Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

he was hearing again the fading sound of his wife’s shoes striking the bare concrete floor outside his tiny cell. He was remembering the sight of her tear-stained eyes, seeing her frail, trembling hands clutching the cold steel bars, hearing the tone of her unsteady voice as she mumbled, “I can’t do this no mo’.”

      He parked his truck on the shoulder of the street, ambled out, and bound toward the house. No sooner had he crossed the yard and climbed the steps onto the porch than he heard someone call to him from the adjacent house.

      “Who you looking fo’?”

      Instinctively, he turned and looked in the direction of the voice. The woman was sitting on a screen-enclosed porch. The mesh wire from the screen obstructed his vision, and he could not identify her.

      “Mrs. Stokes,” he said, instantly wondering why he had said Mrs. Stokes and not “my wife.”

      “Pauline?” the woman questioned him.

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

      Now he recognized her voice. It was Miss Leona.

      “She ain’t there,” Miss Leona said. Her voice was friendly, but Tyrone was sure that she still did not recognize him. But how could she? Ten years had passed since he had been sent to prison. He had been a youngster then. Now he was a man.

      “You know where she at?” he asked.

      “What you want with her?” she wanted to know.

      “I come for her,” he told her.

      There was an awkward silence, and Tyrone was sure that now she was remembering him. You the one they used to call Deuce… You the one killed that man over yonder in Cedar Lake. Suddenly, Tyrone heard the latch on her screen door snap shut.

      “What your name?” she asked.

      “Tyrone,” he told her, ever aware that she had asked simply to confirm what she suspected.

      “You Pauline’s husband, ain’t you?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “She up to her mama’s.”

      “Thank you,” Tyrone said. He turned to leave, but the sound of her voice stopped him.

      “You ain’t moving back here, is you?”

      “No, ma’am,” he said. “I ain’t.”

      “Good,” she said and then quickly added, “I mean … ‘cause ain’t nothing ‘round here for you to do ‘cept get in trouble. And ain’t no sense in looking for trouble if it ain’t looking for you.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said, descending the steps and making his way to his truck. As he walked, he understood. He and his family were pariahs. They were trash to be collected and discarded. He started the truck and headed into the country, vowing that his son would be executed over his dead body.

       Chapter 2

      It was seven a.m. when he stopped at the gate leading onto his in-laws’ property. It wasn’t much of a gate (a few pieces of scrap lumber held together mostly by wire) but it was enough to keep the chickens and cows and horses and hogs from straying.

      He got out and opened the gate, then got back in, drove the truck through, and got out again. Though it was summer, it had been an unusually hot, dry month, and the long, winding road was covered with fine, loose dust. It was the kind of dust that aggravated the grownups. Especially if the wind was blowing, or if they had laundry hanging on the line, or if they wanted to sit out on the porch and eat a sandwich or nap during the hot part of the day.

      But for the kids, these were ideal conditions for rolling tires, or riding bikes, or playing war, or engaging in any type of activity that would cause the dust to rise in their wake, adding tangible evidence of the trail of smoke conjured in their overactive minds. How many times, on days like this, had he watched as his son raced barefooted down the old dirt road, climbed the gate, retrieved the mail from the box on the opposite side of the street, and raced back to the house?

      He shut the gate, climbed back behind the wheel, and hastily guided the truck through the shallow, dry ruts toward the small wood-frame house. Directly through the gate, on the right side of the road, was his brother-in-law Levi Jackson’s house. (Levi and his family had lived there together before his wife took the kids and moved to St. Louis.) Behind Levi’s house was a cow pasture. On the opposite side of the road, just beyond the long, straight rows of cotton, the roof of Joe Jackson’s small two-bedroom trailer was barely visible. Either Levi or Joe had been plowing the field when the news came this morning. He could tell by the way the old John Deere tractor sat halfway down the center of a row with the blades of the plow still deeply embedded in the partially tilled soil.

      Flanked by a thick cloud of dust, he stopped just east of the front porch and parked underneath the large tree where the chickens roosted. He killed the engine, pushed the door open, and slid to the ground. He paused for a moment, staring at the simple gray house with the tin roof and the small open porch that was supported by four wood studs. More than ten years had passed since he had seen either his son or his wife, but in a way that he could not explain, it seemed like only yesterday that he had stood across the street from his house, watching the police watching for him, all the time longing for one last glimpse of the woman to whom he had pledged his life and one last word with the son who, because of what he had done, would have to come of age fatherless in the cruel, unforgiving world they called home.

      Plagued by a sense of uneasiness, he walked toward the house, ever aware of the tightness in his arms and legs. He, unlike the prodigal son, was returning to a world that had once rebuked him and that perhaps still did not welcome his presence. With each step forward, he fought against the mounting desire to turn back, and he clung to the faint voice calling from a remote part of his brain, counseling him to continue, persuading him to push on.

      As he approached the steps, a strange noise caused him to halt. Startled and wide-eyed, he watched a large black dog with eyes ablaze and teeth exposed burst from underneath the house and race toward him. Instinct told him to run, but experience hastened a slow retreat. With his eyes glued to the advancing animal, he slowly eased backward until his back was pressed firmly against the bed of his truck. Tense and motionless, he eyed the large animal whose lean, terse body was now positioned only inches from his legs and whose loud, rapid barking had given way to a low, threatening growl. As the animal crouched down, indicating his intent to attack, Tyrone leaped onto the rear bumper and stepped over the tailgate into the back of the truck. Instantly, the dog advanced, barking wildly and holding him at bay. As he watched the animal prancing back and forth, angered by his presence, he realized that he was now a stranger trespassing on territory that the animal had been trained to protect.

      From the safety of the truck, Tyrone heard the sound of the screen door opening, and he saw his father-in-law emerge from the tiny house, wearing a pair of overalls and leaning on a walking stick.

      “Git on back here!” he heard his father-in-law yell forcefully. “Git on back here, Blue.”

      The sound of the old man’s voice calmed the animal. His eyes softened, his ears fell forward, and his tail began to wag. In the twinkling of an eye, the large, powerful animal was transformed from a fierce predator circling his cornered prey, threatening attack, to a docile house pet obediently responding to his master’s every command. Relieved, Tyrone watched the dog whirl and run toward the sound of his master’s voice with his tail held high above his back, exposing the large, taut muscles in his round, powerful haunches.

      “Good boy,” he heard the old man say as the dog leaped onto the porch. “Good boy, Blue,” he said a second time, cheerfully rewarding the dog’s obedience by patting the animal’s head and rubbing him about the neck.

      Assured the animal was under control, Tyrone stepped from the truck and eased forward, feeling his father-in-law’s eyes upon him. His father-in-law’s stare made him uncomfortable, and