Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

here to visit a inmate,” Tyrone said.

      “Ain’t no visitation today!” the man said in a thick southern drawl.

      “They told me I could see him.”

      The old man stared at him for a moment. Then he narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, confused.

      “They who?” he asked.

      “His attorney,” Tyrone said. “Mr. Johnson.”

      The man sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his short, grubby fingers over his bald head.

      “Who you trying to see?”

      “My son,” Tyrone told him. “Marcus Stokes.”

      He watched the old man push a coffee cup aside, then touch his thumb to the tip of his tongue and begin looking through a stack of papers, agitated.

      “You Tyrone Stokes?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      The old man eyed Tyrone coldly, then slid a piece of paper through a slot underneath the Plexiglas.

      “Sign in,” he said.

      Tyrone signed his name, then looked at the clock hanging on the wall behind the man. It was ten minutes until one. He noted the time and slid the paper back through the slot. He heard a buzz, then a click. The large metal door opened. He walked through, and the door clanged shut. Waiting in the corridor, behind the door, was a second officer. He was a young man, tall and athletic with grayish eyes, short, dark brown hair, and thick, bushy eyebrows. He had a pistol strapped to his waist, a metal detector dangling from one hand, and a tiny bucket in the other. Their eyes met, and the officer extended the small bucket toward Tyrone.

      “Empty your pockets.”

      He seemed serious, but not gruff. Stern, but not mean. Tyrone removed his keys and his loose change and dropped everything into the bucket.

      “Is that it?”

      “Yes, sir,” Tyrone said. “That’s it.”

      “Raise your arms above your head.”

      Tyrone lifted his arms high above his head, and the officer ran the scanner underneath his left arm, down the outside of his left leg, and then up the inside before switching to the other side and repeating the same.

      “Turn around and face the wall.”

      Tyrone turned and stared at the wall. It was a plain cement wall that was bare save for the round mirror in the corner just below the ceiling. Through the reflection in the mirror, he watched the officer slowly drag the scanner down his back, over his butt, and about his ankles. Satisfied that all was safe, the officer returned his things, then uttered, “Follow me.”

      Tyrone followed him, fully expecting to be led deep into the bowels of the prison, traversing a maze of slamming doors while walking past hordes of half-dressed, tattoo-covered men peering at him from behind steel bars. Instead, he was led down a long hallway, through two sets of solid steel doors, and into a moderate-size room. Inside the room, there was a long row of chairs, each in its own tiny cubicle, and each neatly aligned behind a thick glass partition that spanned the full length of the wall. He took a seat before the glass and stared wide-eyed at the empty chair on the other side. The door opened and two officers escorted Marcus inside. “My God,” Tyrone mumbled as his gaze fell on the frail shell of his son hobbling toward the empty chair, swinging the chains girting his hands, and dragging the shackles binding his feet.

      One of the guards loosened his hands, and, as if in a daze, Marcus eased into the chair, then lifted the phone from the hook and placed it to his ear. He looked at Tyrone, and his large, empty eyes revealed the hopeless soul of a broken man. His hair was long and unkempt. His face unshaven. His teeth dingy. His body bent. He was living, but he was no longer alive.

      “How you doing, son?” Tyrone asked. He did not look directly at Marcus, but at the two officers who had led him into the room. Neither left. Both stood back against the wall watching Marcus, guarding the door.

      “Awright,” Marcus mumbled. His voice was unemotional, lifeless.

      Tyrone parted his lips to speak, then paused. Lingering just beneath the surface of his iron constitution, his frayed emotions threatened to erupt and release an avalanche of raw, naked emotions. His mind counseled him to be calm. Inside his head, he heard himself trying desperately to still his pounding heart and relax his wretched nerves. He swallowed, feeling a glob of saliva slide off the back of his stiff, thick tongue and down the hollow of his parched, throbbing throat. He concentrated on trying to steady his trembling hands and calm his shaky voice.

      “They treating you awright, son?” he asked.

      Marcus nodded, but did not speak. Again, Tyrone looked at the guards; only this time, they were looking at him. Though he knew they could not hear what he was saying, he sensed that they were aware that he was talking about them.

      “You need anything?” Tyrone asked.

      “No, sir,” Marcus said, then averted his eyes.

      There was an awkward silence. Tyrone shifted his eyes to Marcus. Marcus looked at him briefly, then looked away.

      “You seen Mama?” Marcus asked. His head was bowed, and one of his hands clasped the phone while the other lay across his lap.

      “Not yet,” Tyrone said uneasily.

      “This been hard on her,” Marcus confided, his voice tinged with regret.

      “I can imagine,” Tyrone said in an understanding tone.

      There was a pause. Marcus raised his head for the second time. The whites of his puffy eyes were red, and the skin of his chestnut-colored forehead was marked with several thin, dark lines. He seemed tired; he looked old.

      “You back home?” he asked softly, timidly.

      Tyrone shook his head, then paused. He saw Marcus furrow his brow, and he knew that the boy was confused. He had not understood. He wanted an explanation. “Cedar Creek,” Tyrone told him. “Least for the time being.”

      “Grandma Hannah’s.”

      “Yeah,” he said. “Got out a few days ago. Been there every night since.”

      Marcus looked at him; then his sullen eyes dropped submissively.

      “Glad you got out,” he said. His voice was dry and mechanical. “Don’t reckon I ever will. Least not alive.”

      “Don’t say that, son,” Tyrone said. “Don’t ever say that.”

      Marcus raised his head, and there was a faraway look in his gloomy eyes.

      “I had a dream the other night.” He spoke in a frightened whisper.

      Tyrone looked at him but did not speak.

      “It happened.” He paused, and his eyes widened. He was reliving the dream. He was seeing the whole thing. “They strapped me down….” His heaving chest began rising and falling. “And they did it…” His hands began to shake. The chain began to rattle. “They killed me.”

      “Naw, son,” Tyrone said, shaking his head slowly. “That ain’t gone happen.”

      Marcus’s quivering mouth hung open. His head was perfectly still. His unfocused eyes were staring straight ahead, looking at nothing, seeing nothing.

      “I went to this place …” He said that, and his voice trailed off. “It was dark … so dark.”

      “Son, you just scared,” Tyrone said. “That’s all. You just a little scared. It’s gone be all right. I promise you that.”

      “People were crying,” Marcus continued as though in a trance. “I heard moaning.” His twitching eyes narrowed, and he slowly looked about. “Daddy,” he whispered in a voice laced with terror, “I was so scared.”

      “It