Читать книгу Cry Me A River - Ernest Hill - Страница 10

Somewhere 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.

“Marcus,” Tyrone said. “Just found out a little while ago.”

Beggar Man lowered his eyes and began fumbling with his food.

“Came by to see what you know about it,” Tyrone said.

“Just what I heard,” Beggar Man said, averting his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“Word on the street he did it.”

A lump of terror rose from the pit of Tyrone’s stomach and lodged in his throat. He looked at Beggar Man, and Beggar Man lowered his eyes.

“That’s hard to believe,” he said.

“That’s the word,” Beggar Man assured him.

“What happened?” Tyrone asked.

Beggar Man sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“It happened five years ago. White girl come up missing,” he said, with a look in his eyes that a person had when he was remembering something that he had long since tried to forget. “Looked for her for three or four days straight. Finally found her in a ditch beside one of ole man Peterson’s tater fields … butt naked.”

He paused and looked at Tyrone, but Tyrone did not respond. Beggar Man lifted the can to his mouth and took another swallow.

“They say Marcus grabbed her from that grocery store just west of town. They say he took her down one of them back streets. They say he raped her and killed her and dumped her body out there in Peterson’s field. Ole man Willis found her Wednesday evening. Police picked Marcus up that Friday night. They say he the one. They say ain’t no doubt about it; he the one.”

“Who is they?” Tyrone asked.

“The law,” Beggar Man told him.

“What make ‘em think it was Marcus?”

“Say somebody seen him.”

“Who?”

“Two white girls.”

“Must’ve seen somebody else,” Tyrone insisted. “Wasn’t Marcus. Couldn’t’ve been. No way. Just couldn’t’ve been.”

“Man, he was on the tape.”

Tyrone looked but did not speak.

“Had a camera in the store,” Beggar Man explained. “Your boy and the girl was on the tape. She left; then he left right behind her. They say he didn’t even buy nothing …just followed her out the store. She walked a piece-a-ways ‘round the corner, and that’s when them two girls say they saw him grab her and throw her in his truck and drive off.”

“Naw.” Tyrone shook his head. “They lying.”

He rose from his chair and walked to the window and looked out. An old lady, with a huge straw hat atop her head, was walking down the street, leading a small child by the hand.

“Can’t see it,” he said, refusing to believe what he had been told. “Can’t see Marcus killing nobody. Not the Marcus I know. I just can’t see it.”

“He changed, Ty,” Beggar Man said. “When you got locked up, look like he got depressed or something. He took to keeping to hisself. He went to acting real strange like he didn’t care ‘bout nothin’ no mo’. We figured he would’ve been all right if he could’ve seen you. But Miss Pauline wouldn’t allow it. Ty, maybe he killed that girl so he could be with you. Maybe he didn’t figure on them giving him death like they did. Maybe he thought he’d just go to the pen … seeing how he was only seventeen.”

“I don’t know, Beggar Man. I—”

“Ty, there’s something else you ought to know,” Beggar Man said. “They found a pair of drawers behind the seat of his truck. They say they belong to that dead girl.” He paused, then added, “And they say he failed a lie detector test.”

Tyrone looked but did not speak.

“It looks bad, Ty. I hate to say it, but look like they got him dead to right. Look like his time short. Look like it’s real short.”

“Where they got ‘im?”

“Over in Shreveport.”

“They allowing visitors?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Beggar Man said. “But I know who can.”

“Who?”

“Captain Jack.”

“Who?” Tyrone asked.

“His attorney,” Beggar Man said.