Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

      “Aw, Papa,” he said. “I need you so much … Why did you have to die?” The anger came from a place deep inside of him. A place that he no longer recognized. “Why did you leave me?” A floodgate had been opened; now he sobbed heavily.

      His mind began to whirl; his head began to ache. He snapped to his feet and turned away from the grave. Was this the fate that awaited his son? Would his body soon be laid to rest in a place like this, before people like him, who were powerless to stop the powers that be from doing the unthinkable? On that day, would he gather at his son’s grave, seeking solace in a soul-wrenching spiritual, or a God-inspired word, or a gentle touch from a friend or relative? Would he be there when they rolled him into a room, strapped him to a table, and injected him with the serum that would eliminate him forever? Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight. He took a deep breath, paused, then walked away.

      When he again became aware of himself, he was walking up the front gallery of his mother’s house. Both his oldest sister, Sarah Ann, and his mother were on the porch. Sarah Ann was sitting on the swing piecing a quilt, and his mother was sitting in a rocker drinking a cup of coffee.

      When he pulled the screen door open and stepped onto the porch, neither one of them said so, but he knew that they were waiting for him.

      “How you feeling, Mama?” he asked.

      “Oh, I’m doing fairly,” she said, then paused. He leaned forward, and she kissed him on the forehead.

      “How you, sis?” he asked.

      “Making out,” she said.

      “You ate?” his mother asked.

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

      “You ate since last night?” she asked.

      “No, ma’am,” he said.

      “Well, you need to eat,” she insisted.

      “Mama, I ain’t got no appetite right now.”

      “It’s some grits and eggs and bacon and sausage in there.”

      “I ain’t hungry.”

      “You find out anything?” Sarah Ann asked.

      “Some,” he said. “Not much.”

      She was quiet, and he knew she was waiting for him to tell her more.

      “His lawyer gone try to git ‘em to let me see ‘im tomorrow,” he said.

      “You need to put something in your stomach,” his mother said. “You want Sarah Ann to fix you some toast?”

      “I can’t eat right now, Mama,” he said. “I just can’t.”

      “You need to force yourself,” she said. “You ain’t gone do nothing but make yourself sick.”

      “Mama, he gone eat directly,” Sarah Ann said. “Ain’t no sense in you carrying on so. He gone eat.”

      “He gone git sick if he don’t,” she said. “Don’t make no sense sitting ‘round worrying on a empty stomach.”

      There was silence.

      “Maybe I should’ve made Pauline bring him to see me,” Tyrone said.

      “You did what you thought best,” Sarah Ann said.

      “But what if—”

      “What if, nothing,” Sarah Ann said. “You ain’t the blame for this. If he did what they say he did, you ain’t the blame. He is.”

      “Sarah Ann, why don’t you fix your brother a plate,” his mother pleaded. “I sho’ would feel better if he ate something.”

      “I ain’t hungry, Mama,” Tyrone said a third time.

      “Mama, I told you. He gone eat when he ready.”

      “He didn’t really know me,” Tyrone said, speaking to no one in particular. “He should have known his daddy.”

      “Did he know right from wrong?” Sarah Ann asked.

      “I’m sure he did,” Tyrone said. “I’m sure Pauline saw to that.”

      “Then, he knew all he needed to know.”

      “Want some coffee?” his mother asked. “Ought to be some in there. Pot still on the stove. You welcome to it now.”

      “Naw, Mama,” Tyrone said. “I don’t want nothing.”

      “People sho’ can git theyself tangled up in some mess,” Sarah Ann said.

      “I got to know,” Tyrone blurted.

      “Know what?” Sarah Ann asked.

      “Whether he did it or not,” Tyrone told her.

      “How you gone know that?”

      “I’m gone ask ‘im.”

      “What make you thank he gone tell you?”

      “I just know he will.”

      “How you know he gone tell you the truth?”

      “ ‘Cause he don’t lie.”

      There was silence. He raised his eyes and looked at Sarah Ann.

      “You think he did it?” he asked.

      “I don’t know what to think,” she said.

      “Baby, why don’t you go lie down cross the bed,” his mother said. “Try to rest your nerves.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I believe I’ll do that.” He rose to leave, then stopped. “Lawyer say he’ll most certainly die.”

      “Don’t make no difference what that lawyer say,” his mother told him. “Only matter what God say.”

       Chapter 6

      He lay down in the bedroom just beyond the living room. This had been his room when he was a child, but now, it was a spare room, open to anyone who needed a roof over their head or a momentary place to rest their weary bones. Inside the tiny room, there was a bed, a night stand, a space heater, a chair, and a small dresser. The floor, like those throughout the house, was covered with a cheap, light-colored linoleum. The paneled walls were bare save for a large picture of the Last Supper that hung on one wall and an outdated calendar from the local feed and seed store that hung on the other. The only window was the tiny opening cut in the top half of the rear door, and the only other source of light was the single bulb that hung from the center of the ceiling.

      Besides the entrance off the main hall, there were two other ways to enter or exit the room. There was a side entrance that led into the adjacent bedroom. That room had been shared by Sarah Ann and René when they were children, but now, the twin beds had been removed and replaced with the queen-size bed that René shared with her husband, Jimmy. There was also a rear exit that led out onto a small side porch. Someone had left the side door open, and from where he lay, he could see outside. There was a large pecan tree just north of the porch and a fig tree just south of the porch. Beyond both trees was a fence, inside of which was a garden, and outside the garden was a road. Directly across the road, he could hear a group of neighborhood boys playing softball in a vacant lot. He started to go out onto the porch and watch, but reconsidered. Mentally, he was drained. He needed rest. He had just closed his eyes when he heard the loud, cracking sound of the bat making contact with the ball. Someone had just gotten a hit, and he could hear the others yelling frantically, encouraging him to run, willing him to score. In his mind, he could see the boy crossing first base, passing second, rounding third, heading home.

      Tyrone was listening to the cheering of the excited children when he heard the sound of feet on the front steps followed