Cry Me A River (25 page)

T
wo hours later, Tyrone sat before the old abandoned building on Willow Street, anxiously watching passing cars and silently praying that Beggar Man had been able to do that which he had not. As he waited, nervously counting every waning second, his tormented mind dangled suspended somewhere between hope and fear, sporadically entertaining distant, yet troubling thoughts seemingly fed to him via some foreign force with which he felt compelled to listen. Yes, he was Marcus’s father. And yes, it was his responsibility to help him. Yet, in spite of his best efforts to do just that, his son’s grave condition had not been ameliorated, but to the contrary, his dim plight had become dimmer. So dim it seemed that only an unforeseen act of God could stave off his apparent destiny with death.

Why was this happening? Why was his family being punished so? Why?

Suddenly, he bent over the wheel, crying. Of late, he had felt frightened and overwhelmed, but until today he had not cried. No, not once since this nightmare
had begun. He had not cried because deep inside of himself, he had believed. In spite of everything, he had believed. But now that the hour was late, and his options few, his emotions erupted, and he cried. No, he did not cry for himself only. But he cried for his son, who never really knew his father. He cried for his wife, whose feeble mind was cracking under the heavy strain of having to bear the unbearable burden of watching her only child be murdered. He cried for his mother, and he cried for his sisters, and he cried for his in-laws, and he cried for every black man, woman, and child who, like himself, found themselves at the mercy of this cruel, unjust system of justice. And, yes, he cried because his son would cry no more.

Outside, he could hear the sound of tires on the loose gravel in the parking lot. He looked up, teary-eyed. A white man had pulled next to him and stopped.

“You all right, buddy?” the man asked.

Tyrone wiped his eyes. No, he wasn’t all right. How could he be? His whole world was falling apart. Nonetheless, he nodded, fully expecting the man to accept his affirmation and pull off, but instead, the man held pat, staring with wide, curious eyes.

“Car trouble?” the man said blandly.

Tyrone shook his head, but the man still did not budge. Then Tyrone understood. The man could not move and would not move until that innate suspicion with which their kind viewed his kind had been satisfied. No, he expected more; he wanted an explanation. Tyrone looked off, his lips parted, and he felt himself surrender to the unspoken will of his white would-be benefactor.

“Waiting on somebody,” he heard himself say.

There was a brief moment of silence, and though Tyrone did not look at him, he could sense the man’s gaze
upon his face, studying his countenance, processing what he had been told. Tyrone sat still, feeling uncomfortable until he heard the man speak again.

“All right, then,” he heard him say. “You have a good day now, you hear?”

As the man drove off, Tyrone watched him, feeling that somehow the stranger’s presence, although peaceful, had sparked something that he could not explain. Then he realized what was bothering him. The man’s face was that of those responsible for ruining his life. Yes, his face was the face of the girl who was killed. It was the face of the woman who fingered his son. It was the face of the judge who presided over his trial, it was the face of the jurors who convicted him, it was the face of the jailer who held him, and it was the face of the executioner who would kill him. No, he was not all right, and he would not be all right, until he could convince the man behind that face to release his son and end this charade once and for all.

Again, he heard the sound of tires on the loose gravel. He turned and watched Beggar Man pull next to him and stop. He looked at Beggar Man, and Beggar Man looked at him, and intuitively he could tell by Beggar Man’s expression that things had not gone well. Yes, somehow he knew that which Beggar Man had to tell him was not what he needed to hear. Suddenly, he wanted a drink. No, for the first time since his release, he wanted to get high. He wanted to get so high that his mind was beyond all of this.

“What’s up?” he asked, then braced himself for what Beggar Man had to say. Yes, he wished he was high; he wished he was beyond this place.

Beggar Man shook his head slowly, but he did not speak. His sad, hollow eyes spoke for him. He had run into another dead end; he had hit another brick wall.
Tyrone leaned back into the seat and prepared himself to hear the words he did not care to hear. He stared blankly ahead, listening, but not listening.

“The fella I need to see out of town,” Beggar Man said. “Won’t be back until tomorrow.” His voice was low, somber, apologetic.

“Tomorrow,” Tyrone said. He still did not look. His voice was dry, distant, mechanical. “Man, I’m running out of tomorrows.”

Beggar Man shifted in his car, uncomfortable. “I know,” he said.

There was silence, and Tyrone paused, looking far off. He was no longer there; his mind had drifted. A few seconds passed.

“Talked to Marcus,” he said. Then it was quiet again. Beggar Man nodded and grunted, then waited. He was uncomfortable. He did not know what to say. He shifted about on the seat; the springs creaked. Tyrone spoke again.

“They moved him today,” he said. The sound of his low, sad voice had a faraway drone. “They moved him to the death house.”

He turned and looked at Beggar Man, and Beggar Man could see that his red, swollen eyes had begun to fill again. Beggar Man looked at him, then looked away. He wanted to comfort him, but he did not know how.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He waited for Tyrone to say something else, but his friend did not speak. Instead, he slowly turned his head and stared blankly through the windshield. A few awkward seconds passed, then Tyrone’s lips parted. His mouth opened.

“He say he ain’t scared … He say he ain’t scared at all.”

There was silence. Beggar Man sat stone still, listening.

“But I am,” Tyrone confessed. “What if it happens? What if they kill him?”

“Can’t think that way, Ty,” Beggar Man said. “Just can’t think that way.”

“How can they do this?” Tyrone asked.

Beggar Man hunched his shoulders, then nodded.

“He innocent,” Tyrone said.

Beggar Man looked at him but did not respond.

“I hate ‘em,” Tyrone said angrily. “I hate all of ‘em.”

He said that; then it was quiet again. Beggar Man looked far down the road. His eyes narrowed; then his lips parted.

“Me, too, man,” he said. “Me, too.”

A moment passed. Then Tyrone spoke again.

“He want to see Pauline,” he said.

Beggar Man looked at him strangely. His mind had been adrift. “Who?” he asked. He had not heard; he was not sure.

“Marcus,” Tyrone said. “He want to see Pauline.”

“Oh,” he said.

He waited for Tyrone to say more, but he did not. He was quiet, staring straight ahead.

“She going?” Beggar Man prompted him.

Tyrone nodded.

“That’s good.” Beggar Man tried to sound hopeful. “Probably just what Marcus needs. Probably do him some good.”

“I don’t know,” Tyrone said. “Might make things worse.”

“Naw.” Beggar Man shook his head. “He need his mama, Ty. He need her now more than ever.”

“So do I,” Tyrone said.

The words fell from his lips, and instantly he could
not breathe. He had not planned to say them. His mouth had simply opened, and they had spilled from some secret place of which he was unaware. Suddenly, he felt like crying again. He opened the door and climbed out of the truck. He scurried behind the building and buried his face in his hands, sobbing. A moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Beggar Man. Tyrone did not turn to look at him but raised his head and stared at the distant horizon.

“I love her,” he said, his voice trembling. “I still love her.”

“Go tell her,” Beggar Man advised.

“I can’t,” he said.

Beggar Man looked at him strangely. “Why not?” he asked.

“I just can’t.”

“She probably needs to hear it.”

“No,” he said. “Not now.”

“Why not?”

“She sick,” Tyrone said. “She don’t need this. Not now.”

“She ain’t sick, Ty.” Beggar Man rejected his assertion. “Her heart broke, and can’t nobody fix it but you.” He paused and gently grabbed Tyrone about the shoulders and turned him until they were facing each other. “Man, this burden you trying to bear is too heavy,” he said. “It’s just too heavy for one person to carry. You and Pauline created Marcus together, and y’all gone have to see this thing through together. Ty, right now she hurting in a way that don’t nobody in the whole world understand but you. She need you, and you need her. Go be with your wife, Ty. Let me handle this.”

“She don’t want to see me.”

“She loves you, Ty.”

“No, she don’t.”

“Yes, she do.”

“Not anymore.”

“You know better than that, Ty,” Beggar Man snapped. “Man, you and me go back a long way. And I love you like a brother. But some of the shit you pulled, man, if I was Pauline, I would have left you a long time ago. But she didn’t.” Beggar Man shook Tyrone’s shoulders. “Man, do you hear what I’m saying?” He looked deep into Tyrone’s eyes. “All them years you was down … She ain’t never went nowhere … not even on a date.” He paused to let what he had said sink in. “She loves you, Ty. You know that. She ain’t never loved nobody but you.”

“I don’t know,” Tyrone said. “I just don’t know.”

“She divorce you?” Beggar Man asked.

“What?” Tyrone said. The question caught him off guard.

“When you was down, did she divorce you?”

Tyrone shook his head.

“Why not?” Beggar Man asked.

Tyrone didn’t answer.

“Ty,” Beggar Man said, then sighed. “Far as I know, you ain’t never done but two things right since you been in this world. That’s marry Pauline and father Marcus. Now, for some reason, the good Lord done seen fit to give you another crack at this thing. And for the life of me, I don’t know why. But since he has, let me give you a little piece of advice. While you fighting for your son, don’t forget to fight for your wife.”

Tyrone closed his eyes tight, crying.

“I do love her,” he spoke in a whisper.

“Then, fight for her,” Beggar Man said.

“Fight for her,” Tyrone said. “Hell, I can’t even get past her old man.”

“This ain’t got nothing to do with him.” Beggar Man was emphatic.

Tyrone looked at him, then chuckled.

“Man, he her father.”

“He gave her to you,” Beggar said. “I was there when he did it. I was there when that preacher said, ‘Who gives her away.’ I was there, Ty. I was there when he stood up tall as you please and said ‘I do.’ This ain’t got nothing to do with him. Nothing at all. Man, buy your wife some roses. Take her for a walk. Tell her you sorry. Tell her you love her … Tell her you want your family back.”

“I will,” Tyrone said. “Soon as all this is over.”

T
he next morning, Tyrone and Pauline arrived at the prison at a few minutes after nine. They were searched and taken to the warden’s office. His office was a large, impersonal room just off the entrance and just beyond the large steel doors leading into the cell block. In his office, they were escorted to two chairs that had been positioned before a large oak desk and were told to have a seat; the warden would be with them shortly. As they waited, Tyrone held Pauline’s hand. On the trip up, neither of them had said very much. He had held the wheel, and she had sat silently in her seat, staring ahead, rarely flinching, rarely moving.

Inside the office, Tyrone heard the distant ring of steel against steel as faraway doors clanged shut. He heard the heavy sound of approaching steps resonating off the hard concrete floor. He heard the sound of men talking; then the warden entered. From where he sat, he could see him clearly. He was a tall, well-built, silver-haired man, probably in his late forties or early fifties. Unlike the guards, he did not wear a uniform. Instead,
he wore a white long-sleeve shirt, a navy blue neck tie, and a pair of dark trousers. When he entered, he did not cross the room completely, but paused next to them. His light gray eyes settled on Tyrone.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stokes,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Tyrone rose and spoke for both of them. Pauline did not speak, nor did she move. She remained quiet, sitting stone still, staring straight ahead. She was there, and yet she was not there.

“I’m Warden Fletcher,” he said, then extended his hand.

Tyrone shook his hand, but Pauline did not. She was still, perfectly still. She heard him, yet she did not hear him.

“Thank you for coming,” he said politely, then quickly motioned for Tyrone to sit back down. Tyrone took his seat, then watched the warden make his way to the chair behind his desk.

“Can I get either of you anything before we get started?” he asked.

Tyrone shook his head, and Pauline continued to stare.

“Very well,” the warden said, then directed his attention to a folder lying prone upon his desk. “As you both know, your son, Marcus Le Roy Stokes, is scheduled to be executed for capital murder at twelve o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” He paused.

Tyrone nodded. Suddenly this was real. Too real.

“Let me begin by saying that this is a difficult and trying time for all of us. So, to ensure that all goes as well as can be expected under the circumstances, I’ve asked you to come by before your visit today so that I can explain exactly what will occur over the next thirty or so hours. Now, before I start are there any questions?”

Tyrone shook his head. Pauline did not move.

The warden began again. His voice was dry and methodical.

“Today is your final visit,” he said, then paused briefly before he continued. “It will be a contact visit.”

Tyrone snapped forward, wide-eyed.

“We can touch him?”

“That’s correct,” the warden said. Then he leaned back and looked at Tyrone with serious eyes.”You will be allowed to sit together.” He paused and looked at Pauline, but she did not look at him. “However, for security purposes, armed guards will be posted around the room. And your visit will be closely monitored.”