Читать книгу Cry Me A River - Ernest Hill - Страница 15

He 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.

He felt their eyes on him. His tepid skin flushed hot as searing blood surged through his pulsating veins and spiraled to his light, giddy head. He approached the gate cautiously, ever aware of the small surveillance camera mounted just above the entrance. The gate swung open, and he followed the sidewalk to a huge metal door. His stark eyes fell on the bold black letters posted on the wall: No weapons. No drugs. No alcohol. All visitors will be searched. All violators will be prosecuted.

He pulled the door open and stepped inside. Directly ahead of him was a second door. To his left a uniformed man sat in a small office behind a large Plexiglas window. He was a portly man, in his mid-to-late fifties. The hair on his balding head was black save for the tiny patches of gray about his temples. His pale white skin had begun to wrinkle, and the whites of his sky blue eyes held a jaundiced tint.

“Can I help you?” the man asked. His tone was gruff; his stare, cold.

“I’m here to visit a inmate,” Tyrone said.

“Ain’t no visitation today!” the man said in a thick southern drawl.

“They told me I could see him.”

The old man stared at him for a moment. Then he narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, confused.

“They who?” he asked.

“His attorney,” Tyrone said. “Mr. Johnson.”

The man sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his short, grubby fingers over his bald head.

“Who you trying to see?”

“My son,” Tyrone told him. “Marcus Stokes.”

He watched the old man push a coffee cup aside, then touch his thumb to the tip of his tongue and begin looking through a stack of papers, agitated.

“You Tyrone Stokes?”

“Yes, sir.”

The old man eyed Tyrone coldly, then slid a piece of paper through a slot underneath the Plexiglas.

“Sign in,” he said.

Tyrone signed his name, then looked at the clock hanging on the wall behind the man. It was ten minutes until one. He noted the time and slid the paper back through the slot. He heard a buzz, then a click. The large metal door opened. He walked through, and the door clanged shut. Waiting in the corridor, behind the door, was a second officer. He was a young man, tall and athletic with grayish eyes, short, dark brown hair, and thick, bushy eyebrows. He had a pistol strapped to his waist, a metal detector dangling from one hand, and a tiny bucket in the other. Their eyes met, and the officer extended the small bucket toward Tyrone.

“Empty your pockets.”

He seemed serious, but not gruff. Stern, but not mean. Tyrone removed his keys and his loose change and dropped everything into the bucket.

“Is that it?”

“Yes, sir,” Tyrone said. “That’s it.”

“Raise your arms above your head.”

Tyrone lifted his arms high above his head, and the officer ran the scanner underneath his left arm, down the outside of his left leg, and then up the inside before switching to the other side and repeating the same.

“Turn around and face the wall.”

Tyrone turned and stared at the wall. It was a plain cement wall that was bare save for the round mirror in the corner just below the ceiling. Through the reflection in the mirror, he watched the officer slowly drag the scanner down his back, over his butt, and about his ankles. Satisfied that all was safe, the officer returned his things, then uttered, “Follow me.”

Tyrone followed him, fully expecting to be led deep into the bowels of the prison, traversing a maze of slamming doors while walking past hordes of half-dressed, tattoo-covered men peering at him from behind steel bars. Instead, he was led down a long hallway, through two sets of solid steel doors, and into a moderate-size room. Inside the room, there was a long row of chairs, each in its own tiny cubicle, and each neatly aligned behind a thick glass partition that spanned the full length of the wall. He took a seat before the glass and stared wide-eyed at the empty chair on the other side. The door opened and two officers escorted Marcus inside. “My God,” Tyrone mumbled as his gaze fell on the frail shell of his son hobbling toward the empty chair, swinging the chains girting his hands, and dragging the shackles binding his feet.

One of the guards loosened his hands, and, as if in a daze, Marcus eased into the chair, then lifted the phone from the hook and placed it to his ear. He looked at Tyrone, and his large, empty eyes revealed the hopeless soul of a broken man. His hair was long and unkempt. His face unshaven. His teeth dingy. His body bent. He was living, but he was no longer alive.

“How you doing, son?” Tyrone asked. He did not look directly at Marcus, but at the two officers who had led him into the room. Neither left. Both stood back against the wall watching Marcus, guarding the door.

“Awright,” Marcus mumbled. His voice was unemotional, lifeless.

Tyrone parted his lips to speak, then paused. Lingering just beneath the surface of his iron constitution, his frayed emotions threatened to erupt and release an avalanche of raw, naked emotions. His mind counseled him to be calm. Inside his head, he heard himself trying desperately to still his pounding heart and relax his wretched nerves. He swallowed, feeling a glob of saliva slide off the back of his stiff, thick tongue and down the hollow of his parched, throbbing throat. He concentrated on trying to steady his trembling hands and calm his shaky voice.

“They treating you awright, son?” he asked.

Marcus nodded, but did not speak. Again, Tyrone looked at the guards; only this time, they were looking at him. Though he knew they could not hear what he was saying, he sensed that they were aware that he was talking about them.

“You need anything?” Tyrone asked.

“No, sir,” Marcus said, then averted his eyes.

There was an awkward silence. Tyrone shifted his eyes to Marcus. Marcus looked at him briefly, then looked away.

“You seen Mama?” Marcus asked. His head was bowed, and one of his hands clasped the phone while the other lay across his lap.

“Not yet,” Tyrone said uneasily.

“This been hard on her,” Marcus confided, his voice tinged with regret.

“I can imagine,” Tyrone said in an understanding tone.

There was a pause. Marcus raised his head for the second time. The whites of his puffy eyes were red, and the skin of his chestnut-colored forehead was marked with several thin, dark lines. He seemed tired; he looked old.

“You back home?” he asked softly, timidly.

Tyrone shook his head, then paused. He saw Marcus furrow his brow, and he knew that the boy was confused. He had not understood. He wanted an explanation. “Cedar Creek,” Tyrone told him. “Least for the time being.”

“Grandma Hannah’s.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Got out a few days ago. Been there every night since.”

Marcus looked at him; then his sullen eyes dropped submissively.

“Glad you got out,” he said. His voice was dry and mechanical. “Don’t reckon I ever will. Least not alive.”

“Don’t say that, son,” Tyrone said. “Don’t ever say that.”

Marcus raised his head, and there was a faraway look in his gloomy eyes.

“I had a dream the other night.” He spoke in a frightened whisper.

Tyrone looked at him but did not speak.

“It happened.” He paused, and his eyes widened. He was reliving the dream. He was seeing the whole thing. “They strapped me down….” His heaving chest began rising and falling. “And they did it…” His hands began to shake. The chain began to rattle. “They killed me.”

“Naw, son,” Tyrone said, shaking his head slowly. “That ain’t gone happen.”

Marcus’s quivering mouth hung open. His head was perfectly still. His unfocused eyes were staring straight ahead, looking at nothing, seeing nothing.

“I went to this place …” He said that, and his voice trailed off. “It was dark … so dark.”

“Son, you just scared,” Tyrone said. “That’s all. You just a little scared. It’s gone be all right. I promise you that.”

“People were crying,” Marcus continued as though in a trance. “I heard moaning.” His twitching eyes narrowed, and he slowly looked about. “Daddy,” he whispered in a voice laced with terror, “I was so scared.”

“It was just a dream.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“You ain’t gone die.”

“I keep asking God why this happening to me. But he don’t tell me nothing.”

“Marcus!”

“I just want it to be over.”

“Marcus!”

“I just want to go home.”

“Marcus!” Tyrone shouted into the phone. He leaned forward, his tensed face against the thick glass separating them. “I want to help you, son,” he said. His voice was stern; his teeth, clenched. “But you got to pull yourself together.”

Marcus stared blankly at his father; then his moist eyes dropped, and he slumped in his chair, quiet. Tyrone looked at the guards. There was a smirk on what had been stoic faces. This was what they wanted. Now that the day had been chosen and the time had been set, they wanted to see him squirm. They wanted to see him cry; they wanted to see him suffer. They wanted him to beg like that little girl had begged. He had shown her no mercy, and now the state would show him none.

“Tell me what happened, son.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Marcus declared fervently. His eyes searched his father’s face, pleading for understanding. “I swear to God I don’t.”

“Why were you in that store?”

“Mama sent me,” he said. “She was cooking.” His voice had become soft, childlike. “She needed some onions and pepper and a can of milk.”

“But you didn’t buy anything.”

He had heard that line of reasoning before, and hearing it again caused his tired, dreary eyes to well. It had been his downfall. Proof offered by the state that his had been a devious plan, hatched in a sick mind, executed by a cold-blooded killer. The store was a ruse. He was a stalker. She had been his prey.

“I was checking prices like I always do,” he explained. His voice was deflated, and the tears from his eyes rolled down his face and connected underneath his chin. “That’s all,” he said. “Just checking prices.”

“So when you left, you went to another store.”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled.

“Did anybody see you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think, son. Think!”

Marcus’s wet eyes were blank. Several times he opened his mouth as though he was going to speak, but no words came.

“Did you buy anything?”

He nodded.

“What?” Tyrone wanted to know.

“Onions, pepper, milk.” He was talking, but he was no longer there. The words were coming from a place deep inside of him. A place that was dark, lonely, painful.

“Can you prove you were there?”

He dropped his eyes and shook his head. He frowned. His mind flashed back, and again, he was rambling. “He tried to get me to make a deal.” He raised his head and stared straight ahead. “He wanted me to plead guilty.” Marcus paused, thinking. “I didn’t know what to do. He kept saying if I didn’t confess, I was gone die, but I couldn’t. I didn’t do what they say I did.” His voice faded, and he became introspective. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I ain’t gone get another chance. Maybe I’m gone die. But I just couldn’t say I did something I knew I didn’t do … I just couldn’t.”

“Who told you to confess?”

“Captain Jack.”

Stunned, Tyrone opened his mouth to speak, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guards moving toward his son. He saw one whisper something to the other, then yell, “Time!”

Marcus rose clumsily to his feet, and they grabbed him by both arms. He turned and looked back at his father with sad, pleading eyes.

“I’ll be back, son,” Tyrone mouthed. “I’ll be back.”

Marcus nodded, and Tyrone watched him hobble away.