bore the marks of a man who still lived life hard. There was a scar on his left cheek, and another on his neck, just below his Adam’s apple. But other than a chipped front tooth and a few extra pounds, he looked the same. He drank from the can again, then looked at Tyrone.

“Me and the fellows was just talking about you,” he said, lowering the can and wiping the corner of his mouth with the hem of his shirt.

“How is everybody?” Tyrone asked, more out of politeness than concern. He was anxious to talk about his son, but he could tell that Beggar Man wanted to visit.

“Man, Byrd in the army.”

“What!” Tyrone said, a little louder than he had intended.

“Nigger a sergeant somewhere over there in Europe.”

“Is that right?”

“As God is my witness,” Beggar Man swore.

“What about Pepper?” Tyrone asked, his curiosity piqued. “What he doing now?”

“Driving tractors for Mr. John.”

“Pepper!” Tyrone said, his tone indicating disbelief.

“Nigger married and got six children.”

“Six!” Tyrone exclaimed. “My Lord.”

“Ain’t but two of ‘em his,” Beggar Man said, laughing. “Married one of them ready-made families.”

“Who he marry?”

“Nigger, you’ll never guess in a million years.”

“Who?” Tyrone asked again, not bothering to guess.

“You remember Pumpsi Greene?”

“Who?” Tyrone did not recognize the name.

“Old tack-head from up the Quarters,” Beggar Man said.

Tyrone frowned.

“You know her,” Beggar Man said. “Joe L.’s oldest girl.”

Tyrone paused, concentrating. Suddenly, he remembered her.

“What!” he said, shocked.

“Nigger say he was drunk when they married, but I don’t know. He sho’ act like he love that old ugly girl. Been with her going on five years now.”

“Five years?” Tyrone said with a faraway look in his eyes. For a few seconds he was transported to a time when he and the fellows were running wild through a world that they did not respect and that did not respect them. “Married,” he mumbled softly. “Pepper married.”

“Yep,” Beggar Man said, then reached down and lifted the can of beer from the floor next to his chair. “Nigger done tied a knot with his tongue he can’t tear loose with his teeth.”

Tyrone chuckled but did not speak.

Beggar Man tilted his head back and took another long swallow. He lowered the can, and the two men’s eyes met.

“Well, what about you, Beggar Man?”

“What about me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Tyrone said. “What you doing for yourself?”

“Just running the club.”

“What club?” Tyrone asked.

“Luther’s place,” Beggar Man said. “Working security right now. Just a little something to pay the bills. Plan on opening my own club one of these days.” He paused. “Soon as I git my money right.”

“Your money still funny, hunh?” Tyrone joked.

“Don’t you hear it laughing?” Beggar Man teased.

Tyrone chuckled; then Beggar Man looked at him and smiled.

“Nigger, it’s sho’ good to see you,” he said. “We figured you was dead or something, seeing how ain’t nobody heard from you since God knows when.”

“Naw, man, I’m still alive and kicking.”

“When you get out?”

“Yesterday, but didn’t make it home ‘til last night.”

“You seen Pauline?”

Tyrone shook his head. “Spent the night at Mama’s.”

“Well, I know she was glad to see you.”

“She was. But to be honest with you, we ain’t had much time to visit yet. I didn’t get there ‘til little after ten last night. My bus was late.”

“You took the bus all the way from Texas?”

“That’s right.”

There was silence.

“Well, don’t look like prison life done hurt you none,” Beggar Man said, smiling. “‘Cause, nigger, you sho’ look good.”

“Well, I was feeling pretty good ‘til this morning.”

“What happened this morning?” Beggar Man asked.