Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

7

      Not long after Mr. Clayton left, Tyrone heard Sarah Ann in the kitchen preparing lunch. He did not hear her pass in the hall, so either he had dozed off or she had walked around the house and entered through the back door. Though he did not see her pass, he knew it was her. For that was the routine. Not only did she prepare their mother’s lunch, but she also ran her errands and helped with her laundry. René, on the other hand, cooked breakfast before she went to work (she kept house for one of the local white merchants) and she cooked dinner when she returned. Their father had taken care of the yard, but since he passed, Jimmy had taken over those responsibilities. He washed dishes at the hospital during the week and tended the yard during the weekend.

      Tyrone heard a noise, and he went to the door and saw his mother easing down the dim hallway, leaning against the wall for support.

      “Did I wake you up, honey?” she asked as soon as she saw him.

      “No, ma’am,” he told her. “I wasn’t asleep.”

      She eased closer, and Tyrone stepped into the hallway.

      “You need some help, Mama?” he asked, extending his hand in her direction.

      “Naw, baby,” she said softly. “I’m just going to the restroom. I can make it.”

      She pulled up even with him, and Tyrone stepped aside to allow her to pass.

      “You gone try to eat something now, ain’t you?” she asked.

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll try.”

      The kitchen was toward the back of the house. There was only one room farther back, and that was René’s room. Past her room was the door leading into the backyard. The outer door was open, and Tyrone could feel a cool breeze circulating through the screen door, cooling the hall. He turned into the kitchen and saw Sarah Ann standing in front of the stove. Her back was to him, but he could see that she was frying potatoes in a cast-iron skillet. Like most of the house, the kitchen was simply constructed and sparsely furnished. It was a rather large, rectangular room. There was a table and four chairs in the corner next to the rear window. The make of the table was not readily discernible, for it was covered with a simple white tablecloth that hung nearly to the floor. Besides the stove, the only other appliance was the white, single-door refrigerator positioned in the corner just off the entrance. There were two sets of homemade cabinets. One was located below the sink, and the other was on the wall just left of the sink. There were four windows. Two on the back wall, one on the side wall, and one directly above the sink. Though each window was open, the outside breeze was no match for the heat emanating from the stove. The kitchen was a virtual furnace.

      “Lunch ready?” he chided.

      Sarah Ann turned to face him, and he could see the tiny beads of sweat running down both sides of her face.

      “Almost,” she said. “I fixed some bologna sandwiches and fried a few potatoes. You must finally be hungry.”

      “Not really,” he said. “Mama sent me in here.”

      “She still on you ‘bout eating, hunh?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Well, you might as well eat, ‘cause you know she gone keep on ‘til you do. Want me to fix you a plate?”

      “Naw,” he said. “I can do it.”

      Tyrone moved to the double sink next to the stove, removed the bar of soap from behind the faucet, and washed his hands. He dried them on the rag that Sarah Ann had draped over her shoulder; then he took a plate from the cupboard next to the sink and a fork from one of the drawers. Sarah Ann had put the fried potatoes in an aluminum mixing bowl and placed them on the stove. Tyrone put a few on his plate and took a sandwich off the dish before taking a seat at the table.

      “It’s some Kool-Aid in the box,” Sarah Ann said. “If you want some.”

      He went to the cupboard, removed a glass, filled it with Kool-Aid, and then returned to his seat at the far end of the table. While he was up, Sarah Ann had placed a box of salt and a bottle of ketchup next to his plate. He sprinkled some salt over his potatoes, then doused them with ketchup. From where he sat, he could see into the backyard. A clothesline had been strung from the far corner of the house to a pole that had been posted about fifteen feet out. Just beyond the pole there was a small building. It had been a woodhouse before the main house was converted to gas. Now, instead of being filled with cords of wood, it was filled with old furniture and other large keepsakes that required storage. To the left of the wood house was a second fig tree; it was twice the size of the tree on the west side of the house. To the right of the wood house, and a few yards up, there was a little toolshed, and just beyond the toolshed, there was a pear tree loaded with pears ready to be picked, ready to be canned.

      “You know Mama don’t mean no harm, don’t you?”

      “I know she don’t.”

      “She just call herself looking out for you.”

      “I know.”

      “You know when she make her mind up you can’t tell her nothing.” Sarah Ann said that, then started to laugh. “Guess what me and René used to call her behind her back when we was chil’en.”

      “What?” Tyrone asked.

      “Miss I Know,” she said, then howled with laughter. “I mean, she thought she knew everything. Couldn’t tell her nothing. Still can’t.”

      Tyrone laughed, but he did not say anything.

      “We didn’t sass her or nothing. You know for yourself we was all raised better than that. But we sho’ did call her Miss I Know. And it fit her to a T.”

      Tyrone heard someone stirring about in the hall behind him. He turned in his chair and saw that his mother had made her way to the kitchen and was standing in the doorway, looking toward the stove.

      “I know that little something to eat ought to be done by now,” she said. Hers had been more statement of fact than a question.

      “Yes, ma’am,” Sarah Ann said. Then both she and Tyrone howled with laughter.

      “What’s so funny?” their mother wanted to know.

      “Nothing, Mama,” Sarah Ann said.

      “I know y’all laughing at something,” she blurted.

      “Naw, Mama, we ain’t laughing at nothing.”

      Confused, their mother began examining her clothes. “Y’all act like I done peed on myself or something.”

      She said that; then they all laughed.

      “Mama, I told you it ain’t nothing.”

      Their mother turned her attention to Tyrone. “Child, why you eating in this hot kitchen?”

      “It’s all right, Mama,” he said. “It ain’t that bad over here by the window.”

      “Well, it’s too hot in here for me,” she said.

      “Go ‘n back on the porch, Mama,” Sarah Ann said. “I’m gone bring yo’ food to you.”

      “Don’t fix much,” she said. “I ain’t that hungry. I just want a little taste.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Sarah Ann said. “I know.”

      Their mother left, and they both laughed again.

      “Ought to be a little piece of sweet bread over there if you want it,” Sarah Ann said after she had stopped laughing.

      “I don’t want none,” he replied.

      “I baked a pie at the house,” she said. “I intended to bring it, but I went off and left it.”

      “What kind?”

      “Sweet potato.”

      “I