Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

      “You looking for somebody?” his father-in-law asked.

      “Miss Leona say Pauline up here.”

      The old man looked at him, bewildered, but did not speak.

      “Papa Titus, it’s me. Tyrone.”

      There was an awkward silence. The old man narrowed his eyes and studied Tyrone’s face, looking for signs of the young man who once wore that name.

      “Is she in there?” Tyrone asked, looking beyond the old man. The window curtains were drawn, but through the partially opened door, he detected a faint light glowing in the tiny living room, and he was aware of the sound of muffled voices emanating from deep inside the belly of the house.

      “Git back in your truck,” his father-in-law said. “You ain’t welcome here.”

      “Papa Titus, I just want to talk to Pauline.”

      “She don’t want to talk to you.”

      “I need to see her,” Tyrone said, moving toward the door.

      “Don’t make me turn this dog loose,” his father-in-law said, lifting the dog by the collar and pulling him forward, threatening release.

      Tyrone halted, staring at the large dog with wide, fearful eyes.

      “What you got against me, Papa Titus? I ain’t never done nothing to you.”

      “You got bad blood in you,” the old man said, staring at Tyrone with cold, piercing eyes. “And you rotten to the bone.”

      “I ain’t never done nothing to you, Papa Titus,” Tyrone said again.

      “Why you come back here?” the old man asked.

      “I need to talk to Pauline,” Tyrone answered.

      “She don’t want to talk to you.” He dismissed Tyrone’s statement.

      “I heard what happened,” Tyrone felt compelled to tell him.

      “That ain’t none of your concern,” his father-in-law said coldly.

      “He my son, Papa Titus,” Tyrone said, attempting to appeal to his father-in-law’s conscience.

      “That ain’t his fault,” the old man responded.

      “Papa Titus, you don’t understand—”

      “No,” his father-in-law interrupted. “You don’t understand,” he said sternly. “That’s my child in there, and she done cried enough.”

      “But, Papa Titus,” Tyrone tried to speak, but now his father-in-law was not interested in listening. He had heard all that he would hear.

      “You shouldn’t have come here,” the old man said. “She got enough to deal with without having to deal with you.”

      Suddenly, Tyrone was besieged by a feeling of reality. His father-in-law was right. Things were as they had always been. Ten years ago, she had buried him in that part of her consciousness that denied his existence. His death, however symbolic, provided her a type of peace that their life together never had.

      “She with family now,” he heard the old man say. “We’ll get her through this. You just need to go on back where you come from.”

      Wordlessly, Tyrone descended the steps and retreated across the grassless yard on wobbly, unstable legs. As he neared his truck, he heard his mother-in-law call from inside the house.

      “Titus, who that out there?”

      “Nobody,” his father-in-law replied.

      Tense and anxious, Tyrone pulled the door open, slid behind the wheel, and stared straight ahead as his large brown eyes fought back pending tears.

       Chapter 3

      Somewhere between exiting the gate leaving his in-law’s property and entering the city limits of Brownsville, Tyrone decided to find Beggar Man and see what he knew about Marcus’s situation. There was in him no anger toward his father-in-law or animosity toward his wife, for he knew that neither anger nor hatred would change the state of things between them. In him was simply a resolve to find the truth about his son with the hope, however small, that what he had heard had not been true, and what he feared would happen would not be done.

      When he turned off the main highway and crossed the tracks, he found himself driving directly into the bright yellow sun that had risen just above the thick woods a few hundred yards east of the projects. Through squinted eyes, he gazed at the world that he had once called home. Some things about the neighborhood had changed while others had not. People still parked their vehicles on the street, and women still hung their clothes on the line. But now there were fences around more yards and bars over more windows. Trees that were saplings had matured, and now their large branches extended far beyond their trunks, shading the cluttered yards and the run-down shacks that lined both sides of the long, narrow street.

      At the far end of the street, he pulled to the shoulder and rolled to a stop in front of Beggar Man’s tiny woodframe house. He killed the motor and looked around. A strange sensation enveloped him. He was home, traversing streets that for the past ten years he had only been able to see in his dreams. A thousand times, he had tried to imagine this moment—the joy, the exhilaration, the excitement. But never, in his wildest dreams, had he anticipated a return not only void of joy, but filled with such pain, such fear, such dread, such sorrow.

      Outside the truck, he leaped the small drainage ditch that separated the narrow street from the tiny yard, then mounted the steps to the porch and knocked. The force of his hand caused the rickety screen door to vibrate on its loose, rusty hinges. He paused, then raised his hand to knock again, but before he could, he heard Beggar Man’s loud voice boom from inside.

      “Who is it?” He seemed annoyed that he had been bothered so early in the morning.

      “It’s me,” he said. “Tyrone.”

      Instantly, he heard the sound of feet moving. The chain rattled. The knob turned. The door flew open.

      “Well, look what the cat done drug in,” Beggar Man said, a wide smile etched across his face. “If it ain’t my old buddy Tyrone.” He threw his arms about Tyrone’s shoulders, and the two men embraced, then released each other.

      “Man, how long you been home?”

      “Not long,” Tyrone said.

      Beggar Man looked at Tyrone as if he were about to say something else, but then realized that Tyrone was still standing on the stoop.

      “Man, come on in and sat down,” he said.

      Tyrone followed him into the house, then paused as Beggar Man stopped to straighten the old bedspread that had been draped over the worn living room sofa. When he moved aside, Tyrone plopped down. A loose spring prodded him through the cushion, and he discreetly shifted his weight, ever aware of the foul odor rising from the badly soiled sofa.

      From his seat, he watched Beggar Man cross to a plain wooden chair that he had positioned directly in front of the television and remove a plate of food that he had placed on the seat. His movements disturbed a fly that had been lingering nearby. Tyrone watched the large black and green insect rise into the air and land next to the light bulb that hung from the ceiling.

      Unconcerned, Beggar Man sat on the chair and rested his plate on his lap, then bellowed, “Want some breakfast?”

      Tyrone looked at him, then at the plate. “What you eating?”

      Beggar Man lowered the plate so that Tyrone could see. “Beer and eggs,” he said.

      Tyrone squinted. “For breakfast?”

      “Sho’ you right.” Beggar Man smirked, then lifted the can of beer to his lips, took two gulps, and let out a loud,