Читать книгу Cry Me A River - Ernest Hill - Страница 12

When he left Captain Jack’s office, he did not go straight home. Instead, he drove to the small church just west of town. He did not attempt to enter the church, but rather walked around back, crossed the small, wooden footbridge, and passed through the short stand of trees that led into the tiny cemetery. Toward the middle of the cemetery, a fresh grave had been opened, and the loose, dry, excavated earth had been heaped to one side of the grave and covered with a sheet of thick white plastic. The sight of the open tomb made him uneasy, and he pressed on, navigating his way between one headstone after another until he finally stood before a well-manicured grave.

“Hi, Papa,” he said, then lowered himself to the ground, pulled his feet underneath him, and looked away. From where he sat, he could see a small herd of cows grazing in the lush green pasture just east of the graveyard, and beyond the pasture, he could hear the low, dull roar of a tractor plowing in one of the adjacent fields. On the far end, he could see the old man everyone called Dirty Red. He had been mowing the cemetery; but it was breaktime now, and he had parked the bush hog underneath a tree and was sitting on the ground resting.

Just beyond the headstone marking his father’s grave, he saw a tiny rabbit emerge from the sparse woods, pause, rise to its hind legs, and begin nibbling on the leaves of one of the low-hanging branches. The sight of the small furry animal caused him to smile. It was ironic, but the cemetery, this most dreaded place of death, calmed him. It was so quiet, so peaceful, so tranquil.

“You got a nice spot here, Papa,” he said, glancing at the headstone, then looking away. Two black men had entered the cemetery and were inspecting the grave that had been opened. One of them wore a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, and the other wore a dark blue jumpsuit.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t at your funeral … I wanted to pay my respects. But … I—”

Tyrone’s voice became heavy. His eyes became full. A tear fell from one eye, then the other. He picked up a small stone from the graveside and threw it into the woods. The sound of the stone tearing through the trees startled the rabbit. It fell to its feet, scampered a few paces to the right, paused, then disappeared into the darkness of the woods. Tyrone reached up and wiped his moist nose with the back of his hand. He filled his lungs with air and let out a deep sigh.

“I didn’t want to disgrace the family no more than I already had by showing up at your funeral in handcuffs and chains.”

Again, his misty eyes filled, and a long stream of tears fell from the corners of his eyes. He paused a second time, took a deep breath, then compressed his lips and struggled to maintain control of his voice.

“Mama, Sarah Ann, and René all doing fine. Mama and Sarah Ann act like they happy to see me, but René act like she don’t know if she ought to be happy I’m out or scared I’m gone do something else to hurt the family.”

Tyrone was interrupted by the roar of an engine. Breaktime was over, and Dirty Red had climbed atop the little red tractor and resumed his work. It was hot, and though he had not removed his shirt, he had unbuttoned it down the front and pulled it out of his pants. He did not have on work gloves, but he was wearing a straw hat on his head and a pair of dark shades over his eyes. A slight breeze was blowing, and Tyrone could smell the sweet fragrance of the freshly cut grass riding the wind, scenting the air. Involuntarily, his gaze fell on the tombstone, and inside his head, he heard himself reading: Albert Stokes. October 22, 1923-May 16, 1997.

Suddenly, his hands began to shake; his lips began to quiver. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He let out a deep sigh, then paused, trying to compose himself. He stared in the direction of the woods, but he was not seeing them. He was imagining his dead father, dressed in his favorite suit, lying in a coffin, his eyes closed, his arms at his sides.

“Aw, Papa,” he said. “I need you so much … Why did you have to die?” The anger came from a place deep inside of him. A place that he no longer recognized. “Why did you leave me?” A floodgate had been opened; now he sobbed heavily.

His mind began to whirl; his head began to ache. He snapped to his feet and turned away from the grave. Was this the fate that awaited his son? Would his body soon be laid to rest in a place like this, before people like him, who were powerless to stop the powers that be from doing the unthinkable? On that day, would he gather at his son’s grave, seeking solace in a soul-wrenching spiritual, or a God-inspired word, or a gentle touch from a friend or relative? Would he be there when they rolled him into a room, strapped him to a table, and injected him with the serum that would eliminate him forever? Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight. He took a deep breath, paused, then walked away.

When he again became aware of himself, he was walking up the front gallery of his mother’s house. Both his oldest sister, Sarah Ann, and his mother were on the porch. Sarah Ann was sitting on the swing piecing a quilt, and his mother was sitting in a rocker drinking a cup of coffee.

When he pulled the screen door open and stepped onto the porch, neither one of them said so, but he knew that they were waiting for him.

“How you feeling, Mama?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m doing fairly,” she said, then paused. He leaned forward, and she kissed him on the forehead.

“How you, sis?” he asked.

“Making out,” she said.

“You ate?” his mother asked.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I ain’t hungry.”

“You ate since last night?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“Well, you need to eat,” she insisted.

“Mama, I ain’t got no appetite right now.”

“It’s some grits and eggs and bacon and sausage in there.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

“You find out anything?” Sarah Ann asked.

“Some,” he said. “Not much.”

She was quiet, and he knew she was waiting for him to tell her more.

“His lawyer gone try to git ‘em to let me see ‘im tomorrow,” he said.

“You need to put something in your stomach,” his mother said. “You want Sarah Ann to fix you some toast?”

“I can’t eat right now, Mama,” he said. “I just can’t.”

“You need to force yourself,” she said. “You ain’t gone do nothing but make yourself sick.”

“Mama, he gone eat directly,” Sarah Ann said. “Ain’t no sense in you carrying on so. He gone eat.”

“He gone git sick if he don’t,” she said. “Don’t make no sense sitting ‘round worrying on a empty stomach.”

There was silence.

“Maybe I should’ve made Pauline bring him to see me,” Tyrone said.

“You did what you thought best,” Sarah Ann said.

“But what if—”

“What if, nothing,” Sarah Ann said. “You ain’t the blame for this. If he did what they say he did, you ain’t the blame. He is.”

“Sarah Ann, why don’t you fix your brother a plate,” his mother pleaded. “I sho’ would feel better if he ate something.”

“I ain’t hungry, Mama,” Tyrone said a third time.

“Mama, I told you. He gone eat when he ready.”

“He didn’t really know me,” Tyrone said, speaking to no one in particular. “He should have known his daddy.”

“Did he know right from wrong?” Sarah Ann asked.

“I’m sure he did,” Tyrone said. “I’m sure Pauline saw to that.”

“Then, he knew all he needed to know.”

“Want some coffee?” his mother asked. “Ought to be some in there. Pot still on the stove. You welcome to it now.”

“Naw, Mama,” Tyrone said. “I don’t want nothing.”

“People sho’ can git theyself tangled up in some mess,” Sarah Ann said.

“I got to know,” Tyrone blurted.

“Know what?” Sarah Ann asked.

“Whether he did it or not,” Tyrone told her.

“How you gone know that?”

“I’m gone ask ‘im.”

“What make you thank he gone tell you?”

“I just know he will.”

“How you know he gone tell you the truth?”

“ ‘Cause he don’t lie.”

There was silence. He raised his eyes and looked at Sarah Ann.

“You think he did it?” he asked.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said.

“Baby, why don’t you go lie down cross the bed,” his mother said. “Try to rest your nerves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I believe I’ll do that.” He rose to leave, then stopped. “Lawyer say he’ll most certainly die.”

“Don’t make no difference what that lawyer say,” his mother told him. “Only matter what God say.”