Cry Me A River (9 page)

“Mama, why don’t you go lay down?” he said, looking deep into her tired, blood-shot eyes. “Least ‘til your head quit hurting.”

“I will directly,” she said, and he felt the tension in his arm as she pulled herself upright. “Been in the bed better part of the day. Just felt like sitting up a while.”

“Need me to get you anything?” he asked, then waited. All was silent save for the sound of her struggling to catch her breath. Pulling herself upright had winded her.

“Just sat with me,” she said. “Keep me company.”

He released her hand and sat on the sofa next to her. Beside the large sofa on which he sat, there was a much smaller one pressed against the short wall on the opposite side of the door. A few feet in front of him was a plain wooden chair, the back of which stood against the window that overlooked the front yard. To the right of the chair, crammed in one corner, was a television. To the left of the chair, crammed in the opposite corner, was a space heater. The curtains on the window behind his mother’s recliner were open, and from where he sat, he could see out into the garden. As he stared through the window, absentmindedly eyeing the short rows of tomatoes, the tall stalks of corn, and the full, round heads of plush green cabbage, he could feel her eyes on him, examining the back of his neck, studying the side of his face, becoming reacquainted with the
lone lost son that she had prayed for, and worried about, every day for the last ten years.

“René home yet?” he asked.

“She in the kitchen, cooking,” his mother replied. “You need her?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “Just didn’t see Jimmy’s truck out there.”

“Went to town,” she said. “Ought to be back directly.”

Tyrone nodded. His mother was quiet, but on her face was the look of someone who had a lot to say and didn’t know where to begin.

“It’s so good to have you home, son,” he heard her say in a low, quiet voice. He knew she was happy; but somehow, her soft, sweet voice seemed weary, and he immediately felt guilty for all he had put her through.

“It’s good to be home, Mama,” he said.

She reached toward him, and he instantly felt her hand lying prone on the back of his own.

“Son, we missed you so much,” she said.

“I missed y’all, too,” he said. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Again, he felt her hand gently caressing the back of his own.

“Just hate you had to come back to so much trouble,” he heard her say. “Just wish things could’ve been better. Never thought it would come to this.”

“Somebody should’ve told me,” he said. “Maybe I could’ve done something.”

“Wasn’t nothing you could do.”

“I had a right to know.”

“We just didn’t want to worry you.”

“I’m his father.”

“You were in the pen,” she said. “What could you do?”

“He needed me.”

“You needed to deal with your own problems.”

“Mama, he is my problem.”

She looked at him but did not speak.

“Somebody should’ve told me,” he said again.

“They wanted to,” she said. “Sarah Ann and René. But I wouldn’t let ‘em. You my child, and I wouldn’t let ‘em.”

“I had a right to know.”

“And I had a right to protect you,” she said. “You had done more than half yo’ sentence, and I wasn’t gone let nobody give you a reason to do something crazy and run up your time. Kept thinking that child might get off. Kept thinking he’d get a new trial. Kept hoping it’d work itself out. But it didn’t.”

“I had a right to know.”

“I did what I thought best.”

“Somebody should’ve told me.”

She turned her head and looked away. She started to say something, but at the last minute, seemed to change her mind.

“Visit went all right?” she asked after a brief silence. But he could tell that that wasn’t what she had been about to say.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It went all right.”

There was silence.

“Didn’t have no trouble?”

“No, ma’am. They let me right in.”

“Guess he was glad to see you.”

Tyrone paused and took a deep breath. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. His voice began to trail off. “He was.”

There was silence.

“He making out all right?” she asked.

Tyrone hesitated. His bottom lip began to quiver.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “He ain’t doing good. Ain’t doing good at all.” Tyrone brought his hands to his face
and began to sob. He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. He felt his mother’s hand gently massaging his trembling knee.

“It’s gone be all right, son,” she said with the conviction of someone who knew. The words came from deep inside of her, and he knew that for her, they were not idle words spoken with the slightest bit of doubt. No, hers was not a guess, but a belief rooted in a long tradition of trust that was based on a faith that had been tried and tested. Yes, for her, everything would be all right if the Lord said the same.

“Don’t know what God got in mind,” he heard her say. “But I do know he got a reason for everything he do.”

“What reason he got for killing an innocent child?” Tyrone asked, lowering his hands, looking her directly in the eye.

“Son, I don’t question his wisdom,” she said. Her weak voice had become strong, steady. “Neither should you.”

“Well, what should I do, Mama?” Tyrone asked, his intense eyes studying her face, pleading for an answer. “What should I do?” he whispered again.

He continued to stare at her, but now his troubled mind was no longer there; it was on the box that he had left sitting in the hall next to his bedroom door. He heard her say something, but what, he did not know. Though he heard her voice, he wasn’t listening to her. He was pondering, thinking, planning. Suddenly, he heard the quiet, tense whisper of Janell’s discouraging words echoing through the quiet recesses of his overactive mind: I’m pretty sure the evidence we need is not in that box.

What if there wasn’t a way to get his son off? The thought was strong, the impact immediate. His tepid
skin flushed warm; his frightened body shivered. What would he do? What could he do?

“I should’ve been here for him,” he said, his eyes in a daze.

“You ain’t the blame for this.” His mother’s response was quick, forceful. “You hear me? You ain’t the blame.” She had turned in her chair, and now she was facing him. Both of her hands were clutching the soft, plush arm of the chair on which she sat. Her eyes were narrowed; her brow, furrowed; her lips, pursed.

“I should’ve set a better example,” he said. His eyes were distant, vacant.

“Ain’t no cause in carrying on like this,” she said. “You made a mistake, and now you done made amends for it. That’s all there is to it.”

“That ain’t all, Mama,” he said; then his voice quieted. “Now my son paying for it.” He looked at her with still moist eyes. “How am I supposed to live with that, Mama? How?”

“Yo’ trouble ain’t his troubles.”

“People say he got convicted because of me.”

“You can’t pay people no mind,” she said. “You ain’t the cause of this.”

“If Pauline would’ve just let him come see me. Maybe—”

“Maybe nothing,” his mother interrupted. “Pauline was hurt, and she was scared. And she did what she thought was best for that child. She ain’t the first woman made up her mind not to ever let her child walk through the doors of the penitentiary.” His mother paused, and Tyrone knew she was remembering her own pain—pain that he had caused. “It’s hard to see yo’ love ones caged like some kind of wild animal,” she began again. “You free, but you suffer just as hard as they do.” She paused a second time and looked Tyrone
in the eye. “You can’t fault Pauline for trying to spare her child. Nobody can.”

“I let him down, Mama.”

“You let yo’self down,” she said. “Now you got to pick yo’self up and go on.”

“How,” he said. “How can I go on without my son?”

“Same way I had to go on without you,” she said in a tone marked by a wisdom that came only from experience. “When they put you in that jail, look like my whole world stopped. People tried to comfort me. Some of ‘em told me they knew what I was going through. But I knew they didn’t. They meant good. But I knew they didn’t.”

“What did you do, Mama?” Tyrone asked more for himself than for her. Her suffering was over; his was just beginning. “What did you do?”

“Talked to God,” she said. “And he told me that I had to keep on living. And that’s what I did. And that’s what you got to do.”

Tyrone looked at her but did not speak.

“Don’t you thank I blamed myself just like you doing?” she began again. Her eyes were distant; her voice was low, soft, calm. “Told myself I should’ve got between you and them old drugs anyway I could’ve. Told myself if I would’ve, then you wouldn’t’ve tried to rob that store. And if you wouldn’t’ve tried to rob that store, you wouldn’t ever shot that man. I know you wouldn’t’ve ‘cause you ain’t no bad child. You was just under the spell of something evil. And I should’ve got between you and it before it got hold of you.”

She paused, and Tyrone could see that her eyes had begun to water.

“It’s gone be awright, son,” she said again. “God gone make a way somehow. I know he is.”

Tyrone opened his mouth to say something, but
through the open door, he heard footsteps in the hall. He turned his head and looked. René appeared in the doorway. She still wore the same white, loose-fitting dress and low-cut, flat-soled shoes that she had worn to work that morning. Balanced on her left hand was a plate of food, and in her right hand was a glass of something. It appeared to be like tea.

“Ready to eat, Mama?” she asked.

Tyrone saw his mother nod, and he watched René slowly enter the room, holding her tall, lean body rigid and walking stiff legged, taking care not to drop the plate or spill the tea. He looked at the plate. There was one pork chop, a small portion of black-eyed peas, a square of corn bread, a few mustard greens, and a tiny slice of sweet potato pie. As René placed the plate of food on their mother’s lap and the glass of tea on top of the space heater in the corner next to their mother’s chair, he quietly rose to his feet and moved next to the door. As soon as she began to eat, he would excuse himself and retrieve the box from the hallway, then go to his room and review the papers.

“René, fix your brother a plate,” he heard his mother say.

René frowned. She had not wanted him here, at least not until he had proven he had changed, and she certainly did not want to serve him. No, she did not hate him or wish him ill will. But their mother wasn’t well. Her heart was bad, her pressure was high, and any more trouble would kill her for sure. No, she had not wanted him to come, and she did not want him to stay.

“I ain’t hungry,” Tyrone said in a low, meek tone. “I ate at the diner.”

René looked at him out of the corner of her eye to let him know that she had not planned on serving him anyway.

“Ain’t no sense in wasting good money on something to eat and we got plenty food in this house,” his mother said. “Son, you at home.” She emphasized
home
, then looked at him and then at René to make sure that they both understood. “You want something in this house, you welcome to it, hear?”

He nodded and glanced at René, then looked away.

“Mama, you need anything else before I go?” René asked.

“Naw, baby, this fine.”

“Then, I’m gone go on in the back and rest,” she said. “It’s been a long, hard day, and I’m good and tired.”

“Okay, baby,” Tyrone heard his mother say. “See you in the morning.”

René approached the door, and Tyrone moved aside. When she passed, she rolled her eyes at him but did not speak.

“Son, you better come on and have some,” Tyrone heard his mother say. He looked in her direction. She had broken off a small piece of corn bread and had begun eating the bread and the greens with her fingers.

“No, thank you, Mama,” he said. “I got some reading to do.”

H
urt and dejected, Tyrone excused himself and hurried to his room, carrying the box of documents he had brought from Captain Jack’s office. Since there was no desk or table in his bedroom, he sat atop the bed with his tired, anxious body slouched lazily against the solid oak headboard and his weary, tear-stained eyes focused on the stack of papers resting against the back of his uplifted knees. As he sat sifting through the hoards of documents, trying to reconstruct the case against his son, he could hear the sound of René’s slippers sliding across the floor in her bedroom next door. Though he could not see her, he was sure that she was pacing. In his mind, he could picture her slowly sauntering back and forth, her arms folded across her chest, and her agitated eyes cast downward in a concentrated gaze. And though she had not told him, he was certain that the source of her anxiety was an acute annoyance with his presence, rather than concern for the chaos created by his son’s situation.

Slightly distracted by the sound of her monotonous pacing, but determined to plow through the box before morning, Tyrone shut the noise out of his mind and concentrated, pausing only to ponder the details of something he had just read, or to note a fact, or date, or time sequence that needed further investigation. He had just paused to jot something in the corner of one of the documents when the door connecting their rooms flung open and René emerged. Startled, his bent body flinched. Instinct told him to look, but he did not, choosing instead to keep his eyes focused on the paper in front of him.

“How long you planning on staying here?” she demanded.

Her voice was low. Her tone confrontational. And though he did not move, he could feel her angry eyes on him, daring—no, beseeching—him to look. He had no plans to oblige her. But in spite of his resolve, he unwittingly felt himself submitting to her will, and, as if hypnotized, his sheepish eyes slowly strayed from the paper and looked up. René, now garbed in a long pink and white housecoat, and wearing a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, stood staring at him.

“I don’t know,” he said, then lowered his eyes and gazed at the paper on which he had been writing.

“What you mean, you don’t know?” she asked.