Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

old lady, the difficult part of their day was over, and now it was time for a chocolate malt, a vanilla shake, or a strawberry cone, or a bag of chips, an ice cold soda, or any small treat to celebrate another day endured.

      Drained by the events of the day, he methodically navigated his truck through one signal light after the other, slowly creeping past the old abandoned theater and the hardware store, before finally turning off Main Street into the large parking lot surrounding the deli. The deli was not only a deli; it was also a gas station, a grocery store, and a drop-off and pick-up point for passengers traveling on the local Trailways bus line. Like many of the commercial establishments around town, the deli was not fancy, but it was clean, inexpensive, well stocked, and located in a perfect spot for stranded travelers looking to pass a little time. There was a Wal-Mart department store next door, and beyond Wal-Mart, there was a supermarket, beyond which sat an old train depot that had recently been converted into a pizzeria. Across the street, there was a large Methodist church where the white folks worshiped. Next to the church, there was a bank and a car lot, across from which was a dollar store. When he was a kid, the dollar store had always been a favorite hangout of his. Only then it had been called the Five and Dime. And though he had rarely patronized the store in the truest sense of the word—hard, cold cash for merchandise—it had been the primary establishment that he and his contemporaries frequented to kill a little time or to replenish their dwindling stock with a comb, a brush, some penny candy, a comic book, or anything that they could snatch from the shelves and stuff underneath their shirts without being detected by the watchful eye of the attending cashier.

      As soon as he pulled into the lot, he could tell that for them, today was a busy day. There were cars at both of the gas pumps out front, and there were cars waiting behind each of the cars being serviced. There were two elderly men sitting on a bench that had been positioned in front of the building, against the wall, underneath the large bay window. The few front parking spaces were filled, and he had to circle the small building twice before finding a spot close to the rear in one of the side lots.

      When he entered the building, he realized that not much about the deli had changed since he left. On the right side of the room were the same shelves of food and assorted merchandise. On the left side were the same tables and chairs, and up front was the same service counter and deli. There were between ten and twelve people inside the deli. Some were milling about the shelves of food, but most of them were sitting at the tables, eating.

      Two white women stood behind the counter. Both were middle-aged, and both wore full-body aprons. One was working the cash register while the other filled orders. Through an open door at the rear of the deli, he could see three other people. One, a short, robust black man, appeared to be tending the fryer, and the other, a young white fellow with long, stringy blond hair, was making sandwiches. The third man seemed to be in charge. Perhaps he was the supervisor, or maybe he was the manager. Like the others, he also wore a full-length apron, but unlike them, his appearance was more formal. Underneath his apron, he wore a white dress shirt, a tie, and dark-colored slacks. There was a pen in the front pocket of his apron, and he was holding a clipboard in his left hand.

      As Tyrone approached the counter, he nodded at the woman behind the register, then focused his eyes on the huge menu board hanging on the back wall.

      “May I help you?” she asked.

      “Three-piece chicken dinner,” he said, then added, “All dark.”

      “Anything to drink with that?” she asked.

      “Coke,” he said.

      “Here or to go?” she asked.

      “Here,” he said.

      She ran her hands across the keys of the cash register, then paused and looked up at him.

      “Anything else?”

      “No,” he said. “That’ll do it.”

      She rang up his bill, and while Tyrone was paying her, the blond lady dished up the food and placed it on a serving tray—two thighs, a leg, one ear of corn, and a small container of mashed potatoes and gravy. After he finished paying, she placed the tray on the counter and gently slid it to him.

      “Enjoy your meal,” she said. Her voice was soft. Her tone, friendly.

      “Yes, ma’am, I will,” he said. “Thank you.”

      He moved to an empty table next to the window. Not the large bay window at the rear of the store, but the small window on the east side of the building. From where he sat, he could see into the large Wal-Mart parking lot. A stock boy had collected a long string of stray shopping carts and was pushing them from the far end of the lot back to the store. Tyrone watched him for a minute, then lifted a piece of chicken from his plate.

      He had just sunk his teeth into the warm, tender meat when he heard someone say, “You Tyrone Stokes?”

      Startled, he looked around. Standing in the aisle behind him was a white woman. She was of average height, five-foot-four or five-foot-five. She was slender and appeared to be in her early forties, but she could have been older. Her hair was dark, slightly curly, and hung well below her shoulders. She wore plain clothes. A white blouse and a simple, multicolored skirt that fell about her ankles. She had on some make-up, but not much. He did not know how she knew him, but he did know that he did not know her.

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I am.”

      “You got some nerve coming around here.” She did not avert her face, but looked directly at him. She had pretty brown eyes, but now they were hard, cold.

      “Ma’am, I’m just trying to eat a piece of chicken.”

      “Eat it somewhere else!” she demanded.

      “I bought it here, and I’m gone eat it here.”

      The man with the clipboard must have heard him, because as soon as Tyrone said that, he hurried from behind the counter and rushed to the table.

      “What’s the problem, Maude?” he questioned.

      “Jake, you ought to be more particular ‘bout who you let in here,” she said.

      An eerie silence fell over the room, and though Tyrone did not turn and look, he could feel the eyes of everyone on him.

      “Mister,” he said calmly, “I don’t want no trouble.”

      “You are trouble,” the woman said.

      “Maude!” the man said in a stern, terse voice. Tyrone could tell by his tone and by the confused look on his face that though he did not fully understand the nature of her problem, nevertheless, he wanted her to keep her voice down.

      “Jake, this here’s Tyrone Stokes,” she explained.

      The man studied Tyrone but did not speak.

      “He the one that stole Danny’s truck a few years back. His boy killed Buddy’s daughter.”

      She stopped talking, and Tyrone could feel the tension mounting. Suddenly, there was in him a keen awareness of the force of his pounding heart and the tingling of the skin on his nape.

      “Mister,” he said. “I’m just trying to eat my dinner.” Again, the pitch of his voice was low; the tone, calm.

      “Not here you ain’t,” the man told him.

      “Excuse me?” Tyrone said.

      “I’m gone have to ask you to leave.”

      “Soon as I finish eating,” Tyrone said. His defiance angered the man, and he saw the man’s smooth tanned skin flush a dull shade of red.

      “Don’t make me lay hands on you, boy.”

      “Mister, I wouldn’t advise that,” Tyrone said, his tone serious.

      “You threatening me?”

      “No, sir,” Tyrone said. “Just telling you. That’s all.”

      A moment passed and Tyrone