Читать книгу Cry Me A River - Ernest Hill - Страница 9

It was seven a.m. when he stopped at the gate leading onto his in-laws’ property. It wasn’t much of a gate (a few pieces of scrap lumber held together mostly by wire) but it was enough to keep the chickens and cows and horses and hogs from straying.

He got out and opened the gate, then got back in, drove the truck through, and got out again. Though it was summer, it had been an unusually hot, dry month, and the long, winding road was covered with fine, loose dust. It was the kind of dust that aggravated the grownups. Especially if the wind was blowing, or if they had laundry hanging on the line, or if they wanted to sit out on the porch and eat a sandwich or nap during the hot part of the day.

But for the kids, these were ideal conditions for rolling tires, or riding bikes, or playing war, or engaging in any type of activity that would cause the dust to rise in their wake, adding tangible evidence of the trail of smoke conjured in their overactive minds. How many times, on days like this, had he watched as his son raced barefooted down the old dirt road, climbed the gate, retrieved the mail from the box on the opposite side of the street, and raced back to the house?

He shut the gate, climbed back behind the wheel, and hastily guided the truck through the shallow, dry ruts toward the small wood-frame house. Directly through the gate, on the right side of the road, was his brother-in-law Levi Jackson’s house. (Levi and his family had lived there together before his wife took the kids and moved to St. Louis.) Behind Levi’s house was a cow pasture. On the opposite side of the road, just beyond the long, straight rows of cotton, the roof of Joe Jackson’s small two-bedroom trailer was barely visible. Either Levi or Joe had been plowing the field when the news came this morning. He could tell by the way the old John Deere tractor sat halfway down the center of a row with the blades of the plow still deeply embedded in the partially tilled soil.

Flanked by a thick cloud of dust, he stopped just east of the front porch and parked underneath the large tree where the chickens roosted. He killed the engine, pushed the door open, and slid to the ground. He paused for a moment, staring at the simple gray house with the tin roof and the small open porch that was supported by four wood studs. More than ten years had passed since he had seen either his son or his wife, but in a way that he could not explain, it seemed like only yesterday that he had stood across the street from his house, watching the police watching for him, all the time longing for one last glimpse of the woman to whom he had pledged his life and one last word with the son who, because of what he had done, would have to come of age fatherless in the cruel, unforgiving world they called home.

Plagued by a sense of uneasiness, he walked toward the house, ever aware of the tightness in his arms and legs. He, unlike the prodigal son, was returning to a world that had once rebuked him and that perhaps still did not welcome his presence. With each step forward, he fought against the mounting desire to turn back, and he clung to the faint voice calling from a remote part of his brain, counseling him to continue, persuading him to push on.

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.