Cry Me A River (27 page)

He rose from the table and led a weak and despondent Pauline back to the truck. They left the prison and he took her home, then went back to Beggar Man’s house. When he got there, Beggar was sitting on the porch, waiting. Tyrone pulled to the curb and stopped, and Beggar Man walked out to the car and leaned against the window. They looked at each other; then Beggar Man spoke.

“Stopped by your crib,” he said. “Miss Hannah told me you went to the prison.”

For an answer, Tyrone nodded.

“How it go?” Beggar Man asked.

Tyrone shook his head, then paused and looked away. He felt like crying. He could feel the tears forming beneath his eyelids.

There was silence. And then, Beggar spoke again.

“Well, I got news,” he said.

Tyrone turned his head slowly and looked at him with sad, tired eyes, then spoke for the first time. “Good news, I hope.”

“Could be,” Beggar Man said. He waited as if he expected Tyrone to say something else, but when he did not, continued, “I talked to Charlie Edwards,” he said, then paused again. “You remember Charlie, don’t you?”

Tyrone hesitated, then shook his head. He may have known him, but right now his mind was not working.

“You know ‘im,” Beggar Man insisted. “He a old timer. Been working up there on Peterson’s place for years.”

Beggar Man paused, and Tyrone screwed up his eyes and furrowed his brow. Then he shook his head a second time and blurted, “Don’t believe I know ‘im … and if I do, I sho’ don’t remember ‘im.”

“Well,” Beggar Man said, sensing the futility of trying to make Tyrone remember. “He say that nigger knew that girl. He say he seen ‘em together before. Say he seen ‘em together lots of times.”

Beggar Man’s words drifted past him, and when their meaning registered, Tyrone leaned forward, his eyes wide, his mouth open.

“Seen ‘em where?” he asked.

“Riding in that truck,” Beggar Man replied.

“Rooster and the girl,” Tyrone said.

Beggar Man nodded.

“He sho’!”

Beggar Man nodded again. “Said he seen ‘em that night. Said they was at Peterson’s place.”

“Together?” Tyrone asked, his voice marred with disbelief.

“That’s what he said.”

Suddenly, a strange feeling engulfed Tyrone, his moist skin flushed warm, and he discovered that his clammy hands were trembling.

“Get in,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Beggar Man opened the door and started to get in, but before he could, Tyrone stopped him.

“I need a piece,” Tyrone said.

Beggar Man lifted his shirt and removed a gun from his waist. “Will this do?” he asked.

Tyrone nodded, and Beggar Man handed him the gun. Tyrone slid the gun underneath the seat. He felt the truck sink as Beggar Man climbed aboard; then he felt the seat give and heard the springs creak. Yes, he had made a decision. Things had gone too far, and now, he would do what needed to be done. And as Marcus had realized, now that the essential nature of this situation seemed clear, Tyrone just became resigned to the fact that his own life was not important, and once he realized that, he, too, was scared no more. He pulled out into the road, staring straight ahead, clutching the wheel with firm, steady hands. His taut body suffered from exhaustion. His head was heavy, and his eyes craved sleep. Silently, he guided the truck over the narrow, bumpy street, his weary mind blank, his unfocused eyes blind to all beyond him. He heard Beggar Man clear his throat and saw him turn slightly in his seat and retrieve a lighter from his pocket, then a cigarette from his shirt.

“Smoke?” Beggar Man offered.

Tyrone shook his head. Beggar Man lit the end of the cigarette and took a long draw, then exhaled. Tyrone watched the smoke slowly drift past Beggar Man’s ear, and then, as if caught in a vacuum, it was quickly sucked through the open window and out into the open vast.

“What time is it?” Beggar Man asked.

Tyrone looked at his watch. “Little after three,” he said.

Beggar Man lifted the cigarette to his mouth again and took another puff, then turned his head and blew the smoke toward the window. “Reckon he still at Peterson’s?”

Tyrone hesitated. He did not know. He had not considered that. Yesterday, they had tipped their hand, and now Rooster knew they were on to him. And if he was involved, as it now appeared that he was, maybe he had gone into hiding, or maybe he was lying low. Instinctively, Tyrone pressed the accelerator, and instantly, the speed of the truck increased. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beggar Man staring at him, and then he realized that he had not answered his friend.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled in a low, tense tone. “I just don’t know.”

He guided the truck through the streets, out of the neighborhood, and onto the highway leading to Peterson’s place. They were traveling north, and he could feel the warm rays of the evening sun on the left side of his stubbled face reminding him that the hour was getting late and their time was getting short. He glanced at Beggar Man, who had leaned back against the seat, his bent elbow resting on the opened window. The smoldering cigarette lay limp between scissored fingers, and his hallow eyes stared contemplatively out over the
passing meadows and grazing cows. Tyrone righted his head and turned his eyes back toward the highway. In his cluttered mind, none of this made sense. Before, he had had a theory of what might have happened: P. K. had picked her up that night. He had driven her out into the country. They had made love. Then something went wrong. And he killed her. But she had not been seen with P. K.; she had been seen with Rooster. And not once, but on any number of occasions. They knew each other. And Rooster had lied. But why had he lied? Who was he protecting? Himself? P. K.? Who? And why was Rooster, a black boy, riding around town with a young white girl. Confused, Tyrone stared headlong into the streets, looking for answers that would not come. And the more he thought, the more muddled things became. And the more muddled things became, the more intense the throbbing pain became inside his aching head.

He arrived at the turnoff and followed the road to the main house. But unlike the day before, he did not stop there. Instead, he drove past the house and stopped next to the large storage shed where he and Beggar Man had previously confronted Rooster. From where he sat, he could see inside the building. A small group of men were milling about, stacking empty crates on empty wooden pallets. Quietly, his eyes surveyed their bent backs, seeking out the now familiar form of the one they all called Rooster.

“Help you?” someone said.

He looked up, hearing the sound of the man’s voice. Standing behind him, just beyond the door of his truck, was a middle-aged black man clad in a pair of old, faded blue overalls.

“Looking for Rooster,” Tyrone said.

“He ain’t here,” the man informed him.

Suddenly, Tyrone’s worries were realized. He was not here. Was he hiding? Or had he fled? For a brief moment, Tyrone’s lips tightened. The thought that Rooster had fled frightened him. It was nearing evening, and he was running out of time.

“Where is he?” Tyrone asked.

“Don’t know,” the man said. “Didn’t show up this morning.”

“Reckon he at home?” Tyrone heard himself ask.

“Your guess just as good as mine,” the man said. “But I know one thang. This sho’ ain’t like him. Ain’t like him at all. Rooster always been a good worker. Can’t say the last time I do remember him missing work. Oh, well,” the man said, then paused. “Can I help you with something?”

Tyrone shook his head, then pulled the truck into gear. As he drove off, he could not help thinking that everything was falling apart. This whole ordeal had been nothing but one dead end after another. He headed off the property with no clear idea as to where he was going. Just beyond Peterson’s place, Beggar Man lit another cigarette, then took a long, slow drag. A quiet moment passed.

“Well, what you think?” Tyrone asked. Anxiety sapped his strength. He felt drained and unsure of himself.

“He know something,” Beggar Man said, then raised the cigarette to his lips again. “That nigger know something real important.”

Tyrone leaned back and rested against the back of the seat. He was tired and worn out, and it seemed that his weary mind had finally shut down. He tried to think, but all channels seemed clogged, all links disconnected, all functions halted. He needed someone to tell him what to do. He turned to Beggar Man.

“What now?” he asked.

“Let’s try his house,” Beggar Man said.

At the main highway, he turned right. Rooster did not live in Brownsville proper, but just north of the city limits in the small village of Edna. As Tyrone drove, he glanced at his watch. It was three-fifteen. He thought about Marcus. What was he doing? Well, what did one do when the duration of his life could be measured in hours, and the measure of those hours total less than a day? Did he pray, or did he cry, or did he hope against hope while waiting for those who would end his life to appear and tell him that it was time? And when they told him, how did he feel; what did he think; how did he act?

This was his fault. Had he been a better husband, or a better father, or a better person, none of this would have happened. His father would be alive. His wife would be healthy; his mother would have peace; his son would be free. Yes, Beggar Man was right. Rooster knew something. And what he knew, he would tell. Yes, he would tell or he, too, would die.

They stopped in front of a small wood-frame house just off the main highway a few miles north of Peterson’s place. The windows were closed, the curtains were drawn, and there was no visible sign that anyone was home.

“Don’t look like he here,” Tyrone said. He glanced at the house, then at Beggar Man.

“He here,” Beggar Man said. “Check out that curtain.”

The moment he looked, he saw the curtain move slightly. Someone in the house was watching them. He retrieved the gun from underneath the seat and stuffed it in the waist of his pants. This was it. Whatever happened now, happened. He opened the door and got
out. As he and Beggar approached the house, he kept his eyes on the window. Yes, the man knew something. He was hiding in the house in the middle of the day with the curtains drawn. They neared the steps, and Beggar raised his hand for Tyrone to stop. Confused, Tyrone stopped and looked. Beggar Man pointed to the rear of the house. Yes, he was home; and yes, he was hiding. He had parked his truck behind the house in an effort to conceal it. Tyrone nodded, and Beggar Man motioned him onto the porch. As he mounted the steps, Beggar Man, walking on tiptoes, eased behind the house, lest Rooster should flee through the back door. At the door, Tyrone raised his hand and knocked. He waited. No answer. He knocked a second time. Inside the house, he heard feet scurrying. Rooster was trying to escape. Tyrone lowered his shoulder and rammed the door hard. The lock split, and the door swung open. Inside, the lights were out, but the interior of the house was illuminated by the natural light penetrating the plain sheer curtains. Near the rear, he heard a noise, but before he could react to it, Beggar Man emerged, dragging a struggling Rooster.

“Look what I found,” he said, then violently slung Rooster to the floor. Rooster’s head struck the floor hard. He looked up; his lip was bleeding.

Tyrone crossed the room and stood over him.

“Get up,” he said.

Dazed, Rooster looked up, then struggled to his feet. His eyes were narrowed, and his face was furrowed into a huge, angry frown. “What y’all want?” he snapped.

“Answers,” Tyrone said.

“Answers!” Rooster looked at Beggar Man, then at Tyrone. “What kind of answers?”

“Tell me about the girl,” Tyrone said.

“I told you … I don’t know what you talking about.”

Tyrone drew closer until the two of them were separated by only inches.

“I think you do,” he said.

“And I think you better back up off me.” Rooster issued a warning of his own. Suddenly, Beggar Man stepped forward.

“Ah, you a tough guy, hunh … a real tough guy.”

“Naw,” Rooster said. “I ain’t tough. I’m just telling y’all to quit riding me … that’s all.”

“And I’m telling you … you better start talking,” Tyrone said.

“Ain’t nothing to talk about,” Rooster said. “I told you that before.”

“I think you lying,” Tyrone said.

“It’s a free world,” Rooster smarted. “You can think whatever you want to.”

Tyrone frowned. A huge wave of anger swelled in him. He drew even closer, until he felt Rooster’s breath coming full in his face. He looked deep into Rooster’s eyes. Rooster stood motionless, staring back at him. Anger made Tyrone’s chest rise and fall, then rise again. He thrust his hand in his waist and removed the gun, then pressed the barrel hard against Rooster’s head. He saw Rooster’s eyes widen; he heard the breath go out of his lungs; he felt him resign.

“Cap ‘im,” Beggar Man said.

Rooster’s eyes flashed horror. “Hold on, man … Wait!”

Tyrone relaxed his grip, yet he held the gun firm against Rooster’s temple. In him now was a cold, callous desire to strike out at the world that had stricken him. He felt hopeless, and desperate, and his body was on edge. He sensed himself giving in to a violent impulse; no, a need to hurt, to maim, to kill.

“Talk,” he said.

“I done told you all I know.”

“Cap ‘im,” Beggar Man said.

Rooster closed his eyes. His body tensed. And Tyrone tightened his grip on the stock of the pistol. A voice inside his head told him to exact his own justice. His son was going to die. And he would die at the hands of a world he was powerless to touch, and by the deeds of a man, the tracks of whom he could not uncover. He felt his breath coming and going. His chest rising and falling. He heard the intense wail of a raging world echoing loud inside his tormented head. Tyrone wrapped his fingers around the trigger. He felt the tenseness mount. He felt himself squeezing the trigger. He heard Rooster yell.

“Hold on, mister … Wait.”

“Where P. K.?” Tyrone growled. His jaw was tight. His teeth were clenched. His fiery eyes were red with fury. He was outside of himself now. Yes, Rooster would have to tell him something. He would either tell him something or die. He looked at Rooster, and Rooster looked at him.