Cry Me A River (23 page)

“Well, I know where she worked,” Tyrone said.

“Where?” Beggar Man asked.

“She use to baby-sit for Mr. Peterson.”

Beggar Man sat up in his seat.

“That could be it.”

“What?” Tyrone asked, confused.

“Where they met,” he said. “Maybe they met up there.”

“Naw.” Tyrone shook his head. “She was a baby-sitter. She didn’t work with nobody else. She work in the house by herself.”

“Didn’t you just say she worked for Peterson?”

“Yeah,” Tyrone said. “She watched his kids.”

Beggar looked at him, then smiled.

“Man, Peterson a farmer,” Beggar Man said. “A bigtime sweet potato farmer. Lot of niggers from these parts work up there.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tyrone said.

“Maybe this cat worked for him.” Beggar Man was hopeful.

“Maybe,” Tyrone said.

“Won’t hurt to check it out,” Beggar Man said.

“Man, we running out of time,” Tyrone said.

“What you want me to do?” Beggar Man pressed for a decision.

“Check it out,” Tyrone said. “That’s all you can do.”

Beggar Man started the car.

“You coming?” he asked.

Tyrone shook his head. “Can’t,” he said. “Eight o’clock curfew. Can’t afford to get locked up.”

“No sweat,” Beggar Man said. “Hang tight. I’ll check it out and get back with you first thang in the morning.”

A
t five A.M. there was an unexpected knock on his bedroom door. He sat up in bed and turned on the light. He wasn’t asleep. In fact, he had not slept at all. Instead, for most of the night, he had paced the tiny bedroom floor, too afraid to leave the house and too worked up to sleep, all the while tormented by the horrid fact that he was wasting time he did not have to waste.

“Yeah,” he called through his closed bedroom door. “Who is it?”

“Tyrone, it’s me. Sarah Ann. Open the door. Somebody here to see you.”

“Who?” he said.

“Yo’ parole officer.”

He crawled out of bed, trembling. He opened the door and spied his parole officer standing soldierlike before him, flanked by two armed police officers.

“Need to search your room,” she said.

He stepped aside, wide-eyed and confused. Yes, he was still in prison, and yes, this was her show to run as she so
desired. Out in the hallway, he heard his mother talking to Sarah Ann. He heard her ask if they could do this. He heard her ask what they were looking for. He heard her call on Jesus.

“Any contraband in here we need to know about?” his parole officer asked.

He shook his head.

“Any weapons?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Any drugs?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Any alcohol?”

“No, ma’am.”

“All right,” she said. “For your sake I hope there’s not. Turn around and face the wall.”

He complied, feeling ill at ease. He stared at the wall, claimed by so deep a fear that he worried at any minute his entire body would begin to shake, tremble.

“Spread ‘em.”

He spread his legs and reached high upon the wall, feeling her hand searching his body, exploring his pockets.

Through his bedroom door he heard a familiar voice.

“What’s going on in here?”

He turned his head slightly and saw René. She had on her uniform. She was preparing to leave for work.

“What he done got into now?”

“Nothing,” Sarah Ann said. “That’s his parole officer. Now shut yo’ mouth and don’t go starting trouble.”

“Mama don’t need this,” Rene said. “Mama got high blood pressure. She don’t need this first thang in the morning. I just wish he would leave. I just wish he would leave and take all this trouble with him.”

“You ain’t helping nothin’,” Sarah Ann said. “You ain’t doing nothin’ but making thangs worse.”

“Turn around,” Tyrone heard his parole officer say.

He turned, and their eyes met. He immediately dropped his, intimidated. He was in the midst of a nightmare—a never-ending nightmare.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered.

He opened his mouth, complying.

“Stick out your tongue.”

He stuck out his tongue, then waited.

“Lift it up, and tilt back your head,” she issued yet another order.

He lifted his tongue, then tilted back his head, and his parole officer moved closer and examined the inside of his mouth.

“What she doing?” he heard his mother’s voice.

“Looking for drugs,” he heard René say.

“Oh, my Lawd,” came the pained exclamation of his agitated mother. “Oh, Savior, help us,” she prayed out loud. “Help us, Savior.”

He looked out of the corner of his eye. Why were they letting her watch this? Why didn’t they take her out on the porch until it was over? Why?

“All of these your things?” the parole officer asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “They all mine.”

Wordlessly, he watched her turn back his bedcovers, remove the mattress, empty his dresser drawers, go through his clothes, and search his shoes. And when she had finished, he saw her stand in the center of the room and look about.

“Where does that door go to,” she asked.

“My sister’s bedroom.”

“Oh, no,” he heard René say. “I ain’t no convict. And you ain’t going through my things.”

“Ma’am, as long as he lives here, I am well within my jurisdiction to search every inch of this house to assure that he is abiding by the conditions of his parole.”

“Well, he needs to leave, then,” she said. “This ain’t no prison. This is our home. Our private home.”

“René,” Sarah Ann said. “Why don’t you go to work?”

“Ma’am, do you have any alcohol in your room?” the parole officer asked.

“No,” she said. “Don’t nobody in this house drank.”

“Good,” his parole officer said. “Because as a condition of his parole, he is not allowed to be around alcohol or anyone who is engaged in the consumption of alcohol.”

René looked at Tyrone. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

“Go to work, René,” Sarah Ann said, seeming to sense that René was about to divulge the wrong thing. “Go to work before you be late.”

“Are there any firearms in the house?” the parole officer asked.

“No, ma’am,” Sarah Ann said. “Ain’t no guns in this house. Ain’t none nowhere. You can take my word on that.”

“I will, this time,” the parole officer said. “But understand that I can, and I will, search this entire house anytime I deem necessary.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tyrone heard his sister say. He glanced over at her. He saw that she had her arm around their mother. She was holding her up, comforting her. His mother looked worried, frustrated, scared.

“I don’t like this,” René said. “I don’t like it one bit.”

Tyrone looked at her. He wanted to say something to her but under the circumstances knew that he could not. Why didn’t she just leave? Why didn’t she just shut her big mouth and go on to work?

“Do you operate a vehicle?” the parole officer asked him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Which one?”

“The truck.”

“Is it your truck?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Whose is it?”

“My mother’s … use to belong to Daddy … but he passed not too long ago. So don’t nobody drive it. Nobody but me.”

“Where is it?”

“Under the car shed.”

“You got a driver’s license?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let me see it.”

Tyrone removed his wallet from his pants and then handed her his license. He looked at his mother, and he knew what she was thinking.
Thank God you tended to that before it was too late
. His parole officer handed him his license, then reached in her bag and removed a plastic cup.

“Where is the bathroom?” she asked Tyrone.

Tyrone turned and pointed.

“Down the hall,” he said.

“Show me.”

He walked out of the room, and when he was in the hallway, he stole a quick, nervous glance at his mother. Their eyes met, and he could see that she was crying. Oh, why did she have to go through this? Somehow it all seemed so unfair. What had she ever done to deserve this? What had she ever done besides love him?

At the bathroom, one of the officers went inside, presumably to inspect the interior. When he returned, he nodded his approval to the parole officer, and she handed Tyrone the cup.

“Need a urine sample,” she said.

He took the cup and went into the bathroom, but
before he could close the door, he heard his parole officer tell one of the policemen to go in with him and watch him. Feeling thoroughly degraded, he shut the door and turned his back, and under the watchful eye of the police officer, he removed the lid, urinated in the cup, and replaced the lid. Once he was done, he washed his hands, then turned to the officer.

“Now what?” he said.

“Give it to her,” he told Tyrone.

Out in the hallway, she took the specimen, secured it in a box, then led the way to the car shed. Once there, she searched the truck, and finding nothing, she turned to him and said, “Keep your nose clean … I’m watching you.”

S
he left, and though his frightened, tense body was mired in simultaneous feelings of degradation, dejection, and humiliation, he quickly pulled himself together, took a bath, got dressed, and readied himself to find Beggar Man. In spite of his own personal travails, he fully realized that to a certain extent, he had placed his son’s future in Beggar Man’s hands, and now, he felt deep within his consciousness that one more dead end would most certainly mean the end for Marcus, as well as the end of his own life as he had hoped it would exist beyond the walls of prison.

He dallied at home much longer than he had originally planned. If his parole officer was lurking, he had to be careful, lest she should catch him in some minor violation, or should show herself at a most inopportune time, when he, himself, was mired in some compromising situation. No, he lingered, being careful to avoid his mother, and Sarah Ann, until that innate instinct by which he had always lived told him it was time to go. As he left for Beggar Man’s house, he was plagued by
a feeling with which he had little familiarity. No, his belief in his son had never waned. No, not for one fleeting moment. Yet, for much of the night, as he had paced back and forth, he had been plagued by one nagging question after the other. What if he was wrong? What if there was no P. K.? And even if P. K. did exist, what if he was not the one? What if someone else killed her? Someone other than P. K. Someone other than his son. Oh, he had been wrong before in his life. He had been wrong many times about many things. But never before had being wrong held such grave consequences for those he loved.

No, P. K. did exist. He picked her up that night. He carried her to that field. He killed her. Yes, he did it. P. K., not Marcus.

It was too early for Beggar Man to be at work. So, Tyrone went to his house. But because of his heightened suspicion, and his awareness that his parole officer now knew his truck, he did not park on the street, nor did he park in the neighborhood. Instead, he parked on the outskirts, at a nearby convenience store, and walked the half mile to Beggar Man’s house. When he got there, to his surprise, Beggar Man was sitting on the porch, waiting. Tyrone spoke first.

“Got something for me?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Beggar Man said.

“What?”

“A name,” he said. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“What name?” Tyrone asked, curious.

“There’s a nigger up there, at Peterson’s, ‘bout your boy’s age,” he said. “He looks a little shady.”

“What you mean, shady?”

“Well, for one thing,” Beggar Man said, “nigger drive a old blue truck.”

“Dark blue?” Tyrone asked.

Beggar nodded but did not speak.

“That’s it,” Tyrone said. “That what I been looking for.”

“But check this out,” Beggar said. “It ain’t his.”

Tyrone looked at him questioningly.

“Well, whose is it?” he asked.

“Ole man Peterson’s,” Beggar Man said. “Way I hear it, nigger his flunky. He runs his errands. And every now and then, Peterson let the nigger keep his truck a day or two. Least that’s what I hear.”

“It’s him,” Tyrone said. “Got to be.”

“Don’t know, man,” Beggar Man said, doubtful. “His name ain’t P. K. They call him Rooster.”

Tyrone was silent, thinking.

“What his real name,” he asked. “Maybe P. K. stand for something else. Maybe it’s his initials.”

Beggar Man shook his head.

“Nigger name Benny,” he said. “Benny Earl Jones.”

“You talked to him.”

“Naw,” Beggar Man said, shaking his head again. “I seen ‘im downtown, but I didn’t talk to him. Wanted to check with you first. See what you wanted to do.”

“Wonder if he knew the girl.”

“Don’t know,” Beggar Man said. “Nigger works for Peterson. He could.”

“You know where to find him?” Tyrone asked.

“Yeah,” Beggar Man said. “I know.”

“Let’s roll,” Tyrone said. “We running out of time.”

Beggar Man rose, then stopped. He looked toward the street, then back at Tyrone, and Tyrone could see that he was puzzled. Confused. Tyrone looked out at the empty streets, wondering what he had seen. Why had he stopped?

“Where your truck?” Beggar Man asked with a bewildered look on his face.

Now Tyrone understood. Beggar Man was trying to figure out how he had gotten here. Where he had parked.

“‘Cross the tracks,” he said, then offered an explanation. “Parole officer sweatin’ me, man. Could be following me, I don’t know.”

“Let’s take my ride,” Beggar said, expressing an unspoken level of understanding which could only be found in one who, himself, had also had the tenuous task of living life as an ex-con while trying to navigate that monumental obstacle called parole.

Tyrone followed him to his car, and when they both were seated, Beggar Man headed out of town, intuitively taking back roads and obscure streets until they were well away from town and well on their way to Peterson’s place. At the little village of Indian Junction, they turned off the main highway, onto a long gravel road, and as they eased along, bypassing one farm after another, they finally came to a vast stretch of land, the bulk of which Beggar Man told him was Peterson’s place. And the farther they drove, the more he understood. Yes, this vast, sprawling spread carved into what could only be described as hundreds of acres of pristine wilderness was no farm. No, this was a plantation, the size and scope of which he had not comprehended. As he gaped, wide-eyed, through his lowered window at what appeared to be a never-ending configuration of sweet potato fields, he could only imagine from whence all these workers came. Yes, it made sense. P. K. was one of a thousand black boys, anonymously toiling day after day under the scorching rays of a red-hot sun, invisible to all who cared not to see him.