Cry Me A River (5 page)

“Baby was sitting right here when he passed,” Miss Hannah said, then added, “These children today, I just don’t know. Look like they ain’t got no respect for the old folks. None at all.”

“Well, I’m sho’ gone tell her,” Clayton said.

“Good,” Miss Hannah said. “ ‘Cause I know Fred raised him better than that.”

“He gone git on ‘im,” Clayton assured her. “Soon as he find out, he gone git on ‘im. You can count on that.”

“He need to.”

“Well, I’m gone run.”

“You gone take supper with us this evening, ain’t you?”

“Thank you, but I’m gone have to pass.”

“You know you mo’ than welcome.”

“Some other time.”

“I’m gone hold you to that.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know you will.”

Tyrone heard the screen door open and close.

“Brother Clayton.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, hear.”

“Aw, you welcome.”

N
ot long after Mr. Clayton left, Tyrone heard Sarah Ann in the kitchen preparing lunch. He did not hear her pass in the hall, so either he had dozed off or she had walked around the house and entered through the back door. Though he did not see her pass, he knew it was her. For that was the routine. Not only did she prepare their mother’s lunch, but she also ran her errands and helped with her laundry. René, on the other hand, cooked breakfast before she went to work (she kept house for one of the local white merchants) and she cooked dinner when she returned. Their father had taken care of the yard, but since he passed, Jimmy had taken over those responsibilities. He washed dishes at the hospital during the week and tended the yard during the weekend.

Tyrone heard a noise, and he went to the door and saw his mother easing down the dim hallway, leaning against the wall for support.

“Did I wake you up, honey?” she asked as soon as she saw him.

“No, ma’am,” he told her. “I wasn’t asleep.”

She eased closer, and Tyrone stepped into the hallway.

“You need some help, Mama?” he asked, extending his hand in her direction.

“Naw, baby,” she said softly. “I’m just going to the restroom. I can make it.”

She pulled up even with him, and Tyrone stepped aside to allow her to pass.

“You gone try to eat something now, ain’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll try.”

The kitchen was toward the back of the house. There was only one room farther back, and that was René’s room. Past her room was the door leading into the backyard. The outer door was open, and Tyrone could feel a cool breeze circulating through the screen door, cooling the hall. He turned into the kitchen and saw Sarah Ann standing in front of the stove. Her back was to him, but he could see that she was frying potatoes in a cast-iron skillet. Like most of the house, the kitchen was simply constructed and sparsely furnished. It was a rather large, rectangular room. There was a table and four chairs in the corner next to the rear window. The make of the table was not readily discernible, for it was covered with a simple white tablecloth that hung nearly to the floor. Besides the stove, the only other appliance was the white, single-door refrigerator positioned in the corner just off the entrance. There were two sets of homemade cabinets. One was located below the sink, and the other was on the wall just left of the sink. There were four windows. Two on the back wall, one on the side wall, and one directly above the sink. Though each window was open, the outside breeze was no match for
the heat emanating from the stove. The kitchen was a virtual furnace.

“Lunch ready?” he chided.

Sarah Ann turned to face him, and he could see the tiny beads of sweat running down both sides of her face.

“Almost,” she said. “I fixed some bologna sandwiches and fried a few potatoes. You must finally be hungry.”

“Not really,” he said. “Mama sent me in here.”

“She still on you ‘bout eating, hunh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you might as well eat, ‘cause you know she gone keep on ‘til you do. Want me to fix you a plate?”

“Naw,” he said. “I can do it.”

Tyrone moved to the double sink next to the stove, removed the bar of soap from behind the faucet, and washed his hands. He dried them on the rag that Sarah Ann had draped over her shoulder; then he took a plate from the cupboard next to the sink and a fork from one of the drawers. Sarah Ann had put the fried potatoes in an aluminum mixing bowl and placed them on the stove. Tyrone put a few on his plate and took a sandwich off the dish before taking a seat at the table.

“It’s some Kool-Aid in the box,” Sarah Ann said. “If you want some.”

He went to the cupboard, removed a glass, filled it with Kool-Aid, and then returned to his seat at the far end of the table. While he was up, Sarah Ann had placed a box of salt and a bottle of ketchup next to his plate. He sprinkled some salt over his potatoes, then doused them with ketchup. From where he sat, he could see into the backyard. A clothesline had been strung from the far corner of the house to a pole that had been posted about fifteen feet out. Just beyond the pole there was a small building. It had been a woodhouse
before the main house was converted to gas. Now, instead of being filled with cords of wood, it was filled with old furniture and other large keepsakes that required storage. To the left of the wood house was a second fig tree; it was twice the size of the tree on the west side of the house. To the right of the wood house, and a few yards up, there was a little toolshed, and just beyond the toolshed, there was a pear tree loaded with pears ready to be picked, ready to be canned.

“You know Mama don’t mean no harm, don’t you?”

“I know she don’t.”

“She just call herself looking out for you.”

“I know.”

“You know when she make her mind up you can’t tell her nothing.” Sarah Ann said that, then started to laugh. “Guess what me and René used to call her behind her back when we was chil’en.”

“What?” Tyrone asked.

“Miss I Know,” she said, then howled with laughter. “I mean, she thought she knew everything. Couldn’t tell her nothing. Still can’t.”

Tyrone laughed, but he did not say anything.

“We didn’t sass her or nothing. You know for yourself we was all raised better than that. But we sho’ did call her Miss I Know. And it fit her to a T.”

Tyrone heard someone stirring about in the hall behind him. He turned in his chair and saw that his mother had made her way to the kitchen and was standing in the doorway, looking toward the stove.

“I know that little something to eat ought to be done by now,” she said. Hers had been more statement of fact than a question.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sarah Ann said. Then both she and Tyrone howled with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” their mother wanted to know.

“Nothing, Mama,” Sarah Ann said.

“I know y’all laughing at something,” she blurted.

“Naw, Mama, we ain’t laughing at nothing.”

Confused, their mother began examining her clothes. “Y’all act like I done peed on myself or something.”

She said that; then they all laughed.

“Mama, I told you it ain’t nothing.”

Their mother turned her attention to Tyrone. “Child, why you eating in this hot kitchen?”

“It’s all right, Mama,” he said. “It ain’t that bad over here by the window.”

“Well, it’s too hot in here for me,” she said.

“Go ‘n back on the porch, Mama,” Sarah Ann said. “I’m gone bring yo’ food to you.”

“Don’t fix much,” she said. “I ain’t that hungry. I just want a little taste.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sarah Ann said. “I know.”

Their mother left, and they both laughed again.

“Ought to be a little piece of sweet bread over there if you want it,” Sarah Ann said after she had stopped laughing.

“I don’t want none,” he replied.

“I baked a pie at the house,” she said. “I intended to bring it, but I went off and left it.”

“What kind?”

“Sweet potato.”

“I wish you had.”

“I’ll bring it when I come tomorrow.”

He smiled but did not speak.

“Mr. Clayton brought Mama some fish this morning,” she said. “You feel like cleaning ‘em?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I’ll clean ‘em.”

“When you git through, I’m gone season ‘em so René won’t have so much to do when she come in.”

“I’m sho’ she’ll appreciate that.”

“Reckon y’all gone want potato salad with that fish?”

“I don’t,” he said. “But they might.”

“Well then, I might as well peel a few mo’ potatoes while I’m at it.”

She removed a few potatoes from the bottom cabinet and placed them in the sink. Then she turned on the faucet and began to wash them.

“Can I ask you something, sis?”

“Yeah, what?”

“I heard Mr. Clayton talking a little while ago.”

“Un hunh.”

“Reckon it’s possible?”

“Is what possible?”

“That they’ve already decided about Marcus.”

“I don’t put nothing past them people.”

“Guess that’s why Captain Jack didn’t say much. Maybe he already know.”

“Could be.”

Suddenly, his doubts rose. His concerns grew. He wondered about Captain Jack. Who was he? Was he competent? Had he been hired or had he been appointed? How vigorously had the attorney fought for his son’s life? Had he really fought at all?

“I was thinking about going back over there,” he said. “What you think?”

“For what?” she wanted to know.

“To see that lawyer again.”

“Well, I don’t ‘spect you gone be able to rest if you don’t.”

H
e received the phone call from Captain Jack’s office by eight o’clock the following morning. He wasn’t asleep when the call came. He had gone to bed and had tried to sleep, but when sleep would not come, he passed the night lying on his back, listening to the soothing sound of crickets chirping outside his bedroom window and the loud, monotonous ticking of the small wind-up clock sitting atop the television in the adjacent room. When twilight dawned, he was still lying in bed fully conscious of the sounds of a well-rested world rising to face another day.

At five he heard Mrs. Alberta’s rooster crow. At five-fifteen, Mr. Lonzo’s old Ford truck rumbled past. He was on his way to work; he had to be at the plant by six. By five-thirty, the trash collectors arrived. He heard the garbage truck when it pulled off the road in front of his house and he heard the men talking amongst themselves as they worked.

“What time is it?” Tyrone heard one of them ask the other.

“Too early to start watching the clock,” he heard the other respond.

“Look like it’s gone be a hot one,” came an unrelated observation.

“Weather man say it suppose to rain,” the other retorted.

“Well, he didn’t tell the good Lawd, ‘cause it ain’t a cloud in the sky.”

Suddenly, the men were quiet. Then Tyrone heard a loud grunt followed by the sound of trash hitting the bottom of the truck. A few seconds passed before the empty barrel hit the ground. The engine roared, and the truck rolled on.

At six-thirty, he took a shower. By seven, he had dressed and eaten a simple breakfast—two slices of bacon, one slice of toast, and three scrambled eggs. He had spoken to Janell by eight, and he was on the road by nine.

As he drove, his mind was preoccupied, and his actions were mechanical. He passed through towns without seeing them. He stopped at signal lights without thought. Instinctively, he drove over hills and through curves, automatically adjusting his speed to negotiate turns or to execute lane changes. With dulled senses and a muted mind, he pressed onward until some abnormality forced in him a temporary state of awareness. Just outside the small village of Epps, it was a slow-moving pick-up truck driven by a middle-aged white man with curly black hair. There were three black boys riding in the back. One stood against the cab, and the other two sat on the railing. They were farmhands. He could tell by their dirty bodies and their tattered clothes. Maybe they drove tractors, or hauled hay, or tended livestock. But more than likely, they worked in a potato field; after all, this was potato season, and by their appearance,
they had already spent the early part of the morning riding a potato setter.

In Wilmington, it was a freight train, the Southern Pacific, going who knew where, carrying who knew what. He sat at the crossing for what seemed an eternity, clutching the wheel, counting passing cars … two engines, fourteen flat cars, forty-two boxcars, and finally the caboose.

The train passed, and he guided his truck across the tracks and through the center of town. There were a few people milling about Main Street, but not many. It was Tuesday. Most of the adults were at work, and most of the children were in school. He drove another two or three miles before turning off the highway and onto the ramp which led onto the interstate. Again, his tense body relaxed. He loosened his grip and leaned back against the seat, his mind lulled by the hypnotic motion of four rubber tires gliding over the smooth concrete highway. Physically, his tired body yearned for rest, but his hyperactive mind, fixated on the plight of his son, yearned for answers to questions, the implications of which meant the difference between living and dying. The sound of a siren made him check the mirror. Flashing lights caused him to change lanes. He slowed and pulled to the right. An ambulance raced past, and he watched it disappear into the horizon. In a brief moment of awareness, he recognized that it was a beautiful day. The medians were green; the air was fresh; the sky was blue.

He arrived in Shreveport at eleven-fifteen, and from high atop the interstate he could see the skyline of the city with its tall, majestic buildings glistening under the hot summer sun. Two miles outside the city limits, he exited the interstate and drove down a long stretch of country road. The prison was twenty miles hence in
what for most people probably seemed the middle of nowhere, but for inmates like his son, it had become the center of everything.

When he arrived at the penitentiary, he parked his truck in the large lot just outside the gates and climbed out onto the pavement. To his left and through a haze of heat loomed a series of drab, gray buildings neatly situated behind a tall chain-linked fence. From where he stood, he could see the sharp, menacing razor wire spiraling ominously across the top of the imposing fence that circled the compound and fortified the prison. There were two guard towers rising high above it all, manned by men who watched all who came and who no doubt gave final approval to all who would depart. As Tyrone walked toward the entrance, he inclined his head and looked toward the tower. There were two men on each tower, one armed with binoculars, the other with a high-powered rifle. All of them wore uniforms. Navy blue pants, baby blue, short-sleeved shirts, and shiny gold badges. Three wore hats; one did not.